“Tell me candidly, Romashov, have you any fear?” asked Nasanski, in a low voice.
“Of the duel?
No, I’m not afraid of that,” replied Romashov irritably, but he became abruptly silent, whilst, in the flash of a second, he saw himself standing face to face with Nikolaiev, and with hypnotized eyes gazing at the black, threatening muzzle of his revolver.
“No, no,” added Romashov hastily, “I will not lie and boast that I’m not afraid.
On the contrary, I think it terrible; but I also know that I shall not behave like a coward, and that I shall never apologize.”
Nasanski dipped the tips of his fingers in the softly rippling water, warm with the evening glow, and said slowly, in a weak voice often interrupted by coughing:
“Ah, my friend, my dear Romashov, why will you do this thing?
Only think if what you say is true, and you are not a coward. Why not then show your moral courage in a still higher degree by refusing to fight this duel?”
“He has insulted me, struck me—on the face,” replied Romashov, with newly kindled, burning indignation.
“Well, admitting that,” resumed Nasanski gently, with his tender, sorrowful eyes fixed on Romashov, “what does that signify?
Time heals all wounds; everything in the world is buried and disappears, even the recollection of this scandal.
You yourself will in time forget both your hatred and your sufferings; but you’ll never forget a man you have killed.
He will stand ever at your side, at the head of your bed, at your dinner-table, when you are alone, and when you are amidst the bustle of the world.
Empty-heads, idiots, pretentious imitators and parrots will, of course, at all times solemnly assure you that a murder in the course of a duel is no murder.
What madmen!
No, a murder is, and always will be, a murder.
And the most horrible thing about it is not in death and suffering, in pools of blood or in corpses, but inasmuch as it deprives a human being of the joys of life.
Oh, how priceless is life!” exclaimed Nasanski suddenly, in a high voice and with tears in his eyes.
“Who do you suppose believes in the reality of an existence after this one? Not you, or I, or any other man of sound reason.
Therefore death is feared by all. Only half-demented, ecstatic barbarians or ‘the foolish in the Lord’ allow themselves to be deluded into the notion that they will be greeted on the other side of the grave, in the garden of Paradise, by the beatific hymns of celestial eunuchs.
Moreover, we have those who, silently despising such old wives’ fables and puerilities, cross the threshold of death.
Others again picture the empire of the grave as a cold, dark, bare room.
No, my friend, there is no such future state.
In death there is neither cold, nor darkness, nor space, nor even fear—nothing but absolute annihilation.”
Romashov shipped his oars, and it was only by observing the green shore gently stealing by that one could tell that the boat was moving onwards.
“Yes—annihilation,” Romashov repeated slowly, in a dreamy tone.
“But why cudgel your brains over this? Gaze instead at the living landscape around you. How exquisite is life!” shouted Nasanski, with a powerful and eloquent gesture.
“Oh, thou beauty of the Godhead—thou infinite beauty!
Look at this blue sky, this calm and silent water, and you will tremble with joy and rapture. Look at yon water-mill far in the distance, softly moving its sails. Look at the fresh verdure of the bank and the mischievous play of the sunbeams on the water.
How wonderfully lovely and peaceful is all this!”
Nasanski suddenly buried his face in his hands and burst out weeping; but he recovered his self-possession immediately, and, without any shame for his tears, he went on to say, while looking at Romashov with moist, glistening eyes:
“No, even if I were to fall under the railway train, and were left lying on the line with broken and bleeding limbs, and any one were to ask me if life were beautiful, I should none the less, and even by summoning my last remains of strength, answer enthusiastically,
‘Ah, yes, even now life is glorious.’
How much joy does not sight alone give us, and so, too, music, the scent of flowers, and woman’s love?
And then the human understanding: thought which alone is our life’s golden sun—the eternal source of noble pleasure and imperishable bliss.
Yurochka—pardon me calling you so, my friend”—Nasanski held out his trembling hand to Romashov as though entreating forgiveness—“suppose you were shut up in prison, and you were doomed all your life to stare at crumbling bricks of the wall of your cell—no, let us suppose that in your prison dungeon there never penetrated a ray of light or a sound from the outer world. Well, what more?
What would that be in comparison with all the mysterious terrors of death?
Yet if thought, memory, imagination, the spirit’s faculty of creation remained, you would not only be able to live, but even find moments of enthusiasm and the joy of life.”
“Yes, life is priceless,” exclaimed Romashov, interrupting him.
“It’s magnificent,” Nasanski went on to say hotly, “yet people wish two rational creatures to kill each other for a woman’s sake, or to re-establish their so-called honour! But who is it then he kills?—this miserable living clod of earth that arrogates to himself the proud name of man? Is it himself or his neighbour?
No, he kills the gracious warmth and lifegiving sun, the bright sky, and all nature with its infinite beauty and charm.
He kills that which never, never, never will return.
Oh, what madmen!”
Nasanski ceased, shook his head sorrowfully, and collapsed.
The boat glided into the reeds.
Romashov again took the oars.
High, hard, green stalks bowed slowly and gravely, gently scraping the boat’s gunwale.
Amid the tall rushes there was shade and coolness.
“What shall I do?” asked Romashov, scowling and angry.
“Shall I enter the reserves?