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.
