Yourii at once tried to imagine what living for ever would be like. He saw an endless grey stripe that stretched aimlessly away into space, as though swept onward from one wave to another. All conception of colour, sound and emotion was blurred and dimmed, being merged and fused in one grey turbid stream that flowed on placidly, eternally. This was not life, but everlasting death. The thought of it horrified him. “Yes, of course,” he murmured. “It appears to have made a great impression upon you,” said Ivanoff. “Upon whom does it not make an impression?” asked Yourii. Ivanoff shook his head vaguely, and began to tell Ilitsch about Semenoff’s last moments. It was now insufferably close in the room. Yourii watched Ivanoff, as his red lips sipped the vodka that shone in the lamplight. Everything seemed to be going round and round. “A—a—a—a—a!” whispered a voice in his ear, a strange small voice. “No! death is an awful thing!” he said again, without noticing that he was replying to the mysterious voice. “You’re over-nervous about it,” observed Ivanoff contemptuously. “Aren’t you?” said Yourii. “I? N—no! Certainly, I don’t want to die, as there’s not much fun in it, and living is far jollier. But, if one has to die, I should like it to be quickly, without any fuss or nonsense.” “You have not tried yet!” laughed Sanine. “No; that’s quite true!” replied the other. “Ah! well,” continued Yourii, “one has heard all that before. Say what you will, death is death, horrible in itself, and sufficient to rob a man of all pleasure in life who thinks of such a violent and inevitable end to it. What is the meaning of life?” “It has no meaning,” cried Ivanoff irritably. “No, that is impossible,” replied Yourii, “everything is too wisely and carefully arranged, and—” “In my opinion,” said Sanine, “there’s nothing good anywhere.” “How can you say that? What about Nature?” “Nature! Ha, ha!” Sanine laughed feebly, and waved his hand in derision. “It is customary, I know, to say that Nature is perfect. The truth is, that Nature is just as defective as mankind. Without any great effort of imagination any of us could present a world a hundred times better than this one. Why should we not have perpetual warmth and light, and a garden ever verdant and ever gay? As to the meaning of life, of course it has a meaning of some sort, because the aim implies the march of things; without an aim all would be chaos, But this aim lies outside the pale of our existence, in the very basis of the universe. That is certain. We cannot be the origin nor the end of the universe. Our role is a passive, and auxiliary one. By the mere fact of living we fulfil our mission. Our life is necessary; thus our death is necessary also.” “For what?”