“After all, it is simple enough!” said Yourii to himself, endeavouring to draw a straight, short line in his mind. “Man never existed before he was born; that does not seem to be terrible nor incomprehensible. Man’s existence ends when he dies. That is equally simple and easy to comprehend. Death, the complete stoppage of the machine that creates vital force, is perfectly comprehensible; there is nothing terrible about it. There was once a boy named Youra who went to college and fought with his comrades, who amused himself by chopping off the heads of thistles and lived his own special and interesting life in his own special way. This Youra died, and in his place quite another man walks and thinks, the student, Yourii Svarogitsch. If they were to meet, Youra would not understand Yourii, and might even hate him as a possible tutor ready to cause him no end of annoyance. Therefore, between them there is a gulf, and therefore, if the boy Youra is dead, I am dead myself, though till now I never noticed it. That is how it is. Quite natural and simple, after all! If one reflects, what do we lose by dying? Life, at any rate, contains more sadness than happiness. True it has its pleasures and it is hard to lose them, but death rids us of so many ills, that in the end we gain by it. That’s simple, and not so terrible, is it?” said Yourii, aloud, with a sigh of relief; but suddenly he started, as another thought seemed to sting him. “No, a whole world, full of life and extraordinarily complicated, suddenly transformed into nothing? No, that is not the transformation of the boy Youra into Yourii Svarogitsch! That is absurd and revolting, and therefore terrible and incomprehensible!” With all his might Yourii strove to form a conception of this state which no man finds it possible to support, yet which every man supports, just as Semenoff had done. “He did not die of fear, either,” thought Yourii, smiling at the strangeness of such a reflection. “No, he was laughing at us all, with our priest, and our chanting, and tears. How was it that Semenoff could laugh, knowing that in a few moments all would be at an end? Was he a hero? No; it was not a question of heroism. Then death is not as terrible as I thought.” While he was musing thus Ivanoff suddenly hailed him in a loud voice. “Ah! it’s you! Where are you going?” asked Yourii, shuddering. “To say a mass for our departed friend,” replied Ivanoff, with brutal jocularity. “You had better come with us. What’s the good of being always alone?” Feeling sad and dispirited, Yourii did not find Sanine and Ivanoff as distasteful to him as usual. “Very well, I will,” he replied, but suddenly recollecting his superiority, he thought to himself, “what have I really in common with such fellows? Am I to drink their vodka, and talk commonplaces?”