One of the long winter nights. Kovrin lay in bed, reading a French
novel. Poor Tánya, 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 dock struck three. Kovrin put out the candle and lay down, lay
for a long time with dosed eyes unable to sleep owing to the heat of
the room and Tánya's continued muttering. 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 attractions 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 happiness, 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 beginning 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."
Tánya 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.
"Andrusha, whom are you speaking to?" she asked, seizing the hand which
he had stretched out to the monk. "Andrusha, 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, Andrusha; you are ill."
Tánya 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, ... psychically, Andrusha."
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, Tánya, nothing, ..." he stammered, and
still shuddered. "But I am a little unwell.... It is time to recognise
it."
"I have noticed it for a long time, and father noticed it," she said,
trying to restrain her sobs. "You have been speaking so funnily to
yourself, and smiling so strangely, ... and you do not sleep. O, my
God, my God, save us!" she cried in terror. "But do not be afraid,
Andrusha, 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 Semiónovitch in his
dressing-gown. He was staying with them, and had been awakened by
Tánya's sobs.
"Do not be afraid, Andrusha," said Tánya, trembling as if in fever. "Do
not be afraid ... father, this will 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.