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Anton
Pavlovich Chekhov
- The Black Monk
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
III
After supper, when the visitors had gone, he
went to his room and lay down on the sofa: he wanted to think
about the monk. But a minute later Tanya came in.
"Here, Andryusha; read father's articles," she said, giving him
a bundle of pamphlets and proofs. "They are splendid articles.
He writes capitally."
"Capitally, indeed!" said Yegor Semyonitch, following her and
smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed. "Don't listen to her,
please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep,
read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."
"I think they are splendid articles," said Tanya, with deep
conviction. "You read them, Andryusha, and persuade father to
write oftener. He could write a complete manual of
horticulture."
Yegor Semyonitch gave a forced laugh, blushed, and began
uttering the phrases usually made us of by an embarrassed
author. At last he began to give way.
"In that case, begin with Gaucher's article and these Russian
articles," he muttered, turning over the pamphlets with a
trembling hand, "or else you won't understand. Before you read
my objections, you must know what I am objecting to. But it's
all nonsense . . . tiresome stuff. Besides, I believe it's
bedtime."
Tanya went away. Yegor Semyonitch sat down on the sofa by Kovrin
and heaved a deep sigh.
"Yes, my boy . . ." he began after a pause. "That's how it is,
my dear lecturer. Here I write articles, and take part in
exhibitions, and receive medals. . . . Pesotsky, they say, has
apples the size of a head, and Pesotsky, they say, has made his
fortune with his garden. In short, 'Kotcheby is rich and
glorious.' But one asks oneself: what is it all for? The garden
is certainly fine, a model. It's not really a garden, but a
regular institution, which is of the greatest public importance
because it marks, so to say, a new era in Russian agriculture
and Russian industry. But, what's it for? What's the object of
it?"
"The fact speaks for itself."
"I do not mean in that sense. I meant to ask: what will happen
to the garden when I die? In the condition in which you see it
now, it would not be maintained for one month without me. The
whole secret of success lies not in its being a big garden or a
great number of labourers being employed in it, but in the fact
that I love the work. Do you understand? I love it perhaps more
than myself. Look at me; I do everything myself. I work from
morning to night: I do all the grafting myself, the pruning
myself, the planting myself. I do it all myself: when any one
helps me I am jealous and irritable till I am rude. The whole
secret lies in loving it -- that is, in the sharp eye of the
master; yes, and in the master's hands, and in the feeling that
makes one, when one goes anywhere for an hour's visit, sit, ill
at ease, with one's heart far away, afraid that something may
have happened in the garden. But when I die, who will look after
it? Who will work? The gardener? The labourers? Yes? But I will
tell you, my dear fellow, the worst enemy in the garden is not a
hare, not a cockchafer, and not the frost, but any outside
person."
"And Tanya?" asked Kovrin, laughing. "She can't be more harmful
than a hare? She loves the work and understands it."
"Yes, she loves it and understands it. If after my death the
garden goes to her and she is the mistress, of course nothing
better could be wished. But if, which God forbid, she should
marry," Yegor Semyonitch whispered, and looked with a frightened
look at Kovrin, "that's just it. If she marries and children
come, she will have no time to think about the garden. What I
fear most is: she will marry some fine gentleman, and he will be
greedy, and he will let the garden to people who will run it for
profit, and everything will go to the devil the very first year!
In our work females are the scourge of God!"
Yegor Semyonitch sighed and paused for a while.
"Perhaps it is egoism, but I tell you frankly: I don't want
Tanya to get married. I am afraid of it! There is one young
dandy comes to see us, bringing his violin and scraping on it; I
know Tanya will not marry him, I know it quite well; but I can't
bear to see him! Altogether, my boy, I am very queer. I know
that."
Yegor Semyonitch got up and walked about the room in excitement,
and it was evident that he wanted to say something very
important, but could not bring himself to it.
"I am very fond of you, and so I am going to speak to you
openly," he decided at last, thrusting his hands into his
pockets. "I deal plainly with certain delicate questions, and
say exactly what I think, and I cannot endure so-called hidden
thoughts. I will speak plainly: you are the only man to whom I
should not be afraid to marry my daughter. You are a clever man
with a good heart, and would not let my beloved work go to ruin;
and the chief reason is that I love you as a son, and I am proud
of you. If Tanya and you could get up a romance somehow, then --
well! I should be very glad and even happy. I tell you this
plainly, without mincing matters, like an honest man."
Kovrin laughed. Yegor Semyonitch opened the door to go out, and
stood in the doorway.
"If Tanya and you had a son, I would make a horticulturist of
him," he said, after a moment's thought. "However, this is idle
dreaming. Goodnight."
Left alone, Kovrin settled himself more comfortably on the sofa
and took up the articles. The title of one was "On
Intercropping"; of another, "A few Words on the Remarks of
Monsieur Z. concerning the Trenching of the Soil for a New
Garden"; a third, "Additional Matter concerning Grafting with a
Dormant Bud"; and they were all of the same sort. But what a
restless, jerky tone! What nervous, almost hysterical passion!
Here was an article, one would have thought, with most peaceable
and impersonal contents: the subject of it was the Russian
Antonovsky Apple. But Yegor Semyonitch began it with "Audiatur
altera pars," and finished it with "Sapienti sat"; and between
these two quotations a perfect torrent of venomous phrases
directed "at the learned ignorance of our recognised
horticultural authorities, who observe Nature from the height of
their university chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher, "whose success
has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti." "And then
followed an inappropriate, affected, and insincere regret that
peasants who stole fruit and broke the branches could not
nowadays be flogged.
"It is beautiful, charming, healthy work, but even in this there
is strife and passion," thought Kovrin, "I suppose that
everywhere and in all careers men of ideas are nervous, and
marked by exaggerated sensitiveness. Most likely it must be so."
He thought of Tanya, who was so pleased with Yegor Semyonitch's
articles. Small, pale, and so thin that her shoulder-blades
stuck out, her eyes, wide and open, dark and intelligent, had an
intent gaze, as though looking for something. She walked like
her father with a little hurried step. She talked a great deal
and was fond of arguing, accompanying every phrase, however
insignificant, with expressive mimicry and gesticulation. No
doubt she was nervous in the extreme.
Kovrin went on reading the articles, but he understood nothing
of them, and flung them aside. The same pleasant excitement with
which he had earlier in the evening danced the mazurka and
listened to the music was now mastering him again and rousing a
multitude of thoughts. He got up and began walking about the
room, thinking about the black monk. It occurred to him that if
this strange, supernatural monk had appeared to him only, that
meant that he was ill and had reached the point of having
hallucinations. This reflection frightened him, but not for
long.
"But I am all right, and I am doing no harm to any one; so there
is no harm in my hallucinations," he thought; and he felt happy
again.
He sat down on the sofa and clasped his hands round his head.
Restraining the unaccountable joy which filled his whole being,
he then paced up and down again, and sat down to his work. But
the thought that he read in the book did not satisfy him. He
wanted something gigantic, unfathomable, stupendous. Towards
morning he undressed and reluctantly went to bed: he ought to
sleep.
When he heard the footsteps of Yegor Semyonitch going out into
the garden, Kovrin rang the bell and asked the footman to bring
him some wine. He drank several glasses of Lafitte, then wrapped
himself up, head and all; his consciousness grew clouded and he
fell asleep.
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