The sun was already high when Elisaveta awoke. She quickly recalled all that happened the night before. She took but little time in dressing and, urged by a suppressed excitement, was soon on the way to Trirodov in her carriage. Trirodov met her at the gates. He was returning from town, and he told her briefly about his conferences with the authorities. Elisaveta said resolutely:
“I want to see the family of the dead man.”
“I don’t know where they live. We shall have to see Voronok first. He has all the information.”
“Shall we find him at home now?”
“I think so,” said Trirodov. “If he’s at home we’ll all start together.”
They drove off. The dusty road trailed behind the rapid wheels, and revealed vistas of depressing commonplaceness. The light dust, stirred by the wheels into the sultry air, trailed behind the carriage like a long serpent. The high flaming Dragon looked down from his inaccessible sky with furious eyes upon the impoverished earth. There was a thirst for blood in the hot glister of his rays, and there was a soaring exultation because men had shed some priceless drops of the wine of life. In the midst of these open, heat-swept spaces, Trirodov, drawn at this moment into the crowded town life, was addressing his companion in dull, everyday words:
“They searched many houses early this morning. They found a great deal of literature at Stchemilov’s. He’s been arrested.”
He also repeated the rumour of whippings at the police-station. Elisaveta was silent.
Voronok’s house was situated in a very convenient place, somewhere between the centre of the town and the factory section. This house had many visitors because Voronok was an assiduous worker in the local Social Democratic Party. His chief function was to carry on propaganda among the working men and the young, and incidentally to instil into them party views and a true understanding of the aims of the working classes.
Young boys used to come to Voronok, his pupils from the town school, and these brought their comrades and acquaintances with them—those whom they met at home or by chance. They were for the most part charming, sincere, and intelligent youngsters, but very dishevelled and very self-conscious. Voronok taught them very heartily and with good results. They assimilated his teachings: a sympathy towards the working proletariat, a hate towards the satiated bourgeois, a consciousness of the irreconcilability of the interests of the two classes, and a few random facts from history. The ragamuffins from the town school invariably opened every visit to Voronok by complaining against the school rules and the inspector. They complained chiefly about trifles. They would say with an injured air:
“They compel us to wear official badges upon our caps.”
“They treat us as if we were little children.”
“They brand us, so that every one may know that we are the boys of the town school.”
“They force us to cut our hair; why should our hair worry them?”
Voronok sympathized with them fully. This helped him to keep them in a state of revolt. Their no less unkempt friends, who did not go to school, also found something to complain about—if not against their parents, then against the police, indeed against anything that occurred to them. But their complaints did not contain quite that poison and steadiness which was instilled into the schoolboys with all the force of a school. Voronok used to give both classes pamphlets that cost a kopeck and were intensely strict in their party purity.
The younger of the working men also used to come to Voronok’s house. There were still others, a ragged, grumbling lot, who appeared to carry an air of eternal injury with them, as if they had lost all capacity for smiling and jesting. Voronok took great pains to read the pamphlets with them, and to explain to them anything that was not especially clear. Regular hours were allotted for these readings and conversations. By such means Voronok succeeded in developing the desired mood in his visitors; all the party shibboleths were assimilated by them quickly and thoroughly. He also gave them books for home reading. Many used to buy this literature occasionally.
In this manner, a flood of books and pamphlets continually poured through Voronok’s house. Sometimes he selected whole libraries, and sent them by trustworthy people through the villages.
Elisaveta and Trirodov found Voronok at home. He did not much resemble a party workman; he was gracious, spoke little, and produced the impression of a reserved, well-trained man. He always wore starched linen, a high collar, a fashionable tie and a bowler hat. He had his hair trimmed short, and his beard was most neatly brushed.
“I will go with you, with pleasure,” said Voronok amiably.
He seized his thin cane, put on his bowler hat, took a cursory glance of himself in the mirror, and said again:
“I’m ready. But perhaps you’d like to rest?”
They declined, and the three of them started off. The painful silence of the bright streets hovered about them stealthily and expectantly. They seemed strangers among these wooden huts, depressing fences, and the tottering little bridges. They wanted to ask:
“Why are we going?”
But this only seemed to bring them closer, and to make the quick beats of their hearts more friendly. The whole picture of the life of the poor was here in all its sordidness; dirty, malicious children played here, and abused each other, and wrangled; a drunkard reeled; grey buckets swung on a grey wooden yoke across the shoulders of a grey woman in a worn grey dress.
There was everyday commonplaceness in the poverty of the house, where lay the hastily prepared yellow corpse. A pale-faced woman stood at its head, and wailed quietly and ceaselessly. Three pale, sandy-haired children came in and looked at the visitors; their gaze was at once strange and stupid, neither joyous nor sad, but dulled for ever.
Elisaveta went up to the woman. The blooming, rosy, graceful girl stood at the side of the pale, tear-eyed woman, and was quietly saying something to her; the latter was nodding her head and crooning unnecessary, belated words. Trirodov turned quietly to Voronok:
“Is any money needed?”
Voronok whispered back:
“No, his comrades will bury him. We’ll make a collection among ourselves. Afterwards the family will need some money.”
The day of the funeral arrived. The factories stopped work. There was a clear sky, and under it the turbulent crowd; the light currents of incense streamed in the air, and its sumptuous aroma mingled with the light odour of the smoke that came from the forest cinders. The schoolboys struck and went to the funeral. Some of the schoolgirls came also. The more timid ones remained in school.
The children from Trirodov’s colony decided to come. They brought two wreaths with them. The quiet children came also. They kept by themselves and were silent.
The entire town police were present at the funeral. Even police from outlying districts were here. As always, petty provocateurs lurked among the crowd.
The crowd moved calmly and solemnly. Above it the wreaths swung, the red flowers glimmered vividly, the red ribbons fluttered. The Cossacks rode alongside. There was austerity and suspicion in their looks—they were prepared to suppress any demonstration. The chanting of a prayer could be heard. Each time the subsided chant was renewed, the Cossacks listened with great intentness. No—it was only the prayer again.
Elisaveta and Trirodov walked with the crowd behind the coffin. They spoke of that which enraptures those who seek rapture and frightens those who seek repose. Poignant were Elisaveta’s impressions as she stepped upon the sharp cobblestones of the dusty, littered pavement.
The road was long. The austere harmony was kept up for some time. At last the cemetery was reached. Some dejected moments were passed in waiting by the church. The last services were pronounced hurriedly.
The Cossacks moved about in bustling fashion, and as before formed a circle around the throng.
The coffin was carried out of the church. The wreaths swung once more above the crowd, which moved on chanting.
Suddenly the women’s lament grew louder—the women’s lament above the grave. The instructor Bodeyev then stood at the head of the coffin. He began in his shrilly-thin, but far-carrying voice:
“Comrades, we have gathered to-day at the grave of our brother....”
The colonel of the gendarmes went up to him, and said sternly:
“It is forbidden. I must ask you to do without speeches or demonstrations.”
Bodeyev asked in astonishment:
“But why?”
“No, I must ask you not to. It is forbidden,” said the colonel dryly.
Bodeyev shrugged his shoulders and remarked as he moved away:
“I submit to brute strength.”
“To the law,” the officer in the blue uniform corrected him sharply.
The dead man’s comrades, crowding near the grave, followed one another with handfuls of soil, which they threw on the coffin. The damp, heavy soil struck the coffin with a hollow sound.
The grave was being filled up. Every one stood silently, and as silently left the spot.
Then suddenly a voice was heard.
And in an instant the whole crowd began to sing words of a proud, melancholy, revolutionary song. The Cossacks looked on morosely. The command was given. The Cossacks quickly mounted their horses. The singing stopped abruptly.
Once outside the cemetery gates, Elisaveta said:
“I am hungry!”
“Let’s go to my place,” suggested Trirodov.
“Thank you,” said Elisaveta. “But I’d rather go to some tavern.”
Trirodov looked at her in astonishment, but made no objection. He understood her curiosity.
The tavern was crowded and noisy. Trirodov and Elisaveta sat down near the window, at a small table covered with a dirty, spotted cloth. They ordered cold meat and light beer.
At one of the tables, a young man in a red shirt sat drinking. He was in a boastful mood. Behind his ear stuck a cigarette. The fellow intruded upon his neighbours, and shouted:
“Who’s drunk?”
“Well, who?” asked a young working man at the next table contemptuously.
“I am drunk!” exclaimed the drunkard in the red shirt. “And who am I, do you know, eh?”
“Yes, who are you? What sort of a bird are you?” asked the young working man in the black calico blouse derisively.
“I am Borodulin!” said the drunkard, and there was an expression on his face as if he had pronounced a famous name.
His neighbours roared with laughter, and shouted coarse, derisive words. The fellow in the red shirt cried angrily:
“What do you think? Is Borodulin, in your opinion, a peasant?”
The working man in the black blouse began to get annoyed. His lean cheeks grew red. He sprang from his place, and shouted angrily:
“Well, who are you? Answer.”
“I’m a peasant on my passport. An army reserve man. But that’s not all, I assure you,” said Borodulin.
“Well, who then are you?” repeated the young working man angrily, as he took a step towards him.
“And do you know what I am on my card? Can you guess?” asked Borodulin.
He blinked, and tried to look important. The comrades of the young working man tried to dissuade him from pursuing his inquiries, and whispered as they drew him away:
“Don’t waste your time on him. He’s a nobody.”
“I’m a detective, that’s what I am!” said Borodulin with his important air.
The working man in the black blouse spat contemptuously and walked back to his table. Borodulin went on:
“You think I’m out of my senses. No, old chap, you’re mistaken. I’m an experienced man. What do you think of me now? I’m a detective. I can arrest any one!”
The men at the neighbouring tables listened to him and exchanged glances. Borodulin went on boasting.
“Suppose I put the police on to you?” asked a merchant at one of the middle tables angrily. His small black eyes sparkled.
Borodulin burst out laughing, and shouted:
“I have the police in the hollow of my hand. That’s where I have them.”
The customers grumbled. Threats were heard:
“You’d better go away while you’re still whole.”
He paid his bill and left. Suddenly the sound of a crowd gathering in the street was heard. From the window Elisaveta and Trirodov could see the fellow in the red shirt sauntering backwards and forwards in the street, only a few paces from the tavern, and annoying the passers-by. He could be heard shouting:
“I’ll report you! I’ll arrest you! Hand over your ten kopecks.”
Many, afraid of him, acceded to his request. Borodulin clutched at every passer-by. He threw off the men’s caps, he pinched the women, while he pulled young boys by the ear. The women ran from him shrieking. The more timid men also ran. The bolder ones paused in menacing attitudes. These Borodulin did not dare to molest. Small boys ran behind him in a crowd, laughing and hooting. Borodulin grumbled.
“You’d better look out. Do you know who I am?”
“Well, who are you?” asked a young fellow whom he jostled. “You’re a pothouse plug.”
A crowd formed round them. Their faces were morose and unfriendly. Borodulin was afraid, but he showed a bold front and boasted. He shouted:
“Two or three of you will be necessary!”
A sudden attack was made upon Borodulin. A young robust fellow sprang forward from the crowd with a shout, an enormous cobblestone in his hand.
“What’s this dog showing his teeth for?”
He hit Borodulin on the head with the stone. It was unfortunately too well aimed. Borodulin fell. Others attacked him as he lay there. The workman who hit him with the stone made his escape.
Elisaveta and Trirodov were looking out of the window. Trirodov exclaimed:
“The Cossacks!”
The people in the street scattered in all directions. The mutilated corpse lay in a pool of blood on the pavement.
Ostrov caused Trirodov a great deal of annoyance. More than once Trirodov returned to the earlier circumstances of their acquaintance and to their recent meeting at Skorodozh.
The week having elapsed, Ostrov paid Trirodov another visit. That whole week Ostrov could not get rid of his confusion and uneasiness. The details of his meeting with Trirodov became absurdly entangled in his memory. He kept on forgetting the day of the week it was. The week passed rather quickly for him. This was possibly due to his having made several interesting acquaintances. He had become quite a noticeable personage about town.
Ostrov made his visit late on Tuesday evening. He was received at once, and led into a chamber on the ground floor. Trirodov came in almost immediately. Not a little astonished, he asked unwillingly:
“Well, what can I do for you, Denis Alekseyevitch?”
“I’ve come for the money,” said Ostrov gruffly. “To receive the promised relief at your bountiful hands.”
“I did not expect you until Wednesday,” replied Trirodov.
“Why Wednesday when Tuesday is just as good?” said Ostrov with a savage smile. “Or do you find it so hard to part with your cash? Have you become a bourgeois, Giorgiy Sergeyevitch?”
Trirodov suddenly appeared to recall something as, with a tinge of derision in his smile, he asked:
“I beg your pardon, Denis Alekseyevitch, I thought you were coming to-morrow, as was arranged. I haven’t the money ready for you.”
Ostrov was annoyed. His broad face grew dark. He exclaimed, his eyes red with anger:
“You asked me to come in a week, and I’ve come in a week. You don’t expect me to come here forty times, do you? I have other business. You’ve promised me the money, and so hand it over. You must loosen your purse-strings whether you like it or not.”
He grew more savage with every word. In the end he struck the small round white table that stood on slender legs in front of him with his stout fist. Trirodov answered calmly:
“It is now Tuesday. That means the week is not up yet.”
“What do you mean it isn’t up?” said Ostrov. “I came to see you on Tuesday. Do you count eight days in a week, in the French fashion? You won’t come off so easily.”
“You came here on Wednesday,” replied Trirodov. “And this is why I haven’t the money ready for you.”
Ostrov was unable to grasp the situation. He looked at Trirodov with some perplexity, and showed his irritation.
“What do you mean by saying that you haven’t it ready? Why should you get it ready? All you’ve got to do is to take it out of your safe, count it out, and give it to me—that’s the whole method of procedure. It isn’t as if it were a lot of money—it’s a mere trifle.”
“It may be a trifle for some people. It isn’t at all a trifle for me,” said Trirodov.
“Don’t pretend that you’re poor! Some one might think you were a forsaken orphan! What do you expect us to believe?”
Trirodov rose from his seat, looked with stern intentness into Ostrov’s eyes, and said resolutely:
“In a word, I can’t give you the money to-day. Try to come here to-morrow about this time.”
Ostrov rose involuntarily from his chair. He experienced a strange sensation, as if he were being lifted from his seat by his collar and forcibly led to the door. He fired his parting shot:
“Only don’t think that you can pull wool over my eyes to-morrow. I’m not the sort of a chap whom you can feed on promises.”
His small eyes gleamed malignantly. His broad jaws trembled savagely. His feet seemed to carry him to the door of themselves.
“No,” answered Trirodov, “I do not intend to fool you. You will get your money tomorrow.”
Ostrov came at the same hour next evening. This time he was led into Trirodov’s study.
“Well,” asked Ostrov rather impudently, “do you mean to give me the money? Or will you play the same farce once more?”
Trirodov pulled a bundle of bank-notes out of a drawer in his writing-table, and said as he gave them to Ostrov:
“Please count them. There should be two thousand.”
Ostrov whistled and said gruffly:
“That’s too little. I asked for much more.”
“That’s all you’ll get,” said Trirodov resolutely. “It ought to last you quite a while.”
“Perhaps you will add a trifle,” said Ostrov with a stupid smile.
“I can’t,” said Trirodov coldly.
“I can’t leave town on this money,” said Ostrov in a threatening voice.
Trirodov frowned, and looked sternly at Ostrov. New thoughts began to take shape in his mind, and he said:
“You won’t find it to your advantage to remain, and everything you do here will be known to me.”
“Very well, I’ll go away,” said Ostrov with a stupid smile. He took the money, counted it carefully, and put it into his greasy pocket. He was about to take his leave, but Trirodov detained him.
“Don’t go yet. We’ll have a talk.”
At the same instant a quiet boy in his white clothes appeared from some dark corner. He paused behind Trirodov’s chair, and looked at Ostrov. His wide dark eyes, looking out of his pale face, brought Ostrov into a state of painful dread. He lowered himself slowly into the chair near the writing-table. His head felt giddy. Then a strange mood of nonchalance and submission took possession of him. His face bore an expression of apathetic readiness to do everything that he might be commanded to do by some one stronger than himself—whose will had conquered his. Trirodov looked attentively at Ostrov and said:
“Well, tell me what I want to know. I wish to hear from your own lips what you are doing here, and what you are up to. You couldn’t have done much in such a short time, but you surely have found out something. Speak!”
Ostrov sniggered rather stupidly, fidgeted as if he were sitting on springs, and said:
“Very well, I’ll tell you something interesting and won’t charge you a penny for it.”
Trirodov, without taking off his heavy, fixed gaze from Ostrov’s face, repeated:
“Speak!”
The quiet boy looked with his eyes full of intense questioning straight into Ostrov’s eyes.
“Do you know who killed the Chief of Police?” asked Ostrov.
Trirodov was silent. Ostrov’s whole body twitched as he kept up his absurd sniggering.
“He killed him and went away,” went on Ostrov. “He made his escape by taking advantage of the confusion and the darkness, as the newspapers would say. The police have not caught him to this day, and the authorities do not even know who he is.”
“And do you know?” asked Trirodov in a cold, deliberate voice.
“I know, but I won’t tell you,” replied Ostrov rather venomously.
“You shall tell me,” said Trirodov with conviction. Then he added in even a more loud, determined, and commanding voice:
“Tell me, who killed the Chief of Police?”
Ostrov fell back into his chair. His red face became tinged with a sudden grey pallor. His eyes, now bloodshot, half closed like those of a prostrate doll with the eye mechanism in its stomach. There was witheredness, almost lifelessness, in Ostrov’s voice:
“Poltinin.”
“Your friend?” asked Trirodov. “Well, go on.”
“He is now being sought for,” went on Ostrov in the same lifeless way.
“Why did Poltinin kill the Chief of Police?”
Ostrov resumed his stupid snigger, and said:
“It’s a matter of very delicate politics. That means, it simply had to be done. I won’t tell you why. Indeed, I couldn’t tell you if I really wished to. I don’t know myself, I can only venture to guess. But what is a guess worth?”
“Yes,” said Trirodov, “it is quite true that it is impossible for you to know this. Continue your tale.”
“This same affair,” said Ostrov, “is a very profitable article for us just now. Indeed, an article in the budget, as they say.”
“Why?”
Trirodov’s face did not reveal any astonishment, as Ostrov went on:
“We have Potseluytchikov among us, a very lively individual.”
“A thief?” asked Trirodov abruptly.
Ostrov smiled almost consciously, and said:
“Not exactly a thief, still one’s got to be careful with him. An able man in his way.”
Ostrov’s eyes assumed a frankly insolent expression. Trirodov asked:
“What sort of relation has he to this article in your budget?”
“We send him out to the rich men of the place.”
“To blackmail them?” asked Trirodov.
Ostrov replied with complete readiness:
“Precisely. Let us suppose that he comes to Mr. Moneybags. ‘I have,’ he tells him, ‘a thing to tell you in confidence, a thing of great personal interest to you.’ Left alone with Mr. Moneybags he says to him: ‘Five hundred roubles, if you please!’ The other, it goes without saying, is up on his hind legs. ‘What for? What sort of demand is this?’ ‘I mean what I say,’ says the other chap. ‘Otherwise,’ he says, ‘I will put your eldest son in gaol. I can prove that your eldest son has had something to do with the murder of the gallant Chief of Police.’”
“They give?” asked Trirodov.
“Some give, some escort you out of the door,” replied Ostrov.
“A lovely crowd!” observed Trirodov contemptuously. “And what may you be planning now?”
With the same involuntary obedience Ostrov told Trirodov how their company was conspiring to steal a miracle-performing ikon from a neighbouring monastery. The plan was to burn the ikon and to sell the precious stones with which it was covered. It was a difficult affair, as the ikon was under guard. But Ostrov’s friends were counting on taking advantage of one of the summer feasts, when the monks, escorting distinguished pilgrims, would have drunk freely. The thieves had still a month in which to make preparations for the theft; they meant to make use of this time by becoming friendly with the monks, and in this way familiarize themselves with all the conditions.
Trirodov, having listened without interrupting, said to Ostrov:
“Forget that you have told me all this. Goodbye.”
Ostrov gave a start. He appeared as if he had just awakened. Without comprehending the causes of his oppressive confusion he bade his host goodbye and left.
Trirodov decided that the bishop of the local diocese must be warned of the contemplated theft of the miracle-performing ikon.
Bishop Pelagius lived in the monastery in which the ikon of the Mother of God, so revered by the people, was preserved. The relics of an old sainted monk were preserved in the same monastery. Men came from all ends of Russia to worship these holy relics. That was why this monastery was considered wealthy.
Trirodov thought for a long time as to how he might best inform the bishop of the contemplated theft. The thought of writing an anonymous letter was repugnant to him. He decided that it was better to speak to the bishop in person, or to write him a letter with his real name. But then the question remained as to how to explain his own knowledge of the conspiracy. He himself might be suspected as an accomplice of the criminals. As it was, the local townsmen had none too friendly an eye for Trirodov.
He dreaded entangling himself in this dark affair. He already began to feel vexed with himself for his strange curiosity that impelled him to question Ostrov about his affairs. It would have been better perhaps if he were ignorant of the conspiracy. In any case, Trirodov saw clearly that it was impossible for him to maintain silence. He thought that the dark aspects of monastic life did not justify the evil deed planned by Ostrov’s companions. Besides, the consequences of this deed might well prove very dangerous.
Trirodov decided that there was nothing left for him to do but to pay a visit to the monastery. Once on the spot, he thought that some opportunity of informing the bishop would occur to him. But as this visit was very unpleasant to him, he delayed it a very long time.
Trirodov at last realized that he was in love with Elisaveta. He knew too well the nature of this delicious and painful emotion. It had come again and once more filled the world with light. He had looked enigmatically upon this broad, eternally inaccessible world, full of past memories and past people. But his love of Elisaveta meant his love and acceptance of the world, the whole world.
This emotion aroused dismay in Trirodov. To the perplexities of the past, not yet thrown off his shoulders, and to those of the present begun with a strange, as yet unmeasured influence, were to be added the perplexities of the future, of a new and unexpected bond. And was not love in itself a means for realizing one’s dreams?
Trirodov made effort to crush this new love in himself, and to forget Elisaveta. He tried to keep away from the Rameyevs, not to come to their house—but with each day his love only increased. His thoughts and musings of Elisaveta grew more and more persistent. They became interwoven with one another and grafted themselves on to his soul. More and more a pencil in his hand guided itself to outline on paper now her austere profile—softened by the youthful joy of liberation—now her simple costume, now a rapid sketch of her shoulders and neck, or the knot of her broad belt.
Again and again a strong hope awakened in him that he might strangle and crush the gentle blossom of his delicious love. Several days had already passed without his visiting the Rameyevs. He did not even come on those days on which they grew accustomed to expect him.
Elisaveta thought this a deliberate incivility, and it hurt her feelings. But whenever Piotr abused him she defended him. Her imagination began to evoke more and more frequently the features of his face: his deep, observing glance; his proud, ironic smile; his pale face, clean-shaven like an actor’s, and cold like a mask. How sweetly and how bitterly she was in love with him—her sweet vision betrayed itself in the gleam in her eyes.
Rameyev had grown fond of Trirodov, and he missed his presence. He found it a pleasant diversion to chat with Trirodov, and even to wrangle with him sometimes. He made two calls at Trirodov’s house, and did not find him in. Rameyev wrote several invitations. He received courteous but evasive replies expressing regret at not being able to come.
One evening Rameyev growled at Piotr:
“He stopped coming because of your rudeness.” Piotr replied sharply:
“Let him stay away. I’m very glad.”
Rameyev looked at him sternly, and said:
“But I’m not glad. There’s one interesting man in this wilderness, and we frighten him away.”
Piotr excused himself. He felt uneasy. He walked out of the house alone, aimlessly, wishing only to escape his own relatives.
The sunset blazed for a long time, tormented itself with its unwillingness to die; it lingered on as if it were its last day, and at last expired. The whole sky became blue—exquisitely blue. But to the north-west an edge of it was translucently green. The quiet stars trembled in the blue heights. The moon, which had looked for some time a pale white in the luminous clearness, now rose yellow and distinct. Almost total darkness covered the earth. There was a coolness along the bank of the river—after the hot day. There was an odour of a forest fire, and it, too, softened its unpleasant, malignant bitterness in the dark evening coolness. A green-haired, green-eyed water-nymph bathed near the low, dark dam; she splashed about in the water, which struck the obstruction with a brittle sound, and in rhythmic response to it the stream laughed most sonorously.
Piotr walked quietly upon the path along the river-bank, and thought of Elisaveta sadly and languorously—or rather, he recalled her—evoked her in vision—involuntarily yielded himself to the melancholy play of the nervous fantasies of his brain. The peaceful silence of the evening, so much at one with him, said to him without words, yet comprehensibly, that the pitch of his soul was too quiet, too feeble for Elisaveta, who was so strong, so erect, and so simple.
He had so little audacity—so little daring. He only believed in Christ, in Antichrist, in his love, in her indifference—he only believed! He only sought for the truth, and could not create it—he could evoke neither a god from nonentity, nor a devil from dialectical argument; neither a conquering love from carnal emotions, nor a conquering hate from stubborn “Noes.” And he loved Elisaveta! He had loved her a long time, with a jealous and helpless love.
He loved! What sadness! The languor of the springtide and the joyousness of the morning breeze—the distant ringing of bells—tears in one’s eyes—and she will smile—pass by—the dear one! What sadness! How dark everything is upon this earth—love as well as indifference.
Suddenly Piotr saw Trirodov quite near him. Trirodov was walking straight upon Piotr, as if he did not see him; he moved quickly, almost automatically, like a mechanical doll. He held a hat in the hand that hung loose at his side—his face was pale—he had a wild look—his eyes were aflame. He uttered disconnected words. He walked so impetuously that Piotr had no time to turn aside. They came face to face, almost colliding with one another. Trirodov gave a start when he saw that he was not alone. His face had an expression of fright. Piotr got out of his way awkwardly, but Trirodov walked rapidly up to him, and looked intently as he turned his own back to the moonlight. Piotr, involuntarily yielding to this movement, also turned round. The moon now looked straight into Piotr’s handsome face, which seemed pale and strange in the cold, lifeless light.
Trirodov began in a trembling, agitated voice:
“Ah, that is you?”
“As you see,” said Piotr in a tone of derision.
“I didn’t expect to meet you here,” said Trirodov. “I took you for....”
But he did not finish. Piotr, somewhat vexed, asked him:
“For whom?”
Without replying to the question Trirodov inquired:
“But where? ... There’s no one here. You didn’t hear...?”
“I wasn’t trained to eavesdropping,” replied Piotr; “all the more since these fragments of poetry are inaccessible to me.”
“Who talks of eavesdropping?” exclaimed Trirodov. “No, I thought that you had unwillingly heard some words which might have sounded strange, enigmatic, or terrible in your ears.”
“I came here by chance,” said Piotr. “I was taking a mere stroll, and was not here to listen to any one.”
Trirodov looked attentively at Piotr; then lowered his head with a sigh, and said quietly:
“Forgive me. My nerves are in a bad state. I have grown accustomed to living with my fantasies, and in the peaceful society of my quiet children. I love seclusion.”
“Where did your quiet children come from?” asked Piotr somewhat contemptuously.
But Trirodov continued as though he had not heard.
“Please forgive me. I too often accept for reality that which exists only in my imagination. Perhaps always. I live devoted to my dreams.”
There was so poignant a sadness in these words and in the way they were uttered that Piotr felt an involuntary pity for Trirodov. His hate strangely vanished—as the moon vanishes at the rising of the sun.
Trirodov said with quiet sadness:
“I have so many strange whims and ways. It is in vain that I go to see people. It is far better for me to be alone with my innocent, quiet children, with my secrets and dreams.”
“Why better?” asked Piotr.
“I sometimes feel that people interfere with me,” said Trirodov. “They weary me in themselves—and no less with their petty, commonplace affairs. And what are they to me? There is only one thing of which I can be sure—that is myself. It is a great task to be with people. They give me so little, and for that they thirstily and malignantly drink my whole soul. How often have I left their company exhausted, humiliated, crushed. What a holiday for me my solitude is, my sweet solitude! If it were only with some one else!”
“Still you would rather it were with some one else!” replied Piotr with sudden malice.
Trirodov looked at him steadily and said:
“Life is tragic. She destroys all illusions with the power of her pitiless irony. You know, of course, that Elisaveta’s soul is a tragic soul, and that a great boldness is necessary in order to approach her, and to say to her the great Yes of life. Yes, Elisaveta....”
Piotr’s voice trembled as he shouted in jealous rage:
“Elisaveta! Why do you mention Elisaveta?”
Trirodov looked steadily at Piotr. He asked rather slowly—in a strangely sounding voice:
“You are not afraid?”
“What is there to be afraid of?” replied Piotr morosely. “I am not at all a tragic person. My path is clear to me, and I know who guides me.”
“You don’t know that,” said Trirodov. “Besides, Elena is lovely. He who fears to take the grand and the terrible, he who loves tender melodies, for him there is Elena.”
Piotr was silent. Some sort of new—perhaps alien—thoughts swarmed in his head. He listened to them, and suddenly said:
“You haven’t visited us for a long time, and you are very much liked in our house. You would be welcome. You may come when you like, and you may talk or be silent, as suits your mood.”
Trirodov smiled in response.
Piotr Matov returned home quite late in a dazed state of mind. Every one had already sat down to supper. Elisaveta glanced at him curiously—as if she expected another person there instead of him.
“I’ve come late,” said Piotr confusedly. “I don’t know how I managed to wander off so far.”
He could not understand why he was so flustered. He barely recognized Elisaveta dressed up as a boy in her sailor jacket and short breeches. She sat so erect there, and smiled her abstract, indifferent smile.
Elena, blushing for some unknown reason, moved silently closer—and there was a strange timorousness in her movement—a timorous desire. Piotr complied with her wish, and sat down at her side. She looked at him tenderly, lovingly. Her glances touched him. He thought:
“Why do I not love Elena? Or is it she alone that I really love? Perhaps some mistake of the will had dimmed my eyes?”
He conversed with her gently and tenderly, and as he looked at her again and again, a new love took spark in him. It was as if by some prodigious power the strange being at the river-bank had instilled this new love into him. Elena’s heart beat joyfully.