He seemed to be
witnessing the shipwreck of his whole life. A thousand voices cried to
him for succour, imploring aid, cursing death--voices that he knew, that
he had listened to in days gone by. But they cried and implored and
cursed in vain, feeling that they were perishing, choked by the hungry
waves; then the voices grew faint, broken, irrecognisable--and died away
into silence.
He was alone. Of all his youth, of all his boasted fulness of inner
life, of all his ideality, not a vestige remained; within--a black and
yawning abyss, around him--impassive nature, endless source of pain to
solitary souls. Every hope was dead, every voice mute, every anchor
gone--what use was life?
Suddenly the image of Elena rose up before him, then that of other women
whom he had known and loved. Each of them smiled a hostile smile, and
each one, as she vanished, seemed to carry away something of him--what,
he could not definitely say. An unspeakable distress weighed upon him,
an icy breath of age swept over him, a tragic, warning voice rang
through his heart--Too late! Too late!
All his recent comfort and peace seemed now a vain delusion, a dream
that had flown, a pleasure enjoyed by some other spirit. Every wound he
had ruthlessly dealt to his soul's dignity bled afresh; every
degradation he had inflicted upon his conscience started out and spread
like a leprosy.
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