mustached face appeared in the black hole. For a long time it stared
at Musya in astonishment-and then disappeared as noiselessly as it had
appeared.

The bells rang and sang, for a long time, painfully. It seemed as if
the tired Hours were climbing up a high mountain toward midnight, and
that it was becoming ever harder and harder to ascend. They fall, they
slip, they slide down with a groan-and then again, they climb
painfully toward the black height.

Somewhere people were walking. Somewhere people were whispering. And
they were already harnessing the horses to the black carriages without
lanterns.



CHAPTER VIII
THERE IS DEATH AS WELL AS LIFE


Sergey Golovin never thought of death, as though it were something not
to be considered, something that did not concern him in the least. He
was a strong, healthy, cheerful youth, endowed with that calm, clear
joy of living which causes every evil thought and feeling that might
injure life to disappear from the organism without leaving any trace.
Just as all cuts, wounds and stings on his body healed rapidly, so all
that weighed upon his soul and wounded it immediately rose to the
surface and disappeared. And he brought into every work, even into his
enjoyments, the same calm and optimistic seriousness,-it mattered not
whether he was occupied with photography, with bicycling or with