“Why desire ease and tranquillity in life?” asked Elisaveta. “I want fire and passion, even if I perish. Let me become consumed in the fire of rapture and revolt.” “Yes,” said Trirodov, “it is necessary to discover all the possibilities and forces within oneself, and then a new life may be created. I wonder if life is necessary?” “And what is necessary?” asked Elisaveta. “I don’t know,” answered Trirodov sadly. “What do you desire?” she asked again. “Perhaps I desire nothing,” said Trirodov. “There are moments when I seem to expect nothing from life; I do what I do unwillingly, as if it were a disagreeable action.” “How do you live then?” asked Elisaveta in astonishment. He replied: “I live in a strange and unreal world. I live--but life goes past me, always past me. Woman’s love, the fire of youth, the stirring of young hopes, remain for ever within the forbidden boundaries of unrealized possibilities--who knows?--perhaps unrealizable.” The sad, flaming moments of silence were marked by the heavy beats of Elisaveta’s heart. She felt intensely vexed by these sad words of weakness and of dejection, and she did not believe them. But Trirodov went on speaking, and his beautiful but hopelessly sad words sounded like a taunt to her: “There is so much labour and so little consolation. Life passes by like a dream--a senseless, tormenting dream.” “If only a radiant dream! If only a tempestuous dream!” exclaimed Elisaveta. Trirodov smiled and said: “The time of awakening is drawing nearer. Old age comes with its depression; and the empty, meaningless life wanders on towards unknown borders. You ask yourself, and it seems hopeless to find a worthy answer: ‘Why do I live in this strange and chance form? Why have I chosen my present lot? Why have I done this?’” “Well, who is at fault here?” asked Elisaveta. Trirodov replied: “The conscience, ripened to universal fullness, says that every fault is my fault.” “And that every action is my action,” added Elisaveta. “An action is so impossible!” said Trirodov. “A miracle is impossible. I wish to break loose from the claims of this dull existence.” “You speak of love,” said Elisaveta, “as of a thing unrealized. But you had a wife.” “Yes,” said Trirodov sadly. “The short moments passed by rapidly. Was there love? I cannot say. There was passion, a smouldering--and death.” “Life will again bring its delights to you,” said Elisaveta confidently. And Trirodov answered: “Yes, it will be a different life, but what’s that to me? If one could only be quite different, and simple--say a small child, a boy with bare feet, with a fishing-rod in his hands, his mouth yawning good-naturedly. Only children really live. I envy them frightfully. I envy frightfully the simple folk, the altogether simple folk, remote from these cheerless comprehensions of the intellect. Children live--only children. Ripeness already marks the beginning of death.” “To love--and to die?” asked Elisaveta with a smile.