After that evening Trirodov, suppressing his devotion to quiet loneliness, once more began to visit the Rameyevs. He resisted no longer the all-powerful desire to see Elisaveta, to look into the depth of her blue eyes, to listen to the golden sonorousness of her words, and to feel the breathing and the witchery of her fresh, primitive strength. It was so pleasant to look upon her simple attire, upon the trusting openness of her shoulders, upon the light tan of her feet, and upon the austere outlines of her face.

Elisaveta’s sunlit depth became transformed for Trirodov into a blue, fathomless height. Elisaveta’s love grew stronger; to grow stronger was its desire, and it wished to surmount all intolerable obstacles.

Rameyev looked at Elisaveta and Trirodov, and he was consumed by a strange, mature joy. He seemed to think:

“They will marry and bring me grandchildren.”

There were already certain hours in which they expected him. He and Elisaveta often remained alone. Something in their natures drew them apart from other people, whether strangers or kin. They would go off somewhere into a neglected part of the garden, where under the spread net of superb black poplars the agreeable aroma of thyme reached them with a gentle poignancy—and here they loved to chat with one another.

Had he been alone instead of with Elisaveta, he could not have expressed his thoughts more simply or more candidly. They spoke of so many things—they tried, as it were, to contain the whole world within the rigid bounds of rapid words.

As they strolled along the high bank of the river, under the broad shadows of the mighty black poplars and strange black maples, and listened to the loud, cheerful twitter of the birds that came to the bushes, Elisaveta said:

“The sensation of existence and of the fullness and joy of life is delicious. A new sky seems to have opened above my head, and for the first time the violets and the lilies of the valley besprinkled with their first dew have begun to bloom for me; and for the first time May-drinks made from herbs by young housewives taste delicious.”

Trirodov smiled sadly and said:

“I feel the heavy burden of life. But what’s to be done? I don’t know whether life can be made more easy and tranquil.”

“Why desire ease and tranquillity in life?” asked Elisaveta. “I want fire and passion, even if I perish. Let me become consumed in the fire of rapture and revolt.”

“Yes,” said Trirodov, “it is necessary to discover all the possibilities and forces within oneself, and then a new life may be created. I wonder if life is necessary?”

“And what is necessary?” asked Elisaveta.

“I don’t know,” answered Trirodov sadly.

“What do you desire?” she asked again.

“Perhaps I desire nothing,” said Trirodov. “There are moments when I seem to expect nothing from life; I do what I do unwillingly, as if it were a disagreeable action.”

“How do you live then?” asked Elisaveta in astonishment.

He replied:

“I live in a strange and unreal world. I live—but life goes past me, always past me. Woman’s love, the fire of youth, the stirring of young hopes, remain for ever within the forbidden boundaries of unrealized possibilities—who knows?—perhaps unrealizable.”

The sad, flaming moments of silence were marked by the heavy beats of Elisaveta’s heart. She felt intensely vexed by these sad words of weakness and of dejection, and she did not believe them. But Trirodov went on speaking, and his beautiful but hopelessly sad words sounded like a taunt to her:

“There is so much labour and so little consolation. Life passes by like a dream—a senseless, tormenting dream.”

“If only a radiant dream! If only a tempestuous dream!” exclaimed Elisaveta.

Trirodov smiled and said:

“The time of awakening is drawing nearer. Old age comes with its depression; and the empty, meaningless life wanders on towards unknown borders. You ask yourself, and it seems hopeless to find a worthy answer: ‘Why do I live in this strange and chance form? Why have I chosen my present lot? Why have I done this?’”

“Well, who is at fault here?” asked Elisaveta.

Trirodov replied:

“The conscience, ripened to universal fullness, says that every fault is my fault.”

“And that every action is my action,” added Elisaveta.

“An action is so impossible!” said Trirodov. “A miracle is impossible. I wish to break loose from the claims of this dull existence.”

“You speak of love,” said Elisaveta, “as of a thing unrealized. But you had a wife.”

“Yes,” said Trirodov sadly. “The short moments passed by rapidly. Was there love? I cannot say. There was passion, a smouldering—and death.”

“Life will again bring its delights to you,” said Elisaveta confidently.

And Trirodov answered:

“Yes, it will be a different life, but what’s that to me? If one could only be quite different, and simple—say a small child, a boy with bare feet, with a fishing-rod in his hands, his mouth yawning good-naturedly. Only children really live. I envy them frightfully. I envy frightfully the simple folk, the altogether simple folk, remote from these cheerless comprehensions of the intellect. Children live—only children. Ripeness already marks the beginning of death.”

“To love—and to die?” asked Elisaveta with a smile.

She listened to the sound of these beautiful, sad words and repeated them quietly:

“To love—and to die!”

And as she listened again, she heard him say:

“She loved—and she died.”

“What was the name of your first wife?” asked Elisaveta.

She was amazed at herself for uttering the word “first,” as there had been only one; and her face became suffused slowly with pink.

Trirodov fell into thought; he appeared not to have heard her question, and was silent. Elisaveta did not repeat it. He suddenly smiled and said:

“You and I feel ourselves to be living people here, and what can there be for us more certain than our life, our sensation of life? And yet it is possible that you and I are not living people at all, but only characters in a novel, and that the author of this novel is not at all concerned with its external verisimilitude. His capricious imagination had taken this dark earth for its material, and out of this dark, sinful earth he grew these strange black maples and these mighty black poplars and these twittering birds in the bushes and us.”

Elisaveta looked at him in astonishment and said with a smile:

“I hope that the novel will be interesting and beautiful. Let it even end in death! But tell me, why do you write so little?”

With unexpected passion, almost with exasperation, Trirodov replied:

“Why should I write volumes of tales on how they fell in love and why they fell out of love, and all that? I write only that which comes from myself, that which has not yet been said. So much has already been said; it is far better to add a simple word of one’s own than write volumes of superfluities.”

“Eternal themes are always one and the same,” said Elisaveta. “Do they not constitute the content of great art?”

“We never originate,” said Trirodov. “We always appear in the world with a ready inheritance. We are the eternal successors. That is why we are not free. We see the world with others’ eyes, the eyes of the dead. But I live only when I make everything my own.”

And while these two spent their hours in conversing, Piotr usually made his way somewhere to the top of the house. He sometimes descended with his eyes red—red from tears or from the vigorous, high wind. His days dragged on miserably. His hate and jealousy of Trirodov now and again tormented him.

Piotr sometimes made unpleasant, pitiful scenes before Elisaveta. He loved her and he hated her. He would have killed her—had he dared! And he had not the force to hate either Elisaveta or Trirodov to the bitter end.

When he learned to know Trirodov better his hate lost something of its venom, his malice no longer irritated him like nettles. He looked with curiosity upon them and began to understand. The agony of his unconscious fury was replaced by a clear contemplation of the separating abyss; and this made him even more miserable.

He decided to go away; he made the decision again and again, but always remained there—restless and yearning.

As for Misha, he fell quite in love with Trirodov. He liked to remain with Elisaveta in order to talk about him.

One evening Piotr came to Trirodov’s house. He did not like to go there, for such antagonistic feelings wrestled in his soul! But common courtesy made the visit necessary.

Again a discussion was started. In Piotr’s opinion revolution was to the detriment of religion and culture. It was a tedious, unnecessary discussion. But Piotr could never resist uttering malicious words against the extremes of the “liberating movement.”

He felt awkward during the whole visit. He wished to handle something all the time and to be doing something. His restlessness tormented him in a strange way. Now he picked up one trifle from the table, now another, and put it down again. He took a prism in his hand. Trirodov trembled. He said something quietly and inaudibly. Piotr did not hear, but kept on looking in astonishment at the heavy prism in his hand; and as he turned it over and over he wondered at the reason of its weight. Trirodov trembled nervously. Piotr, in turning the prism rather awkwardly, struck it against the edge of the table. Trirodov shivered, shouted something incoherently, and, snatching the prism from Piotr’s hands, said in an agitated voice:

“Please put it down!”

Piotr looked in astonishment at Trirodov, who was visibly confused. Piotr smiled unwillingly and asked:

“Why, what is it?”

“How should I tell you!” said Trirodov. “It is connected with ... Please forgive my sharpness. I thought you were going to drop it, and I wanted to.... It seems like a whim.... Of course it is really nothing ... but it is connected with an old episode in my life. Really, I don’t know why I keep these ugly things on my table. But there are such intimate memories ... you understand.... Still, I’m so very sorry....”

Piotr listened in perplexity. Suddenly he realized that it was rude to be silent for so long, and he made haste to say, not without embarrassment:

“Please don’t think about it. I quite well understand that there are things which.... But if you find it difficult or unpleasant to speak about it, then please....”

Trirodov said a few more incoherent, confused words of apology to Piotr and thanked him. He breathed a sigh of relief when Stchemilov was announced.

Piotr let loose his irritation at the new-comer with the ironic question:

“Again free? For how long?”

“I’ve skipped,” answered Stchemilov calmly. “I’m leading an illegal life now.”

Piotr soon left.

“To-day?” asked Stchemilov. “Here?”

“Yes, we’ll meet here to-day,” replied Trirodov.

“He hasn’t left yet, and there are several matters and reports to attend to. It is necessary to arrange a meeting and to let various people know about it.”

“You have a convenient house here,” said Stchemilov. “May I help myself?” he added, pointing at the box of cigars as he lounged back comfortably on the large sofa. “Most convenient,” he repeated, as he lit his cigar. “They don’t suspect us as yet, but if they should pay you a visit, there are so many exits and entrances here and out-of-the-way nooks.... Very convenient indeed. It is easy to hide things here—no comparison at all with my little trunk.”