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.