Arkhipov spoke with calmness and conviction, but Polunin grew angry, confused, and agitated. Arkhipov declared that Faith was unnecessary and injurious, like instinct and every other sentiment; that there was only one thing immutable--Intellect. Only that was moral which was intelligent. Polunin retorted that the intellectual and the non-intellectual were no standard of life, for was life intelligent? he asked. He contended that without Faith there was only death; that the one thing immutable in life was the tragedy of Faith and the Spirit. "But do you know what Thought is, Polunin?" "Yes, indeed I do!" "Don't smile! Do you not know that Thought kills everything? Reflect, think thrice over what you regard as sacred, and it will be as simple as a glass of lemonade." "But death?" "Death is an exit into nothing. I have always that in reserve--when I am heart-broken. For the present I am content to live and thrive." When the dispute was over, Vera Lvovna said in a low voice, as calm as ever: "The only tragic thing in life is that there is nothing tragical, while death is just death, when anyone dies physically. A little less metaphysics!" Kseniya Ippolytovna had been listening, alert and restless. "But all the same," she answered Vera Lvovna animatedly, "Isn't the absence of tragedy the true tragedy?" "Yes, that alone." "And love?" "No, not love." "But aren't you married?" "I want my baby." Kseniya Ippolytovna, who was lying on the sofa, rose up on her knees, and stretching out her arms cried: "Ah, a baby! Is that not instinct?" "That is a law!" The women began to argue. Then the dispute died down. Arkhipov proposed a game of chance. They uncovered a green table, set lighted candles at its corners and commenced to play leisurely and silently as in winter. Arkhipov sat erect, resting his elbows at right angles on the table. The wind whistled outside, the blizzard increased in violence, and from some far distance came the dismal, melancholy creaking and grinding of iron. Alena came in, and sat quietly beside her husband, her hands folded in her lap. They were killing time. "The last time, I sat down to play a game of chance amidst the fjords in a little valley hotel; a dreadful storm raged the whole while," Kseniya Ippolytovna remarked pensively. "Yes, there are big and little tragedies in life!" The wind shrieked mournfully; snow lashed at the windows. Kseniya stayed on until a late hour, and Alena invited her to remain overnight; but she refused and left. Polunin accompanied her. The snow-wind blew violently, whistling and cutting at them viciously. The moon seemed to be leaping among the clouds; around them the green, snowy twilight hung like a thick curtain. The horses jogged along slowly. Darkness lay over the land.