For No Reason

Showing That, If One Makes a Magnificent Gesture, One Must Live Up to It

GIOVANNI PAPINI

WHEN Sieroska left his room that morning, he had no idea that he was seriously to contemplate death.

He drank his usual cup of chocolate at the cafe de la Croix, walked slowly through the Rue Mont Blanc and, in a few moments, stood upon the bridge which spans the rapid, clear Rhone. As always, he paused and, leaning on the stone parapet, stared down at the water.

Sieroska was a Russian, but he was not a revolutionist. He had come to Geneva with the vague intention of studying chemistry. He had no faith in the political efficacy of privately printed pamphlets and incendiary newspapers. He seldom attended his classes at the University. They said of him that he was a dreamer who wasted many precious hours staring at the river. He believed that philosophy consists in discovering a difference in things which are essentially alike. He claimed that no one could separate, define or describe the countless variations on the surface of the running stream—ripple upon ripple, converging, diverging, spreading fan-wise in an endless, patterned, dissolving repetition. It was, he said, worth a life-time of study. Fishermen were only disguised philosophers, contemplating the eternal mystery of water and its changing sameness. . . .

Sieroska never tired of praising the green waters of the Rhone. Every morning, faithful as a lover, he hurried to the bridge.

On this morning of the 17th of February, he stood on the bridge as usual, lost in admiration. Another student came along and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey there, Sieroska! What are you doing?"

Sieroska turned with a faint sigh. "I am thinking," he answered shortly.

"I, too, think now and then. But what's the use? Mustn't one live, too? If a man came to you and offered you a revolver and said: 'Buy this from me and save me from hunger, or, Shoot me between the eyes and save me from hunger'—which would you do?"

"Have you a revolver for sale?" Sieroska asked doubtfully.

The young student lowered his eyes. "Yes —and I'm hungry. Horribly hungry. I've been trying to sell the revolver. Here it is. An excellent weapon, too. But no one will buy it. I took it to the man who lives in the Villa Sans-Souci. His wife is unfaithful to him, too. But he shook his head. I have two revolvers already, he said, 'and I'm afraid to use them.' Then I went to the cashier of the Restaurant Mont Blanc and said to her: Mademoiselle, you are pretty, but the day will come when your eyes will fade, when your smile will grow dim, when your lover will abandon you.' She pushed the revolver away and swore at me. But you, Sieroska have you never thought of death ?"

Sieroska was poor. But he saw the fever of hunger burning in the student's eyes. He fumbled in his pockets for his purse and taking out a faded five-franc note, gave it to the boy. "This is all I have just now. I ake it and buy-food."

The other snatched at the money and thrusting the revolver into Sieroska's hand, ran off without a word of thanks, his tattered cape fluttering in the wind, his cracked shoes dapping pitiably like an old beggar's.

II

WHEN Sieroska went to bed that night he took the revolver out of his pocket and put it on the table. During the day, he had given no thought to his strange purchase. Now, with a start, he picked it up and examined it with curiosity and a sort of fear. A dainty, bright thing,—loaded, ready to kill —an enemy, an unknown quantity, a terrible, facile weapon.

Sieroska put it down on the table again and undressed quickly. Getting into bed, he lay with his hands behind his head, thinking. He hated the bare ugliness of his room, its abominable neatness. He could forget it only at night when a faint pattern of light cast by some street lamp danced on the ceiling and Sieroska himself lay with his thoughts in a pool of shadows. But on this night of the 17th of February, his mind refused to follow the alluring current of dreams. The businesslike little revolver fascinated him.

"I am a man," he thought, "of intelligence. I am a rational being, an economist. Today I spent five francs for a revolver. A revolver is an instrument made for killing. It has no other use. This revolver is mine. Brought into this room by my own hand. It is loaded. I must either use it or throw it out of the window. Use it? But how? There are two possibilities. I can kill some passer-by in the street below, or I can blow my own brains out. The first possibility is out of the question. I am not brave enough to kill an innocent and unsuspecting stranger. I would be tried, convicted and hanged, if I did. . . .

"The other possibility occurs to me for the first time. I have no particular desire to die;

I am not hungry; I am sane enough for ordinary purposes, and l am engaged to be married to a pretty girl. But must I have an excuse in order to kill myself? A man who kills himself because there is no reason why he should go on living, is not a suicide in the purest sense of the word. A real suicide is one who considers life and death with disinterested serenity, objectively, intelligently, and then destroys himself, not because of personal disappointments, rancour, hate, or despair, but willingly, as one who quietly lays him down to sleep. ... I, Sieroska, am in an excellent state of mind for death. Tomorrow we shall see. If I find that I have no reason to die, I may make the experiment. ..."

Sieroska tried to sleep but he could not. The thought of suicide obsessed him. Leaning forward, he touched the revolver with the tips of his fingers. How cold it was—like Stone. Sieroska shuddered and buried his face in the pillow. . . .

And again his thoughts flowed before him like the waters of the Rhone.

"I have no reason to die. But have I any reason to live? Mother has five sons. Nor is she a sentimentalist. She will shed few tears for me. My brothers hate me. My sister is happily married. My fiancee is a tlirt and I am not really in love with her. Some day she will be fat, old and noisy. My friends are good fellows, but they are young and will forget me. I cannot weep for Russia. Science has eluded me. Pleasure does not touch me.

I am twenty-seven and life is already gray. Old age is worse than death. Death will come sooner or later. Is it not better to die now while I am young and unafraid? To be a hero for one instant—one tremendous instant of freedom and realization?"

Ill

WHEN dawn came in at the window, blotting out the dancing shadows on the cracked ceiling, Sieroska rose and dressed. He had decided. He was ready to die. He shivered as he got into his clothes. He could not help thinking: "This is the last time I will lace my shoes. The last time I will button my coat. The last time I will brush my hair. How thick and black it is."

Before going out, he wrote six or eight letters and, enclosing them in envelopes, addressed them in a firm, clear hand. One was to his fiancee, one to his mother, one for an Uncle in Kief, the rest for friends in Geneva, —quiet letters saying simply that he was about to kill himself for no reason and that he hoped no one would grieve for him.

He went first to the post office and dropped the letters one by one into the box. Nothing more remained to be done. Feeling in his overcoat pocket to be sure that the revolver was still there, he hurried toward the bridge.

"I must do it at once," he thought. He leaned against the parapet, glanced at the limpid water and straightening suddenly, with a throb of faintness and terror, lifted the revolver to his forehead and pulled the trigger. . . .

Nothing! Silence!

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No explosion, no rending, obliterating pain, no darkness! Sieroska waited. ... What had happened? He pulled frantically with both hands. Nothing . . . the revolver was no good! A wave of nausea made him lower his arm. He tottered, caught himself and with a violent gesture tossed the weapon into the Rhone. It fell with a timid splash and disappeared. . . .

Sieroska looked about. No one had observed his extraordinary behavior. The sun was coming up from behind the mountains. The snowy peaks of the distant Alps appeared glowing and rosy against a brilliant sky. A wind fresh from the lake ruffled the surface of the Rhone like the swift opening of a lady's fan. . . .

"What has happened?" Sieroska thought. "Did I really try to kill myself a moment ago? Must I die? Must I?"

He suddenly laughed aloud and walked quickly away toward the town, taking long strides and swinging his arms. Everything seemed fresh, rejuvenated, beautiful. Children scampered by on the way to school. Shopkeepers opened their doors. Sieroska beamed at everyone. He went into a cafe and ordered chocolate. Delicious! Splendid fellow, the waiter. A little tired, perhaps, but a fine chap. . . . Sieroska rose, strolled along the boulevard, hailed a cab and climbing in, ordered the driver to take him out of town—anywhere! He lolled on the cushions, his hat on the back of his head, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the motion of the carriage, the steady, vital, delicious beating of his own heart within that living body. He remembered a silly waltz tune, and, pursing his lips, whistled while the cab horse, with bells a-jingle, climbed a steep hill on the outskirts of the town. . . .

IV

WHEN Sieroska woke the next morning, he remembered the letters. Some of them must already have been delivered. . . . What had he written— for no reason? How could he explain himself—justify himself? Could he tell his friends that the revolver had failed to go off? Impossible! Could he make a gesture and then refuse to carry it out logically, to the end? Could he, for the rest of his life, be branded as a comic coward!

He went out and prowled about the town, shamefaced, fearful of encountering anyone he knew. He had promised to do away with himself and he was still alive, a ridiculous, purposeless phantom! He sought excuses, reasons for his madness, explanation. ... He averted his eyes from the gaze of passers by. Like a dog who expects to be kicked, he slunk down unfrequented streets, and then the idea that he might meet one of his friends began to haunt him. Finally, of course, he came face to face with one of them.

"Sieroska! I knew it was a joke! I knew it! For no reason! That's the key to the riddle. You wanted to scare us, you sly fellow! Semenoff said 'no'. I said 'yes'. I was right. Yes? Ha! Ha! See you tonight at the cafe! Good-bye."

And Sieroska's friend stood quite still, staring after him. A joke, eh? A joke! And he had made the most magnificent gesture of all! He felt himself between two worlds, for he had dedicated himself to death and still stood upon the threshold. He had made a promise which must be kept. He had offered up his life and could not reclaim it. A joke? No. A thousand times, no!

The sky was heavy with mist. Sieroska turned again toward the bridge, conscious of tears that drenched his cheeks. He hurried to the parapet and looked again at the scurrying water. . . .

"For no reason!" he shouted. And, throwing off his coat, leaped on to the railing and hurled himself into the rapid, the crystal, the generous, the mysterious waters of the Rhone. . . .