enjoyment of full health and vigour—my life which might have been ‘useful,’ etc., etc.—morality might reproach me, according to the old routine, for disposing of my life without permission—or whatever its tenet may be. But now, NOW, when my sentence is out and my days numbered! How can morality have need of my last breaths, and why should I die listening to the consolations offered by the prince, who, without doubt, would not omit to demonstrate that death is actually a benefactor to me? (Christians like him always end up with that—it is their pet theory.) And what do they want with their ridiculous ‘Pavlofsk trees’? To sweeten my last hours? Cannot they understand that the more I forget myself, the more I let myself become attached to these last illusions of life and love, by means of which they try to hide from me Meyer’s wall, and all that is so plainly written on it—the more unhappy they make me? What is the use of all your nature to me—all your parks and trees, your sunsets and sunrises, your blue skies and your self-satisfied faces— when all this wealth of beauty and happiness begins with the fact that it accounts me—only me—one too many! What is the good of all this beauty and glory to me, when every second, every moment, I cannot but be aware that this little fly which buzzes around my head in the sun’s rays—even this little fly is a sharer and participator in all the glory of the universe, and knows its place and is happy in it;—while I—only I, am an outcast, and have been blind to the fact hitherto, thanks to my simplicity! Oh! I know well how the prince and others would like me, instead of indulging in all these wicked words of my own, to sing, to the glory and tri-
umph of morality, that well-known verse of Gilbert’s:
‘0, puissent voir longtemps votre beaute sacree Tant d’amis, sourds a mes adieux! Qu’ils meurent pleins de jours, que leur mort soit pleuree, Qu’un ami leur ferme les yeux!’
‘But believe me, believe me, my simple-hearted friends, that in this highly moral verse, in this academical blessing to the world in general in the French language, is hidden the intensest gall and bitterness; but so well concealed is the venom, that I dare say the poet actually persuaded himself that his words were full of the tears of pardon and peace, instead of the bitterness of disappointment and malice, and so died in the delusion.
‘Do you know there is a limit of ignominy, beyond which man’s consciousness of shame cannot go, and after which begins satisfaction in shame? Well, of course humility is a great force in that sense, I admit that—though not in the sense in which religion accounts humility to be strength!
‘Religion!—I admit eternal life—and perhaps I always did admit it.
‘Admitted that consciousness is called into existence by the will of a Higher Power; admitted that this consciousness looks out upon the world and says ‘I am;’ and admitted that the Higher Power wills that the consciousness so called into existence, be suddenly extinguished (for so—for some un-explained reason—it is and must be)—still there comes the eternal question—why must I be humble through all this? Is it not enough that I am devoured, without my being ex-pected to bless the power that devours me? Surely—surely I need not suppose that Somebody—there—will be offended
because I do not wish to live out the fortnight allowed me? I don’t believe it.
‘It is much simpler, and far more likely, to believe that my death is needed—the death of an insignificant atom—in or-der to fulfil the general harmony of the universe—in order to make even some plus or minus in the sum of existence. Just as every day the death of numbers of beings is neces-sary because without their annihilation the rest cannot live on—(although we must admit that the idea is not a particu-larly grand one in itself!)
‘However—admit the fact! Admit that without such per-petual devouring of one another the world cannot continue to exist, or could never have been organized—I am ever ready to confess that I cannot understand why this is so— but I’ll tell you what I DO know, for certain. If I have once been given to understand and realize that I AM—what does it matter to me that the world is organized on a system full of errors and that otherwise it cannot be organized at all? Who will or can judge me after this? Say what you like—the thing is impossible and unjust!
‘And meanwhile I have never been able, in spite of my great desire to do so, to persuade myself that there is no fu-ture existence, and no Providence.
‘The fact of the matter is that all this DOES exist, but that we know absolutely nothing about the future life and its laws!
‘But it is so dificult, and even impossible to understand, that surely I am not to be blamed because I could not fath-om the incomprehensible?
‘Of course I know they say that one must be obedient, and of course, too, the prince is one of those who say so: that one must be obedient without questions, out of pure goodness of heart, and that for my worthy conduct in this matter I shall meet with reward in another world. We de-grade God when we attribute our own ideas to Him, out of annoyance that we cannot fathom His ways.
‘Again, I repeat, I cannot be blamed because I am un-able to understand that which it is not given to mankind to fathom. Why am I to be judged because I could not compre-hend the Will and Laws of Providence? No, we had better drop religion.
‘And enough of this. By the time I have got so far in the reading of my document the sun will be up and the huge force of his rays will be acting upon the living world. So be it. I shall die gazing straight at the great Fountain of life and power; I do not want this life!
‘If I had had the power to prevent my own birth I should certainly never have consented to accept existence under such ridiculous conditions. However, I have the power to end my existence, although I do but give back days that are already numbered. It is an insignificant gift, and my revolt is equally insignificant.
‘Final explanation: I die, not in the least because I am un-able to support these next three weeks. Oh no, I should find strength enough, and if I wished it I could obtain consola-tion from the thought of the injury that is done me. But I am not a French poet, and I do not desire such consolation. And finally, nature has so limited my capacity for work or
activity of any kind, in allotting me but three weeks of time, that suicide is about the only thing left that I can begin and end in the time of my own free will.
‘Perhaps then I am anxious to take advantage of my last chance of doing something for myself. A protest is some-times no small thing.’
The explanation was finished; Hippolyte paused at last. There is, in extreme cases, a final stage of cynical can-
dour when a nervous man, excited, and beside himself with emotion, will be afraid of nothing and ready for any sort of scandal, nay, glad of it. The extraordinary, almost un-natural, tension of the nerves which upheld Hippolyte up to this point, had now arrived at this final stage. This poor feeble boy of eighteen—exhausted by disease—looked for all the world as weak and frail as a leaflet torn from its par-ent tree and trembling in the breeze; but no sooner had his eye swept over his audience, for the first time during the whole of the last hour, than the most contemptuous, the most haughty expression of repugnance lighted up his face. He defied them all, as it were. But his hearers were indig-nant, too; they rose to their feet with annoyance. Fatigue, the wine consumed, the strain of listening so long, all add-ed to the disagreeable impression which the reading had made upon them.
Suddenly Hippolyte jumped up as though he had been shot.
‘The sun is rising,’ he cried, seeing the gilded tops of the trees, and pointing to them as to a miracle. ‘See, it is rising now!’
‘Well, what then? Did you suppose it wasn’t going to rise?’ asked Ferdishenko.
‘It’s going to be atrociously hot again all day,’ said Gania, with an air of annoyance, taking his hat. ‘A month of this… Are you coming home, Ptitsin?’ Hippolyte listened to this in amazement, almost amounting to stupefaction. Sudden-ly he became deadly pale and shuddered.
‘You manage your composure too awkwardly. I see you wish to insult me,’ he cried to Gania. ‘You—you are a cur!’ He looked at Gania with an expression of malice.
‘What on earth is the matter with the boy? What phe-nomenal feeble-mindedness!’ exclaimed Ferdishenko.
‘Oh, he’s simply a fool,’ said Gania. Hippolyte braced himself up a little.
‘I understand, gentlemen,’ he began, trembling as before, and stumbling over every word,’ that I have deserved your resentment, and—and am sorry that I should have troubled you with this raving nonsense’ (pointing to his article),’or rather, I am sorry that I have not troubled you enough.’ He smiled feebly. ‘Have I troubled you, Evgenie Pavlovitch?’ He suddenly turned on Evgenie with this question. ‘Tell me now, have I troubled you or not?’
‘Well, it was a little drawn out, perhaps; but—‘
‘Come, speak out! Don’t lie, for once in
