The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories
that, they had already to book autumn orders for fruit and trees, and to
carry on a great deal of correspondence. And at the very busiest time,
when no one seemed to have a free moment, the work of the fields carried
off more than half their labourers from the garden. Yegor Semyonitch,
sunburnt, exhausted, ill-humoured, galloped from the fields to the
garden and back again; cried that he was being torn to pieces, and that
he should put a bullet through his brains.
Then came the fuss and worry of the trousseau, to which the Pesotskys
attached a good deal of importance. Every one's head was in a whirl from
the snipping of the scissors, the rattle of the sewing-machine, the
smell of hot irons, and the caprices of the dressmaker, a huffy and
nervous lady. And, as ill-luck would have it, visitors came every day,
who had to be entertained, fed, and even put up for the night. But all
this hard labour passed unnoticed as though in a fog. Tanya felt that
love and happiness had taken her unawares, though she had, since she was
fourteen, for some reason been convinced that Kovrin would marry her and
no one else. She was bewildered, could not grasp it, could not believe
herself.... At one minute such joy would swoop down upon her that she
longed to fly away to the clouds and there pray to God, at another
moment she would remember that in August she would have to part from her
home and leave her father; or, goodness knows why, the idea would occur
to her that she was worthless--insignificant and unworthy of a great man
like Kovrin--and she would go to her room, lock herself in, and cry
bitterly for several hours. When there were visitors, she would suddenly
fancy that Kovrin looked extraordinarily handsome, and that all the
women were in love with him and envying her, and her soul was filled
with pride and rapture, as though she had vanquished the whole world;
but he had only to smile politely at any young lady for her to be
trembling with jealousy, to retreat to her room--and tears again. These
new sensations mastered her completely; she helped her father
mechanically, without noticing peaches, caterpillars or labourers, or
how rapidly the time was passing.
It was almost the same with Yegor Semyonitch. He worked from morning
till night, was always in a hurry, was irritable, and flew into rages,
but all of this was in a sort of spellbound dream. It seemed as though
there were two men in him: one was the real Yegor Semyonitch, who was
moved to indignation, and clutched his head in despair when he heard of
some irregularity from Ivan Karlovitch the gardener; and another--not
the real one--who seemed as though he were half drunk, would interrupt a
business conversation at half a word, touch the gardener on the
shoulder, and begin muttering:
"Say what you like, there is a great deal in blood. His mother was a
wonderful woman, most high-minded and intelligent. It was a pleasure to
look at her good, candid, pure face; it was like the face of an angel.
She drew splendidly, wrote verses, spoke five foreign languages,
sang.... Poor thing! she died of consumption. The Kingdom of Heaven be
hers."
The unreal Yegor Semyonitch sighed, and after a pause went on:
"When he was a boy and growing up in my house, he had the same angelic
face, good and candid. The way he looks and talks and moves is as soft
and elegant as his mother's. And his intellect! We were always struck
with his intelligence. To be sure, it's not for nothing he's a Master of
Arts! It's not for nothing! And wait a bit, Ivan Karlovitch, what will
he be in ten years' time? He will be far above us!"
But at this point the real Yegor Semyonitch, suddenly coming to himself,
would make a terrible face, would clutch his head and cry:
"The devils! They have spoilt everything! They have ruined everything!
They have spoilt everything! The garden's done for, the garden's
ruined!"
Kovrin, meanwhile, worked with the same ardour as before, and did not
notice the general commotion. Love only added fuel to the flames. After
every talk with Tanya he went to his room, happy and triumphant, took up
his book or his manuscript with the same passion with which he had just
kissed Tanya and told her of his love. What the black monk had told him
of the chosen of God, of eternal truth, of the brilliant future of
mankind and so on, gave peculiar and extraordinary significance to his
work, and filled his soul with pride and the consciousness of his own
exalted consequence. Once or twice a week, in the park or in the house,
he met the black monk and had long conversations with him, but this did
not alarm him, but, on the contrary, delighted him, as he was now firmly
persuaded that such apparitions only visited the elect few who rise up
above their fellows and devote themselves to the service of the idea.
One day the monk appeared at dinner-time and sat in the dining-room
window. Kovrin was delighted, and very adroitly began a conversation
with Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya of what might be of interest to the
monk; the black-robed visitor listened and nodded his head graciously,
and Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya listened, too, and smiled gaily without
suspecting that Kovrin was not talking to them but to his hallucination.
Imperceptibly the fast of the Assumption was approaching, and soon after
came the wedding, which, at Yegor Semyonitch's urgent desire, was
celebrated with "a flourish"--that is, with senseless festivities that
lasted for two whole days and nights. Three thousand roubles' worth of
food and drink was consumed, but the music of the wretched hired band,
the noisy toasts, the scurrying to and fro of the footmen, the uproar
and crowding, prevented them from appreciating the taste of the
expensive wines and wonderful delicacies ordered from Moscow.
VII
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.
VIII
Summer had come again, and the doctor advised their going into the
country. Kovrin had recovered; he had left off seeing the black monk,
and he had only to get up his strength. Staying at his father-in-law's,
he drank a great deal of milk, worked for only two hours out of the
twenty-four, and neither smoked nor drank wine.
On the evening before Elijah's Day they had an evening service in the
house. When the deacon was handing the priest the censer the immense old
room smelt like a graveyard, and Kovrin felt bored. He went out into the
garden. Without noticing the gorgeous flowers, he walked about the
garden, sat down on a seat, then strolled about the park; reaching the
river, he went down and then stood lost in thought, looking at the