Chapter XXVII
Trirodov returned home. Like one returned from a grave, he felt happy and light-hearted. His heart was consumed with exultation and resolution. He recalled the talk he had had that day with Elisaveta. There rose before him the proud joyous vision of life transfigured by the force of creative art, of life created by the proud will. If love, or what seemed like love, came to him, why should he resist it? Whether it was a true emotion, or an illusion, was it not all the same? The will, exulting above the world, would determine everything as it wanted. It would have the power to erect a beautiful love over the helplessness of the exhausted senses. That which has so long weighed in the scales of consciousness, that which has so long and so desperately wrestled in the dark region of the uncons
- Writer
