The Duel - Aleksandr Kuprin (best summer reads of all time TXT) 📗

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 anyone 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 reestablish 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 life-giving 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? Where shall I go?”

Nasanski looked at him with a gentle smile.

“Listen, Romashov, and look me straight in the face⁠—that’s right. No, don’t turn away, look at me, and answer on your honour and conscience. Do you really think that you are now serving any good, useful, and reasonable purposes? I know you much better than all the rest⁠—yes, I know your inmost soul, and I know you do not think so.”

“No,” replied Romashov, in a firm voice, “you are right. But what will become of me?”

“Well, be calm. Only look at our officers. Oh, I’m not talking now of the fops of the Emperor’s lifeguards who dance at the Court balls, talk French, and are kept by their parents or by their more or less lawful wives. No, I’m thinking of ourselves⁠—poor officers in the line who, nevertheless, constitute the very ‘pick’ of the irresistible and glorious Russian Army. What are we? Well, mere fag-ends⁠—le beau reste, despised pariahs; at best the sons of poor, poverty-stricken infantry Captains, ruined in body and soul, but for, by far, the most part consisting of collegians, seminarists, etc., who have failed. Look, for instance, at our regiment. What are they who remain for any time in the service? Poor devils burdened with large families, veritable beggars ready for every villainy and cruelty⁠—ah, even for murder⁠—and are not even ashamed of abstracting the poor soldier’s scanty pay so that, at any rate, cabbage soup may not be lacking on their table at home. Such an individual is commanded to shoot. Whom? And for what? It is all the same to him. He only knows that at home there are hungry mouths, dirty, scrofulous, rickety children, and with dull countenance he splutters, like another woodpecker, his eternal, unvarying answer, ‘My oath.’ And if there’s a spark of ability or talent in anyone, it is extinguished in schnapps. Seventy-five percent of our officers are diseased through vice. If anyone in the regiment happens to scrape through his entrance examination for the Staff College⁠—which, by the way, hardly happens with us once in five years⁠—he is pursued by hatred.