The Black Monk
- A. P. Chekhov
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One long winter night Kovrin was lying in
bed, reading a French novel. Poor Tanya, who had headaches in
the evenings from living in town, to which she was not
accustomed, had been asleep a long while, and, from time to
time, articulated some incoherent phrase in her restless dreams.
It struck three o'clock. Kovrin put out the light and lay down
to sleep, lay for a long time with his eyes closed, but could
not get to sleep because, as he fancied, the room was very hot
and Tanya talked in her sleep. At half-past four he lighted the
candle again, and this time he saw the black monk sitting in an
arm-chair near the bed.
"Good-morning," said the monk, and after a brief pause he asked:
"What are you thinking of now?"
"Of fame," answered Kovrin. "In the French novel I have just
been reading, there is a description of a young savant, who does
silly things and pines away through worrying about fame. I can't
understand such anxiety."
"Because you are wise. Your attitude towards fame is one of
indifference, as towards a toy which no longer interests you."
"Yes, that is true."
"Renown does not allure you now. What is there flattering,
amusing, or edifying in their carving your name on a tombstone,
then time rubbing off the inscription together with the gilding?
Moreover, happily there are too many of you for the weak memory
of mankind to be able to retain your names."
"Of course," assented Kovrin. "Besides, why should they be
remembered? But let us talk of something else. Of happiness, for
instance. What is happiness?"
When the clock struck five, he was sitting on the bed, dangling
his feet to the carpet, talking to the monk:
"In ancient times a happy man grew at last frightened of his
happiness -- it was so great! -- and to propitiate the gods he
brought as a sacrifice his favourite ring. Do you know, I, too,
like Polykrates, begin to be uneasy of my happiness. It seems
strange to me that from morning to night I feel nothing but joy;
it fills my whole being and smothers all other feelings. I don't
know what sadness, grief, or boredom is. Here I am not asleep; I
suffer from sleeplessness, but I am not dull. I say it in
earnest; I begin to feel perplexed."
"But why?" the monk asked in wonder. "Is joy a supernatural
feeling? Ought it not to be the normal state of man? The more
highly a man is developed on the intellectual and moral side,
the more independent he is, the more pleasure life gives him.
Socrates, Diogenes, and Marcus Aurelius, were joyful, not
sorrowful. And the Apostle tells us: 'Rejoice continually';
'Rejoice and be glad.' "
"But will the gods be suddenly wrathful?" Kovrin jested; and he
laughed. "If they take from me comfort and make me go cold and
hungry, it won't be very much to my taste."
Meanwhile Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at
her husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing
and gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was
something strange in his laugh.
"Andryusha, whom are you talking to?" she asked, clutching the
hand he stretched out to the monk. "Andryusha! Whom?"
"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him. . . . He is
sitting here," he said, pointing to the black monk.
"There is no one here . . . no one! Andryusha, you are ill!"
Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as
though protecting him from the apparition, and put her hand over
his eyes.
"You are ill!" she sobbed, trembling all over. "Forgive me, my
precious, my dear one, but I have noticed for a long time that
your mind is clouded in some way. . . . You are mentally ill,
Andryusha. . . ."
Her trembling infected him, too. He glanced once more at the
arm-chair, which was now empty, felt a sudden weakness in his
arms and legs, was frightened, and began dressing.
"It's nothing, Tanya; it's nothing," he muttered, shivering. "I
really am not quite well . . . it's time to admit that."
"I have noticed it for a long time . . . and father has noticed
it," she said, trying to suppress her sobs. "You talk to
yourself, smile somehow strangely . . . and can't sleep. Oh, my
God, my God, save us!" she said in terror. "But don't be
frightened, Andryusha; for God's sake don't be frightened. . .
."
She began dressing, too. Only now, looking at her, Kovrin
realised the danger of his position -- realised the meaning of
the black monk and his conversations with him. It was clear to
him now that he was mad.
Neither of them knew why they dressed and went into the
dining-room: she in front and he following her. There they found
Yegor Semyonitch standing in his dressing-gown and with a candle
in his hand. He was staying with them, and had been awakened by
Tanya's sobs.
"Don't be frightened, Andryusha," Tanya was saying, shivering as
though in a fever; "don't be frightened. . . . Father, it will
all pass over . . . it will all pass over. . . ."
Kovrin was too much agitated to speak. He wanted to say to his
father-in-law in a playful tone: "Congratulate me; it appears I
have gone out of my mind"; but he could only move his lips and
smile bitterly.
At nine o'clock in the morning they put on his jacket and fur
coat, wrapped him up in a shawl, and took him in a carriage to a
doctor.
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