After that evening Trirodov, suppressing his devotion to quiet
loneliness, once more began to visit the Rameyevs. He resisted no
longer the all-powerful desire to see Elisaveta, to look into the
depth of her blue eyes, to listen to the golden sonorousness of her
words, and to feel the breathing and the witchery of her fresh,
primitive strength. It was so pleasant to look upon her simple attire,
upon the trusting openness of her shoulders, upon the light tan of her
feet, and upon the austere outlines of her face.
Elisaveta’s sunlit depth became transformed for Trirodov into a blue,
fathomless height. Elisaveta’s love grew stronger; to grow stronger
was its desire, and it wished to surmount all intolerable obstacles.
Rameyev looked at Elisaveta and Trirodov, and he was consumed by a
strange, mature joy. He seemed to think:
“They will marry and bring me grandchildren.”
There were already certain hours in which they expected him. He and
Elisaveta often remained alone. Something in their natures drew them
apart from other people, whether strangers or kin. They would go off
somewhere into a neglected part of the garden, where under the spread
net of superb black poplars the agreeable aroma of thyme reached them
with a gentle poignancy--and here they loved to chat with one another.
Had he been alone instead of with Elisaveta, he could not have
expressed his thoughts more simply or more candidly. They spoke of so
many things--they tried, as it were, to contain the whole world within
the rigid bounds of rapid words.
As they strolled along the high bank of the river, under the broad
shadows of the mighty black poplars and strange black maples, and
listened to the loud, cheerful twitter of the birds that came to the
bushes, Elisaveta said:
“The sensation of existence and of the fullness and joy of life is
delicious. A new sky seems to have opened above my head, and for the
first time the violets and the lilies of the valley besprinkled with
their first dew have begun to bloom for me; and for the first time
May-drinks made from herbs by young housewives taste delicious.”
Trirodov smiled sadly and said:
“I feel the heavy burden of life. But what’s to be done? I don’t know
whether life can be made more easy and tranquil.”
“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.
She listened to the sound of these beautiful, sad words and repeated
them quietly:
“To love--and to die!”
And as she listened again, she heard him say:
“She loved--and she died.”
“What was the name of your first wife?” asked Elisaveta.
She was amazed at herself for uttering the word “first,” as there had
been only one; and her face became suffused slowly with pink.
Trirodov fell into thought; he appeared not to have heard her
question, and was silent. Elisaveta did not repeat it. He suddenly
smiled and said:
“You and I feel ourselves to be living people here, and what can there
be for us more certain than our life, our sensation of life? And yet
it is possible that you and I are not living people at all, but only
characters in a novel, and that the author of this novel is not at all
concerned with its external verisimilitude. His capricious imagination
had taken this dark earth for its material, and out of this dark,
sinful earth he grew these strange black maples and these mighty black
poplars and these twittering birds in the bushes and us.”
Elisaveta looked at him in astonishment and said with a smile:
“I hope that the novel will be interesting and beautiful. Let it even
end in death! But tell me, why do you write so little?”
With unexpected passion, almost with exasperation, Trirodov replied:
“Why should I write volumes of tales on how they fell in love and why
they fell out of love, and all that? I write only that which comes
from myself, that which has not yet been said. So much has already
been said; it is far better to add a simple word of one’s own than
write volumes of superfluities.”
“Eternal themes are always one and the same,” said Elisaveta. “Do they
not constitute the content of great art?”
“We never originate,” said Trirodov. “We always appear in the world
with a ready inheritance. We are the eternal successors. That is why
we are not free. We see the world with others’ eyes, the eyes of the
dead. But I live only when I make everything my own.”
* * * * *
And while these two spent their hours in conversing, Piotr usually
made his way somewhere to the top of the house. He sometimes descended
with his eyes red--red from tears or from the vigorous, high wind. His
days dragged on miserably. His hate and jealousy of Trirodov now and
again tormented him.
Piotr sometimes made unpleasant, pitiful scenes before Elisaveta. He
loved her and he hated her. He would have killed her--had he dared!
And he had not the force to hate either Elisaveta or Trirodov to the
bitter end.
When he learned to know Trirodov better his hate lost something of its
venom, his malice no longer irritated him like nettles. He looked with
curiosity upon them and began to understand. The agony of his
unconscious fury was replaced by a clear contemplation of the
separating abyss; and this made him even more miserable.
He decided to go away; he made the decision again and again, but
always remained there--restless and yearning.
As for Misha, he fell quite in love with Trirodov. He liked to remain
with Elisaveta in order to talk about him.
One evening Piotr came to Trirodov’s house. He did not like to go
there, for such antagonistic feelings wrestled in his soul! But common
courtesy made the visit necessary.
Again a discussion was started. In Piotr’s opinion revolution was to
the detriment of religion and culture. It was a tedious, unnecessary
discussion. But Piotr could never resist uttering malicious words
against the extremes of the “liberating movement.”
He felt awkward during the whole visit. He wished to handle something
all the time and to be doing something. His restlessness tormented him
in a strange way. Now he picked up one trifle from the table, now
another, and put it down again. He took a prism in his hand. Trirodov
trembled. He said something quietly and inaudibly. Piotr did not hear,
but kept on looking in astonishment at the heavy prism in his hand;
and as he turned it over and over he wondered at the reason of its
weight. Trirodov trembled nervously. Piotr, in turning the prism
rather awkwardly, struck it against the edge of the table. Trirodov
shivered, shouted something incoherently, and, snatching the prism
from Piotr’s hands, said in an agitated voice:
“Please put it down!”
Piotr looked in astonishment at Trirodov, who was visibly confused.
Piotr smiled unwillingly and asked:
“Why, what is it?”
“How should I tell you!” said Trirodov. “It is connected with ...
Please forgive my sharpness. I thought you were going to drop it, and
I wanted to.... It seems like a whim.... Of course it is really
nothing ... but it is connected with an old episode in my life.
Really, I don’t know why I keep these ugly things on my table. But
there are such intimate memories ... you understand.... Still, I’m so
very sorry....”
Piotr listened in perplexity. Suddenly he realized that it was rude to
be silent for so long, and he made haste to say, not without
embarrassment:
“Please don’t think about it. I quite well understand that there are
things which.... But if you find it difficult or unpleasant to speak
about it, then please....”
Trirodov said a few more incoherent, confused words of apology to
Piotr and thanked him. He breathed a sigh of relief when Stchemilov
was announced.
Piotr let loose his irritation at the new-comer with the ironic
question:
“Again free? For how long?”
“I’ve skipped,” answered Stchemilov calmly. “I’m leading an illegal
life now.”
Piotr soon left.
“To-day?” asked Stchemilov. “Here?”
“Yes, we’ll meet here to-day,” replied Trirodov.
“He hasn’t left yet, and there are several matters and reports to
attend to. It is necessary to arrange a meeting and to let various
people know about it.”
“You have a convenient house here,” said Stchemilov. “May I help
myself?” he added, pointing at the box of cigars as he lounged back
comfortably on the large sofa. “Most convenient,” he repeated, as he
lit his cigar. “They don’t suspect us as yet, but if they should pay
you a visit, there are so many exits and entrances here and
out-of-the-way nooks.... Very convenient indeed. It is easy to hide
things here--no comparison at all with my little trunk.”