But in the country Kovrin continued to live the same nervous and
untranquil life as he had lived in town. He read much, wrote much,
studied Italian; and when he went for walks, thought all the time of
returning to work. He slept so little that he astonished the household;
if by chance he slept in the daytime for half an hour, he could not
sleep all the following night. Yet after these sleepless nights he felt
active and gay.
He talked much, drank wine, and smoked expensive cigars. Often, nearly
every day, young girls from the neighbouring country-houses drove over
to Borisovka, played the piano with Tánya, and sang. Sometimes the
visitor was a young man, also a neighbour, who played the violin well.
Kovrin listened eagerly to their music and singing, but was exhausted
by it, so exhausted sometimes that his eyes closed involuntarily, and
his head drooped on his shoulder.
One evening after tea he sat upon the balcony, reading. In the
drawing-room Tánya--a soprano, one of her friends--a contralto,
and the young violinist studied the well-known serenade of Braga.
Kovrin listened to the words, but though they were Russian, could not
understand their meaning. At last, laying down his book and listening
attentively, he understood. A girl with a disordered imagination heard
by night in a garden some mysterious sounds, sounds so beautiful and
strange that she was forced to recognise their harmony and holiness,
which to us mortals are incomprehensible, and therefore flew back to
heaven. Kovrin's eyelids drooped. He rose, and in exhaustion walked
up and down the drawing-room, and then up and down the hall. When the
music ceased, he took Tánya by the hand and went out with her to the
balcony.
"All day--since early morning," he began, "my head has been taken up
with a strange legend. I cannot remember whether I read it, or where I
heard it, but the legend is very remarkable and not very coherent. I
may begin by saying that it is not very clear. A thousand years ago a
monk, robed in black, wandered in the wilderness--somewhere in Syria or
Arabia ... Some miles away the fishermen saw another black monk moving
slowly over the surface of the lake. The second monk was a mirage. Now
put out of your mind all the laws of optics, which legend, of course,
does not recognise, and listen. From the first mirage was produced
another mirage, from the second a third, so that the image of the
Black Monk is eternally reflected from one stratum of the atmosphere
to another. At one time it was seen in Africa, then in Spain, then
in India, then in the Far North. At last it issued from the limits
of the earth's atmosphere, but never came across conditions which
would cause it to disappear. Maybe it is seen to-day in Mars or in the
constellation of the Southern Cross. Now the whole point, the very
essence of the legend, lies in the prediction that exactly a thousand
years after the monk went into the wilderness, the mirage will again
be cast into the atmosphere of the earth and show itself to the world
of men. This term of a thousand years, it appears, is now expiring....
According to the legend we must expect the Black Monk to-day or
to-morrow."
"It is a strange story," said Tánya, whom the legend did not please.
"But the most astonishing thing," laughed Kovrin, "is that I cannot
remember how this legend came into my head. Did I read it? Did I hear
it? Or can it be that I dreamed of the Black Monk? I cannot remember.
But the legend interests me. All day long I thought of nothing else."
Releasing Tánya, who returned to her visitors, he went out of the
house, and walked lost in thought beside the flower-beds. Already the
sun was setting. The freshly watered flowers exhaled a damp, irritating
smell. In the house the music had again begun, and from the distance
the violin produced the effect of a human voice. Straining his memory
in an attempt to recall where he had heard the legend, Kovrin walked
slowly across the park, and then, not noticing where he went, to the
river-bank.
By the path which ran down among the uncovered roots to the water's
edge Kovrin descended, frightening the snipe, and disturbing two ducks.
On the dark pine trees glowed the rays of the setting sun, but on
the surface of the river darkness had already fallen. Kovrin crossed
the stream. Before him now lay a broad field covered with young rye.
Neither human dwelling nor human soul was visible in the distance;
and it seemed that the path must lead to the unexplored, enigmatical
region in the west where the sun had already set--where still, vast and
majestic, flamed the afterglow.
"How open it is--how peaceful and free!" thought Kovrin, walking
along the path. "It seems as if all the world is looking at me from a
hiding-place and waiting for me to comprehend it."
A wave passed over the rye, and the light evening breeze blew softly
on his uncovered head. Yet a minute more and the breeze blew again,
this time more strongly, the rye rustled, and from behind came the
dull murmur of the pines. Kovrin stopped in amazement On the horizon,
like a cyclone or waterspout, a great, black pillar rose up from earth
to heaven. Its outlines were undefined; but from the first it might
be seen that it was not standing still, but moving with inconceivable
speed towards Kovrin; and the nearer it came the smaller and smaller
it grew. Involuntarily Kovrin rushed aside and made a path for it. A
monk in black clothing, with grey hair and black eyebrows, crossing
his hands upon his chest, was borne past. His bare feet were above the
ground. Having swept some twenty yards past Kovrin, he looked at him,
nodded his head, and smiled kindly and at the same time slyly. His face
was pale and thin. When he had passed by Kovrin he again began to grow,
flew across the river, struck inaudibly against the clay bank and pine
trees, and, passing through them, vanished like smoke.
"You see," stammered Kovrin, "after all, the legend was true!"
Making no attempt to explain this strange phenomenon; satisfied with
the fact that he had so closely and so plainly seen not only the black
clothing but even the face and eyes of the monk; agitated agreeably, he
returned home.
In the park and in the garden visitors were walking quietly; in the
house the music continued. So he alone had seen the Black Monk. He
felt a strong desire to tell what he had seen to Tánya and Yegor
Semiónovitch, but feared that they would regard it as a hallucination,
and decided to keep his counsel. He laughed loudly, sang, danced a
mazurka, and felt in the best of spirits; and the guests and Tánya
noticed upon his face a peculiar expression of ecstasy and inspiration,
and found him very interesting.