Almost the same thing happened with Yegor Semyonych. He worked from morning till night, was always hurrying somewhere, lost patience, became irritated, but all as if in some magical half dream. It was now as if two persons were sitting in him: one was the real Yegor Semyonych, who, listening to the gardener, Ivan Karlych, reporting some disorders to him, became indignant and clutched his head in despair, and the other not the real one, as if half drunk, who would suddenly break off the business conversation in mid-sentence, touch the gardener’s shoulder, and begin to murmur:
“Whatever you say, blood means a lot. His mother was a most amazing, noble, intelligent woman. It was a pleasure to look at her face, as kind, bright, and pure as an angel’s. She made wonderful drawings, wrote verses, spoke five foreign languages, sang … The poor thing died of consumption, may she rest in peace.”
The unreal Yegor Semyonych sighed and, after a pause, went on:
“When he was a little boy and growing up in my house, he had the same angelic face, bright and good. His eyes, his movements, and his conversation were gentle and graceful, like his mother’s. And his intelligence? He always amazed us with his intelligence. Let me tell you, he’s not a master of arts for nothing. Not for nothing. Wait and see, Ivan Karlych, what becomes of him in ten years. He’ll be unapproachable!”
But here the real Yegor Semyonych would recollect himself, make a terrible face, clutch his head, and shout:
“Devils! Besmutted, bemangled, begrimed! The orchard’s lost! The orchard’s ruined!”
And Kovrin worked with his former zeal and did not notice the turmoil. Love only added fuel to the fire. After each meeting with Tanya, he went to his room, happy, rapturous, and with the same passion with which he had just kissed Tanya and declared his love to her, got down to his book or manuscript. What the black monk had said about the chosen of God, the eternal truth, the magnificent future of mankind, and so on, endowed his work with a special, extraordinary importance and filled his soul with pride, with an awareness of his own loftiness. He met the black monk once or twice a week, in the park or in the house, and had long talks with him, but that did not alarm him; on the contrary, it delighted him, because he was now firmly convinced that such visions came only to chosen, outstanding people who devoted themselves to the service of the idea.
Once the monk came during dinner and sat by the window in the dining room. Kovrin was glad and very adroitly started a conversation with Yegor Semyonych and Tanya about something that would interest the monk; the black visitor listened and nodded affably, and Yegor Semyonych and Tanya also listened and smiled cheerfully, not suspecting that Kovrin was not talking to them but to his hallucination.
The Dormition fast7 arrived unnoticed, and soon after it the day of the wedding, which, at the insistence of Yegor Semyonych, was celebrated “with a smash,” that is, with senseless revelry that went on for two days and nights. The eating and drinking ran to about three thousand roubles, but the bad hired music, the loud toasting, and the rushing about of servants made it impossible to appreciate the taste of the expensive wines and the extraordinary delicacies ordered from Moscow.
VII
Once on one of the long winter nights Kovrin was lying in bed reading a French novel. Poor Tanya, who had headaches in the evenings from being unused to city life, had long been asleep and occasionally in her sleep murmured some incoherent phrases.
The clock struck three. Kovrin put out the candle and lay down; for a long time he lay with closed eyes but could not sleep, because, as it seemed to him, the room was very hot and Tanya was murmuring. At four-thirty he lit the candle again and this time saw the black monk, who was sitting in the armchair near the bed.
“Hello,” said the monk and, after some silence, he asked: “What are you thinking about now?”
“About fame,” replied Kovrin. “In the French novel I’ve just been reading, there is a man, a young scholar, who does foolish things and pines away from a longing for fame. This longing for fame is incomprehensible to me.”
“Because you’re intelligent. You look upon fame with indifference, as upon a plaything that does not interest you.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Celebrity has no charm for you. Is it flattering, or amusing, or instructive to have your name carved on a tombstone and then have time erase the inscription along with the gilding? Fortunately, though, there are too many of you for weak human memory to be able to preserve your names.”
“Agreed,” said Kovrin. “And why remember them? But let’s talk about something else. About happiness, for instance. What is happiness?”
When the clock struck five, he was sitting on his bed, his feet hanging down on the rug, and, addressing the monk, was saying:
“In ancient times one happy man finally became frightened of his happiness—so great it was!—and, to appease the gods, sacrificed his favorite ring to them. You know? I, too, like Polycrates,8am beginning to worry a little about my happiness. It seems strange to me that I experience nothing but joy from morning till evening. It fills the whole of me and stifles all my other feelings. I don’t know what sadness, sorrow, or boredom is. I’m not asleep now, I have insomnia, but I’m not bored. I say it seriously: I’m beginning to be puzzled.”
“But why?” The monk was amazed. “Is joy a supernatural feeling? Should it not be the normal state of man? The higher man is in his mental and moral development, the freer he is, the greater the pleasure that life affords him. Socrates, Diogenes, and Marcus Aurelius experienced joy, not sorrow. And the Apostle says: ‘Rejoice evermore.’9 Rejoice, then, and be happy.”
“And what if the gods suddenly get angry?” Kovrin joked and laughed. “If they take my comfort from me and make me suffer cold and hunger, it will hardly be to my liking.”
Tanya had awakened meanwhile and was looking at her husband with amazement and horror. He was addressing the armchair, gesticulating and laughing: his eyes shone, and there was something strange in his laughter.
“Andryusha, who are you talking to?” she asked, seizing the arm he had stretched out to the monk. “Andryusha! Who?”
“Eh? Who?” Kovrin was embarrassed. “To him … He’s sitting there,” he said, pointing to the black monk.
“No one is there … no one! Andryusha, you’re ill!”
Tanya embraced her husband and pressed herself to him, as if protecting him from visions, and she covered his eyes with her hand.
“You’re ill!” she began to sob, trembling all over. “Forgive me, my sweet, my dear, but I’ve long noticed that your soul is troubled by something … You’re mentally ill, Andryusha …”
Her trembling communicated itself to him. He glanced once more at the chair, which was now empty, suddenly felt a weakness in his arms and legs, became frightened, and began to dress.
“It’s nothing, Tanya, nothing …” he murmured, trembling. “In fact, I am a bit unwell … it’s time I admitted it.”
“I’ve long noticed it … and papa has noticed it,” she said, trying to hold back her sobs. “You talk to yourself, smile somehow strangely … don’t sleep. Oh, my God, my God, save us!” she said in horror. “But don’t be afraid, Andryusha, don’t be afraid, for God’s sake, don’t be afraid …”
She, too, began to dress. Only now, looking at her, did Kovrin realize all the danger of his situation, realize what the black monk and his conversations with him meant. It was clear to him now that he was mad.
They both got dressed, not knowing why themselves, and went to the drawing room: she first, and he after her. There, already awakened by the sobbing, in a dressing gown and with a candle in his hand, stood Yegor Semyonych, who was visiting them.