Not a little was said in the newspapers about the beer and the cap. One newspaper in St. Petersburg devoted a very heated article to the stolen cap. The author of the article made very broad generalizations. He asked: “Is it not one of those caps with which we were preparing to throw back the foreign enemy? Is not all Russia seeking now its lost cap and cannot be consoled?”[24] Much less was said and written about the consumed beer. For some reason or other it did not offend people so much. In accordance with our general custom of placing substance above the form, it was found that the stealing of the cap deserved the greater protest, inasmuch as it is more difficult to get along without a cap than without beer. CHAPTER XXIV Once more alone! He sat in his room, musing of her, recalling her dear features. There was an album before him--portrait after portrait of her--naked, beautiful, calling to love, to the sweet solace of love. Would this white breast cease heaving? Would these clear eyes grow dim? She died. Trirodov closed the album. For a long time he remained immersed in thought. Suddenly there was a rustling behind the wall, which gradually grew louder--it seemed as if the whole house were alive with the movements of the quiet children. Some one knocked on the door; Kirsha entered, distraught. He said: “Father, let us go into the wood as fast as we can.” Trirodov looked at him in silence. Kirsha went on: “Something terrible is happening. There, near the hollow, by the spring.” Elisaveta’s blue eyes appeared to him suddenly as in a flame. Where was she? Was she in a difficulty? And his heart fell into the dark abyss of fear. Kirsha made haste. He almost cried in his agitation. They went on horseback. They whipped up their horses. They feared they might be too late. Again the quiet, dark, intensely pensive wood. Elisaveta walked alone--tranquil, blue-eyed, simple in her dress, harmonious in the graceful harmony of her deep experiences. She fell into thought--she recalled things and mused upon them. Her dreams were revealed in the gleam of her blue eyes. Dreams of happiness and of passionate love were interwoven with a different, greater love; and these melted into one another in the fiery longing for noble activity and sacrifice. What did she not recall? What did she not dream of? Sharp swords were being forged. To whose lot would they fall? The high standard of solitary freedom was fluttering. Youths and maidens! There, in the dark halls of his house, proud plans were being made. What a beautiful environment of naked beauty! There were the children--happy and beautiful--in the wood. There were the quiet children in his house--radiant and lovable and touched with such sadness. There was the strange Kirsha. Portraits of his first wife--naked and beautiful. Elisaveta’s blue eyes gleamed dreamily.