“Please forgive me. I too often accept for reality that which exists only in my imagination. Perhaps always. I live devoted to my dreams.”
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: