But here the real Yegor Semionovich remembered himself, seized his head and roared :
"Devils! Frost-bitten! Ruined, destroyed! The garden is ruined; the garden is destroyed! "
Kovrin worked with all his former ardour, and hardly noticed the bustle about him. Love only poured oil on the flames. After every meeting with Tanya, he returned to his rooms in rapture and happiness, and set to work with his books and manuscripts with the same passion with which he had kissed her and sworn his love. What the Black. Monk had told him of his election by God, of eternal truth, and of the glorious future of humanity, gave to all his work a peculiar. unusual significance. Once or twice every week, either in the park or in the house, be mei the monk, and talked with him for hours; but this did not frighten, but on the contrary delighted him, for he was now assured that such apparitions visit only the elect and exceptional who dedicate themselves to the ministry of ideas.
Assumption passed unobserved. Then came the wedding celebrated by the determined wish of Yegor Semionovich with what was called eclat, that is, with meaningless festivi- ties which lasted for two days. Three thousand rubles were consumed in food and drink ; but what with the vile music, the noisy toasts, the fussing servants, the clamour, and the closeness of the atmosphere, no one appreciated the expensive wines or the astonishing hors d'reuvres specially ordered from Moscow.
VII
One of the long winter nights. Kovrin lay in bed, read- ing a French novel. Poor Tanya, whose head every evening ached as the result of the unaccustomed life in town, had long been sleeping, muttering incoherent phrases in her dreams.
The clock struck three. Kovrin put out the candle and Iay down, lay for a long time with closed eyes unable to sleep owing to the heat of the room and Tanya's continued mut- tering. At half-past four he again lighted the candle. The Black Monk was sitting in a chair beside his bed.
"Good night!" said the monk, and then, after a moment's silence, asked, "What are you thinking of now?"
"Of glory,'' answered Kovrin. "In a French novel which I have just been reading, the hero is a young man who does foolish things, and dies from a passion for glory. To me this passion is inconceivable."
"Because you are too clever. You look indifferently on fame as a toy which cannot interest you."
"That is true."
"Celebrity has no attraction for you. What flattery, joy, or instruction can a man draw from the knowledge that his name will be graven on a monument, when time will efface the inscription sooner or later? Yes, happily there are too many of you for brief human memory to remember all your names."
"Of course," said Kovrin. "And why remember them? . . . But let us talk of something else. Of happiness, for instance. What is this happiness?"
When the clock struck five he was sitting on the bed with his feet trailing on the carpet and his head turned to the monk, and saying:
"In ancient times a man became frightened at his happi- ness, so great it was, and to placate the gods laid before them in sacrifice his beloved ring. You have heard? Now I, like Polycrates, am a little frightened at my own happiness. From morning to night I experience only joy—joy absorbs me and stifles all other feelings. I do not know the meaning of grief, affliction, or weariness. I speak seriously, I am be- ginning to doubt."
"Why?" asked the monk in an astonished tone. "Then you think joy is a supernatural feeling? You think it is not the normal condition of things? No! The higher a man has climbed in mental and moral development the freer he is, the greater satisfaction he draws from life. Socrates, Diogenes, Marcus Aurelius knew joy and not sorrow. And the apostle said, 'rejoice exceedingly.' Rejoice and be happy!"
"And suddenly the gods will be angered," said Kovrin jokingly. "But it would hardly be to my taste if they were to steal my happiness and force me to shiver and starve."
Tanya awoke, and looked at her husband with amazement and terror. He spoke, he turned to the chair, he gesticulated, and laughed; his eyes glittered and his laughter sounded strange.
"Andriusha, whom are you speaking to?" she asked, seiz- ing the hand which he had stretched out to the monk. "An, driusha, who is it?"
"Who?" answered Kovrin. "Why, the monk! . . . He is sitting there." He pointed to the Black Monk.
"There is no one there, . . . no one, Andriusha; you are ill_"
Tanya embraced her husband, and, pressing against him as if to defend him against the apparition, covered his eyes with her hand.
"You are ill," she sobbed, trembling all over. "Forgive me, darling, but for a long time I have fancied you were unnerved in some way. . . . You are ill, . . . physically, Andriusha."
The shudder communicated itself to him. He looked once more at the chair, now empty, and suddenly felt weakness in his arms and legs. He began to dress.
"It is nothing, Tanya, nothing, . . ." he stammered, and still shuddered. "But I am a little unwell. • . . It is time to recognise it."
"I have noticed Ct for a long time, and father noticed it," she said, trying to restrain her sobs. "You have been speak- ing so funnily to yourself, and smiling so strangely, . . . and you do not sleep. 0, my God, my God, save us!" she cried in terror. "But do not be afraid, Andriusha, do not fear, . . . for God's sake do not be afraid. . . ."
She also dressed . . . . It was only as he looked at her that Kovrin understood the danger of his position, and realised the meaning of the Black Monk and of their conversations. It became plain to him that he was mad.
Both, themselves not knowing why, dressed and went into the hall; she first, he after her. There they found Yegor Semionovich in his dressing-gown. He was staying with them, and had been awakened by Tanya's sobs.
"Do not be afraid, Andriusha," said Tanya, trembling as if in fever. "Do not be afraid . . . father, this wil! pass off > . . it will pass off."
Kovrin was so agitated that he could hardly speak. But he tried to treat the matter as a joke. He turned to his father-in-law and attempted to say:
"Congratulate me . . . it seems I have gone out of my mind." But his lips only moved, and he smiled bitterly.
At nine o'clock they put on his overcoat and a fur cloak, wrapped him up in a shawl, and drove him to the doctor's, He began a course of treatment.
viii
Again summer. By the doctor's orders Kovrin returned to the country. He had recovered his health, and no longer saw the Black Monk. It only remained for him to recruit his physical strength. He lived with his father-in-law, drank much milk, worked only two hours a day, never touched wine, and gave up smoking.
On the evening of the i9th June, before Elijah's day, a vesper service was held in the house. When the priest took the censer from the sexton, and the vast hall began to smell like a church, Kovrin felt tired. He went into the garden. Taking no notice of the gorgeous blossoms around him he walked up and down, sat for a while on a bench, and then walked through the parl.. He descended the sloping bank to the margin of the river, and stood still, looking question- ingly at the water. The great pines, with their shaggy roots, which a year before had seen him so young, so joyous, so active, no longer whispered, but stood silent and motion- less, as if not recognising him. . . . And, indeed, with his short-clipped hair, his feeble walk, and his changed face, so heavy and pale and changed since last year, he would hardly have been recognised anywhere.
He crossed the stream. In the field, last year covered with rye, lay rows of reaped oats. The sun had set, and on the horizon flamed a broad, red afterglow, foretelling stormy weather. All was quiet; and, gazing towards the point at which a year before he had first seen the Black Monk.-
Kovriu stood twenty minutes watching the crimson fade. When he returned to the house, tired and unsatisfied, Yegor Semionovich and Tanya were sitting on the steps of the terrace, drinking tea. They were talking together, and, see- ing Kovrin, stopped. But Kovrin knew by their faces that they had been speaking of him.