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.”