'A strange mirage,' said Tanya, who did not care for the legend.
'But the most amazing thing is,' Kovrin said, laughing, 'I just can't remember what prompted me to think of it. Did I read it somewhere? Did I hear about it? Perhaps the black monk was only a dream? I swear to God, I can't remember. But I'm intrigued by this legend. I've been thinking about it all day.'
Leaving Tanya to her guests, he went out of the house and strolled by the flowerbeds, deep in thought. The sun was setting. The freshly watered flowers gave off a moist, irritating scent. In the house the singing had started again; from the 10 distance the violin sounded like a human voice. Kovrin
racked his brains trying to remember where he had read or heard about that legend as he walked unhurriedly towards the park, reaching the river before he knew where he was.
He descended the path that ran down a steep bank, past bare roots, to the water, where he disturbed some sandpipers and frightened two ducks away. Here and there on the gloomy pines gleamed the last rays of the setting sun, but evening had already come over the surface of the river. Kovrin crossed the foot-bridge to the other side. Before him lay a broad field full of young rye not yet in ear. There was no human habitation, not a living soul out there, and it seemed the path would lead him to that same unknown, mysterious spot where the sun had just set and where the evening glow spread its flames so magnificently over all that wide expanse.
'So much space, freedom, peace here!' Kovrin thought as he walked along the path. 'The whole world seems to be looking at me, has gone silent, and is waiting for me to understand it.'
But just then some ripples spread across the rye and a gentle evening breeze lightly caressed his bare head. A moment later there was another gust, stronger this time, and the rye rustled and he could hear the dull murmur of the pines behind him. Kovrin stood motionless in astonishment. On the horizon a tall black column was rising up into the sky, like a whirlwind or tornado. Its outlines were blurred, but he could see at once that it was not standing still, but moving at terrifying speed straight towards him - and the nearer it came, the smaller and clearer it grew. Kovrin leapt aside into 11
the rye to make way - and he was only just in time ... A monk in black vestments, grey-haired and with black eye- brows, his arms across his chest, flashed past; his bare feet did not touch the ground. After he had raced on another six yards he looked round at Kovrin, nodded and gave him a friendly, but artful, smile. What a pale, terribly pale, thin face though! Growing larger again, he flew across the river, struck the clayey bank and the pines without making a sound, passed straight through and disappeared into thin air.
'So, there it is .. .' murmured Kovrin. 'That shows there's truth in the legend.'
Without trying to find an explanation for this strange apparition and satisfied that he had managed to get such a close look, not only at the black vestments, but even at the monk's face and eyes, he went back to the house feeling pleasantly excited.
People were strolling peacefully in the park and garden, the musicians were playing in the house, so only he had seen the monk. He had a strong urge to tell Tanya and Yegor Pesotsky about everything, but he realized they would surely think the story crazy and be scared stiff. Better keep quiet about it. He laughed out loud, sang, danced a mazurka; he was in high spirits and everyone - Tanya, her guests - found that he really had a radiant, inspired look about him that evening, that he was most interesting.
After supper, when the guests had left, he went to his room and lay on the couch. He wanted to think about the monk, but a moment later, in came Tanya.
'Here, Andrey, read Father's articles,' she said, handing him a bundle of pamphlets and offprints. 'They're wonderful, he's an excellent writer.'
'I wouldn't say that!' Yegor Pesotsky said, forcing a laugh as he followed her into the room; he felt embarrassed. 'Don't listen to her, please! Don't read them! But if you need something to make you sleep, then go ahead. They're an excellent soporific!'
'In my opinion they're magnificent,' Tanya said with great conviction. 'Read them, Andrey, and persuade Father to write more often. He could write a whole course in horticulture.'
Yegor Pesotsky gave a forced laugh, blushed and started speaking in the way shy authors usually do. In the end he gave in. 'In that case, read Gaucher's article first, then these short ones in Russian,' he muttered, turning over the pam- phlets with trembling hands. 'Otherwise you won't under- stand a thing. Before you read my objections, you must know what it is I'm objecting to. However, it's rubbish . . . boring. What's more, I think it's time for bed.'
Tanya went out. Yegor Pesotsky sat beside Kovrin on the couch and sighed deeply. 'Yes, my dear boy,' he began after a short silence. 'Yes, my dear Master of Arts. Here I am 13
writing articles and exhibiting at shows and winning medals ... They say Pesotsky has "apples as big as your head" and that he made his fortune with his orchard. Pesotsky is monarch of all he surveys, in short. But, you may ask, what's the point of it all? The garden is really beautiful, a show- garden in fact. It's not so much a garden as a complete institution, of the greatest importance to the State, a step, so to speak, towards a new era in Russian economics and industry. But what's the point of tt.? What's the use.?'
'It speaks for itself.'
'That's not what I mean. I'd like to know, what will happen to the garden when I die? It won't be kept up to its present standard for more than one month. The secret of my success isn't that it's a big garden, with lots of gardeners, but because I love the work - do you follow? Perhaps I love it better than myself. I work from dawn till dusk. The grafting, pruning, planting - I do them all myself. When people start helping me, I get jealous and irritated until I'm downright rude to them. The whole secret is lovs, and by that I mean the keen eye and head of the master looking after his own place, the feeling that comes over you when you've gone visiting for an hour and you just sit still. But your heart's not there, you're miles away - afraid something might be going wrong in the garden. And when I die who'll look after it? Who'll do the work? The head gardener? The ordinary gardeners? What do you think? So let me tell you, dear boy, the principal enemy in our work isn't hares, cockchafers or frost, but the man who doesn't care.'
14 'And Tanya?' laughed Kovrin. 'She couldn't possibly do more harm than a hare. She loves the work, she understands it.'
'Yes, she loves and understands it. If the garden passes into her hands after my death and she takes charge, I could hope for nothing better. But supposing she marries, God forbid?' Yegor Pesotsky whispered and gave Kovrin a fright- ened look. 'This is my point! She'll marry, have children and then she'll have no time to think about the garden. But my main worry is her marrying some young whipper-snapper who'll grow greedy, rent the garden out to some market- woman and it'll all go to rack and ruin within a year! In this kind of business women are like the plague!'
Pesotsky sighed and was silent for a few minutes. 'Perhaps it's just egotism, but I'm telling you quite frankly: I don't want Tanya to marry. I'm afraid! There's that young fop who comes here scraping his fiddle. I know Tanya won't marry him, I know that very well, but I just can't stand the sight of him. On the whole I'm quite a crank, dear boy. I admit it.' Pesotsky got up and paced the room excitedly; it was plain he wanted to say something very important, but he couldn't bring himself to.
'I'm extremely fond of you and I'll be open with you,' he said at last, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 'I'm usually quite straightforward when it comes to certain ticklish ques- tions and I'm telling you exactly what I think - I can't stand these so-called "innermost thoughts". I'm telling you straight: you're the only man I wouldn't mind marrying my daughter. You're clever, you have feelings and you wouldn't let my beloved work perish. But the main reason is — I love you like a son . . . and I'm proud of you. If Tanya and yourself became i 5