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Updated: May 18, 2025
A boy, who resembled the sad-faced Nadezhda, quietly jumped down from his swing, and walked behind them, without approaching too closely. The other quiet children looked tranquilly after him, and continued to swing and to sing as before. Trirodov opened the gate, and was followed by Kirsha and Grisha.
"What are we to do with these girls?" asked Trirodov. "Invite them in, show them the house," replied Kirsha. "And the quiet children?" quietly asked Trirodov. "The quiet children also like the elder one," answered Kirsha. "And who are they, these girls?" asked Trirodov. "They are our neighbours, the Rameyevs," said Kirsha.
Upon the swings sat the quiet children, lit up by the dead moon and cooled by the night breeze, and they swung softly and sang their songs. The night listened to their quiet songs, and the full, clear, dead moon also. Kirsha, lowering his voice so that the quiet children might not hear, asked: "Why don't they sleep? They swing on their swings neither upward nor downward, but evenly.
Suddenly there was a rustling behind the wall, which gradually grew louder it seemed as if the whole house were alive with the movements of the quiet children. Some one knocked on the door; Kirsha entered, distraught. He said: "Father, let us go into the wood as fast as we can." Trirodov looked at him in silence. Kirsha went on: "Something terrible is happening.
Suddenly the turrets of the old house vanished from sight. Everything around them assumed an unfamiliar look. "We seem to have lost our way," said Elena cheerfully. "Never fear, we'll find our way out," replied Elisaveta. "We are bound to get somewhere." At that instant there came towards them from among the bushes the small, sunburnt, handsome Kirsha.
At the crosspaths there darted in all directions, as thick as dust, countless hordes of grey sprites and evil spirits. Their running was so impetuous that they could have borne along with them every living, weak-willed soul. And it could already be seen that running in their midst were the pitiful souls of little people. Kirsha whispered in a voice full of fear: "Quicker, quicker into the ring!
And why should he suddenly think of me? Our roads have diverged so much, we have become such strangers to one another." There was his disturbing curiosity: "I'll see and hear him for the first time." And the mutinous protest: "His words are a lie! His preachings the ravings of despair. There was no miracle, there is none, and there will not be!" Kirsha, very agitated, ran out of the room.
Kirsha walked up to him and, indicating the cemetery with a movement of his head, asked: "Is he alive? Has he awakened?" "Yes," said Grisha. "Egorushka is sighing in his grave; he's just awakened." Kirsha ran home to his father and repeated to him Grisha's words. "We must make haste," said Trirodov. He again experienced an agitation with which he had been long familiar.
In the middle of the room stood a very large table, upon which lay books, papers, and several strange objects hexahedral prisms of an unfamiliar substance, heavy and solid in appearance, dark red in colour, with purple, blue, grey, and black spots, and with veins running across it. Kirsha knocked on the door and entered quiet, small, troubled. Trirodov looked at him anxiously.
The sisters followed him upon the narrow path between the tall trees. Here and there flowers were visible small, white, odorous flowers. They emitted a strange, pungent smell. It made the sisters feel both gay and languid. Kirsha walked silently before them. At the end of the road loomed a mound, overgrown by tangled, ugly grass.
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