No longer ago than last year I received a recent copy in his own handwriting from Stepan Trofimovitch himself, signed by him, and bound in a splendid red leather binding.

It is not without poetic merit, however, and even a certain talent.

It's strange, but in those days (or to be more exact, in the thirties) people were constantly composing in that style.

I find it difficult to describe the subject, for I really do not understand it.
It is some sort of an allegory in lyrical-dramatic form, recalling the second part of Faust.

The scene opens with a chorus of women, followed by a chorus of men, then a chorus of incorporeal powers of some sort, and at the end of all a chorus of spirits not yet living but very eager to come to life.