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.