“It is for that that he will love her,” replied Elisaveta; “because she is poor and has been poisoned by the exultant dream of beauty. The basis for their union will be creative beauty.” The night came: a darkness settled outside the windows, full of the whisperings of sad, pellucid voices. Trirodov walked up to the window. Elisaveta soon stood beside him--and almost at the same instant their eyes fixed themselves upon the distant, dimly visible cemetery. Trirodov said quietly: “He has been buried there. But he will rise from his grave.” Elisaveta looked at him in astonishment and asked: “Who?” Trirodov glanced at her like one suddenly awakened and said slowly: “It is a boy who has not yet lived, and who is still chaste. His body contains all possibilities and not a single achievement. He is like one created to receive every energy directed at him. Now he is asleep in his tight coffin, in a grave. He will awake for a life free from passions and desires, for clear seeing and hearing, for the establishment of one will.” “When will he awake?” asked Elisaveta. “When I wish it,” said Trirodov, “I will wake him.” The sound of his voice was sad and insistent--like the sound of an invocation. “To-night?” asked Elisaveta. “If you wish it,” answered Trirodov quietly. “Must I leave?” she asked again. “Yes,” he answered, just as simply and as quietly as before. She bid him good-bye and left. Trirodov again walked up to the window. He called some one in a voice of invocation and whispered: “You will awake, dear one. Wake, rise, come to me. I will open your eyes, and you will see what you have not yet seen. I will open your ears, and you will hear what you have not yet heard. You are of the earth--I will not part you from the earth. You are from me, you are mine, you are I; come to me. Wake!” He waited confidently. He knew that when the sleeper had awakened in his grave they would come to him--the wise, innocent ones--and would tell him. Kirsha walked into the room quietly. He walked up to his father and asked: “Are you looking at the cemetery?” Trirodov laid his hand silently on the boy’s head. Kirsha said: “There is a boy in one of the graves who is not dead.” “How do you know?” asked Trirodov. But he knew what Kirsha’s answer would be. Kirsha said: “Grisha told me that Egorka was not quite dead. He is asleep; but he will awake!” “Yes,” said Trirodov. “And will he come to you?” asked Kirsha. “Yes,” was the answer. “When will he come?” asked Kirsha again. Trirodov said with a smile: “Rouse Grisha and ask him whether the sleeper has yet begun to wake in his grave.” Kirsha walked away. Trirodov looked in silence at the distant cemetery, where the dark, bereaved night stooped sadly over the crosses. “And where are you, my happy beloved?” A quiet rustle made itself audible behind the doors: the little house-sprites moved quietly near the walls, and whispered and waited.