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Trirodov smiled again and said: "Yes, one can understand why they are so curious." He frowned, went to the table, put his hand on one of the dark, heavy prisms and picked it up cautiously, and again carefully put it back in its place, saying at the same time to Kirsha: "Go, then, and meet them and bring them here." Kirsha, growing animated, asked: "By the door or through the grotto?"
Kirsha's mother passed by all white, all lovely, all gentle. She turned her tranquil eyes upon her dear ones and whispered: "I will come." Kirsha, transported with a quiet joy, stood motionless. His eyes gleamed like the eyes of the quiet angel who stood there on guard. Again the dead throng moved on. A governor passed by. All his figure breathed might and majesty.
Kirsha spoke a word now and then. They said little on the way, in odd, disjointed words. Arrived at their destination, they got out of the cart. They were in a half-somnolent state. Kirsha was off before they realized that they had not thanked him. When they looked for him they could only see a cloud of dust and hear the clatter of hoofs and the rattle of wheels on the cobblestones.
Among the writers of the age of Peter the Great may be mentioned Kirsha Danilof, who versified the popular traditions of Vladimir and his heroes; and Kantemir, a satirist, who translated many epistles of Horace, and the work of Fontenelle on the plurality of worlds.
"What will happen?" asked his father. "I have a feeling," said Kirsha with a pleading voice, "that you must let them in to us these inquisitive girls." Trirodov looked very attentively at his son and smiled. Kirsha said gravely: "The elder one is very charming. In some way she is like mother. But the other is also nice." "What brings them here?" again asked Trirodov.
The door closed behind them with a grating sound. Kirsha ran on ahead. The sisters no longer saw him. The corridor was sinuous. It was difficult to walk fast for some unknown reason. A kind of weight seemed to fetter their limbs. The passage inclined slightly downwards. They walked on like this a long time. It grew hotter and damper the farther they advanced.
He found himself at ease only in the company of his wife. Love makes kin of souls. But his wife had died a few years ago, when Kirsha was six years old. Kirsha remembered her; he could not forget her, and kept on recalling her. Trirodov for some reason associated his wife's death with the birth of his son, though there was no obvious connexion: his wife died from a casual, sharp illness.
Why do they do this?" "They must not sleep to-night," answered Trirodov, also in a whisper. "They cannot sleep until the dawn grows rosy, until the dawn begins to laugh. There is really no reason why they should sleep. They can sleep as well by day." Again Kirsha asked: "Will they go with us? They want to go." "No, Kirsha, they don't want anything." "Don't want anything?" repeated Kirsha sadly.
As Trirodov was preparing to leave his house that evening and was putting on a coloured tie, Kirsha said to him with his usual gravity: "I should not go to the Svetilovitches' to-night if I were you. It would be much wiser to remain at home." Trirodov, not all astonished by this unexpected advice, smiled and asked: "Why shouldn't I go?"
Kirsha held his father's hand and said sadly: "There have been many detectives of late poking their noses about here. What can they want here? It's almost certain they will make a search of Svetilovitch's house to-night I have a presentiment." "That's nothing," said Trirodov with a smile, "we have got used to everything.
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