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Yourii hummed this softly to himself. Then he said, aloud: "How tedious, sad, and dreadful it all is!" as if complaining to some one. The sound of his own voice alarmed him, and he turned round to see if he had been overheard. "I am drunk," he thought. Silent and serene, the night looked down. While Sina Karsavina and Dubova were absent on a visit, Yourii's life seemed uneventful and monotonous.
Everything pleased Yourii; the smell of the peasants, an odour as of newly-baked bread and sheepskins; the bright blaze of the fire; the gigantic pumpkin upon which he sat; and the glimpse of Kousma's face when he looked downwards, for when the old man raised his head it was hidden in the gloom and only his eyes gleamed.
He did not go far, but stopped to look round with intense curiosity at the dark windows of the house, as if something were happening there, something strangely beautiful and mysterious. Sina appeared in the doorway. Yourii hardly recognized her. She had changed her black dress, and now wore the costume of Little Russia, a thin bodice cut low, with short sleeves and a blue skirt.
From the wood moths and chafers flew to the lamp, and, fluttering round it, fell on to the table, slowly dying there a fiery death. Yourii, as he pitied their fate, thought to himself: "We, too, like insects, rush to the flame, and flutter round every luminous idea only to perish miserably at the last.
There was nothing original or charming about such a dull stereotyped piece of work, so he thought; a veritable imitation of a Moukh drawing, banal in idea as in execution; and, as usual, Yourii became sad and gloomy. Had it not for some reason or other seemed shameful to weep, he would have wept, hiding his face in the pillow, and sobbing aloud.
"What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed Yourii. "The third catastrophe is my own invention, just to heighten the effect; but as regards the other two, the news is correct. Sarudine shot himself last night, and I have just heard that Soloveitchik has committed suicide by hanging." "Impossible!" cried Lialia, jumping up. Her eyes expressed horror and intense curiosity.
Suddenly Sanine rose, opened the window, and let out the moth. A wave of cool, pleasant air, as from soft wings, swept through the room. "Yes," said Ivanoff, in answer to his own thought, "there are no two men alike, so, on the strength of that, let's have another drink." "No." said Yourii, shaking his head, "I won't have any more." "Eh why not?" "I never drink much."
Yourii was really pleased that the matter should have ended happily like this, while yet affecting to despise such an attitude of bourgeois complacency and toleration. He withdrew to his room, remaining there alone until the evening, and as, before sunset, the sky grew clear, he took his gun, intending to shoot in the same place where he and Riasantzeff had been yesterday.
Near the balcony there was more light, and one could hear the jingling of bottles and glasses above the noisy talk and laughter. "Life is an incurable malady." It was Schafroff who spoke. "And you are an incurable fool!" shouted Ivanoff, in reply, "Can't you stop your eternal phrase-making?" On entering, Yourii received a boisterous welcome.
"With pleasure," said Yourii. Sina lodged with Dubova in a small house that stood in a large, barren- looking garden. All the way thither she and Yourii talked of the lecture and its impression upon them, so that Yourii felt more and more convinced that he had done a good and great thing. As they reached the house, Sina said: "Won't you come in for a moment?" Yourii gladly accepted.
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