was blended with the impressions of the past that stirred within him; there was a tightness
at his heart; yet he was happy.
He waited till Tanya was awake and had coffee with her, went for a walk, then went to his
room and sat down to work. He read attentively, making notes, and from time to time raised
his eyes to look out at the open windows or at the fresh, still dewy flowers in the vases on
the table; and again he dropped his eyes to his book, and it seemed to him as though every
vein in his body was quivering and fluttering with pleasure.
II
In the country he led just as nervous and restless a life as in town. He read and wrote a great
deal, he studied Italian, and when he was out for a walk, thought with pleasure that he
would soon sit down to work again. He slept so little that every one wondered at him; if he
accidentally dozed for half an hour in the daytime, he would lie awake all night, and, after a
sleepless night, would feel cheerful and vigorous as though nothing had happened.
He talked a great deal, drank wine, and smoked expensive cigars. Very often, almost every
day, young ladies of neighbouring families would come to the Pesotskys', and would sing
and play the piano with Tanya; sometimes a young neighbour who was a good violinist
would come, too. Kovrin listened with eagerness to the music and singing, and was
exhausted by it, and this showed itself by his eyes closing and his head falling to one side.
One day he was sitting on the balcony after evening tea, reading. At the same time, in the
drawing-room, Tanya taking soprano, one of the young ladies a contralto, and the young
man with his violin, were practising a well-known serenade of Braga's. Kovrin listened to
the words -- they were Russian -- and could not understand their meaning. At last, leaving
his book and listening attentively, he understood: a maiden, full of sick fancies, heard one
night in her garden mysterious sounds, so strange and lovely that she was obliged to
recognise them as a holy harmony which is unintelligible to us mortals, and so flies back to
heaven. Kovrin's eyes began to close. He got up, and in exhaustion walked up and down the
drawing-room, and then the dining-room. When the singing was over he took Tanya's arm,
and with her went out on the balcony.
"I have been all day thinking of a legend," he said. "I don't remember whether I have read it
somewhere or heard it, but it is a strange and almost grotesque legend. To begin with, it is
somewhat obscure. A thousand years ago a monk, dressed in black, wandered about the
desert, somewhere in Syria or Arabia. . . . Some miles from where he was, some fisherman
saw another black monk, who was moving slowly over the surface of a lake. This second
monk was a mirage. Now forget all the laws of optics, which the legend does not recognise,
and listen to the rest. From that mirage there was cast another mirage, then from that other a
third, so that the image of the black monk began to be repeated endlessly from one layer of
the atmosphere to another. So that he was seen at one time in Africa, at another in Spain,
then in Italy, then in the Far North. . . . Then he passed out of the atmosphere of the earth,
and now he is wandering all over the universe, still never coming into conditions in which
he might disappear. Possibly he may be seen now in Mars or in some star of the Southern
Cross. But, my dear, the real point on which the whole legend hangs lies in the fact that,
exactly a thousand years from the day when the monk walked in the desert, the mirage will
return to the atmosphere of the earth again and will appear to men. And it seems that the