“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: