"And kills! Tell me sincerely, has this ever occurred to thee, that it is possible to have a yearning for death?" "No; I understand just the opposite." "But I will give thee neither morphine nor opium," said Bukatski, at length; "only good coffee and a bottle of honest Bordeaux. That will be an innocent orgy." After some time they arrived at Bukatski's. It was the dwelling of a man of real wealth, seemingly, somewhat uninhabited, but full of small things connected with art and pictures and drawings. Lamps were burning in a number of rooms, for Bukatski could not endure darkness, even in time of sleep. The "Bordeaux" was found promptly, and under the machine for coffee a blue flame was soon burning. Bukatski stretched himself on the sofa, and said, all at once,-- "Perhaps thou wilt not admit, since thou seest me such a filigree, that I have no fear of death." "This one thing I have at times admitted, that thou art jesting and jesting, deceiving thyself and others, while really the joke is not in thee, and this is all artificial." "The folly of people amuses me somewhat." "But if thou think thyself wise, why arrange life so vainly?" Here Pan Stanislav looked around on bric-à-brac, on pictures, and added, "In all this surrounding thou art still living vainly." "Vainly enough." "Thou art of those who _pretend_. What a disease in this society! Thou art posing, and that is the whole question." "Sometimes. But, for that matter, it becomes natural." Under the influence of "Bordeaux" Bukatski grew animated gradually, and became more talkative, though cheerfulness did not return to him. "Seest thou," said he, "one thing,--I do not pretend. All which I myself could tell, or which another could tell me, I have thought out, and said long since to my soul. I lead the most stupid and the vainest life possible. Around me is immense nothingness, which I fear, and which I fence out with this lumber which thou seest in this room; I do this so as to fear less. Not to fear death is another thing, for after death there are neither feelings nor thoughts. I shall become, then, a part also of nothingness; but to feel it, while one is alive, to know of it, to give account to one's self of it, as God lives, there can be nothing more abject. Moreover, the condition of my health is really bad, and takes from me every energy. I have no fuel in myself, therefore I add it. There is less in this of posing and pretending than thou wilt admit. When I have given myself fuel, I take life in its humorous aspect; I follow the example of the sick man, who lies on the side on which he lies with most comfort. For me there is most comfort thus. That the position is artificial, I admit; every other, however, would be more painful. And see, the subject is exhausted." "If thou would undertake some work."