Not so. Oh, no, it is not death: this is Life! Understand the truth.—It is life; behold it now: life in very deed.
You see now?—All is clear. It was for that reason that Czolhanski was awaiting him here. It was for that reason that he wished you not to come, and that, because you came, he stayed away.
Is—is not this yet Death?
No. It is Life: Life that, out of the accents of that voice, supremely melodious, drowsy, sleepy, yet replete with fire from an unfathomable abyss, out of the lazy, lascivious snaky curves of those limbs of hers; out of those glossy shoulders, so shapely, so slenderly fashioned, and of those outstretched naked arms, in hue like pale dead gold, has come forth towards you in all its hostile might!
Gina, lost in dreary amazement, was staring at me.
“What ails you?... Had we not better get away from here?”
We were both of us presently standing, frantic with pain, in the street which, lit up by the flaring windows of the great hall, was as bright as day.
“Let us go away—away!—Home? On no account.—Get drunk somewhere—lose my senses—shed some one’s blood....”
I was raving like one in a delirium.
“I beg you, Gina, come, come along—I can’t bear any more!” I stammered.