"No, even if I were to fall under the railway train, and were left lying on the line with broken and bleeding limbs, and any one 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 re-establish 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 lifegiving 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?"