Ward No. 6 and Other Stories

  And he ran on further.

  ‘I’m beginning to believe in ghosts!’ he shouted to me as he looked back. ‘Grandfather Ilarion’s ghost seems to have predicted the truth! Oh, if only!’

  The day after this encounter I left Yalta and I really don’t know how Shamokhin’s affair ended.

  The Black Monk

  I

  Andrey Vasilich Kovrin, MA, was exhausted, his nerves were shattered. He did not take any medical treatment but mentioned his condition in passing to a doctor friend over a bottle of wine, and was advised to spend the spring and summer in the country. And as it happened he received just then a long letter from Tanya Pesotskaya, inviting him to come and stay at Borisovka. So he decided he really must get away.

  At first – this was in April – he went to his own estate, Kovrinka, where he lived on his own for three weeks. Then after waiting until the roads were passable, he drove off in a carriage to see his former guardian and mentor Pesotsky the horticulturalist, who was famous throughout Russia. It was no more than about fifty miles from Kovrinka to Pesotsky’s place at Borisovka and it was pure joy travelling along the soft road in spring, in a comfortable sprung carriage.

  Pesotsky’s house was huge, with columns, peeling plaster lions, and a footman in coat and tails at the entrance. The gloomy, severe, old-fashioned park was strictly laid out in the landscaped English style, stretched almost half a mile from the house to the river, and ended in a precipitous clayey bank where pines grew, their exposed roots resembling shaggy paws. Down below, the water glinted uninvitingly, sandpipers flew past squeaking plaintively, and it was generally the kind of place to make you want to sit down and write a ballad. But near the house itself, in the courtyard and the orchard, which took up about eighty acres, including the nursery beds, it was cheerful and lively, even in bad weather. Nowhere, except at Pesotsky’s, had Kovrin seen such wonderful roses, lilies, camellias, so many different tulips, with colours ranging from white to soot-black, such a profusion of flowers. It was only the beginning of spring and the real splendours of the flowerbeds were still hidden in the hothouses. But the flowers in bloom along the paths – and here and there in the beds – were enough to make you feel that you were in the very kingdom of tender hues as you strolled in the garden, especially early in the morning, when dew sparkled on every petal.

  The ornamental section of the garden, which Pesotsky disparagingly called ‘sheer nonsense’, had seemed like a fairyland to Kovrin as a child. The oddities, elaborate monstrosities and travesties of nature that were to be seen here! There were trellised fruit trees, a pear tree shaped like a Lombardy poplar, globe-shaped oaks and limes, an apple tree umbrella, arches, initials, candelabra, and even an ‘1862’ made from plums – this was the year Pesotsky first took up horticulture. Here also were fine, graceful saplings with straight, firm stems like palm trees, and only after a very close look could you tell that they were gooseberries or blackcurrants. But what most of all made the garden a cheerful, lively place was the constant activity. From dawn to dusk gardeners with wheelbarrows, hoes and watering-cans swarmed like ants near the trees and bushes, on the paths and flowerbeds.

  Kovrin arrived at the Pesotskys’ after nine in the evening. He found Tanya and her father Yegor Semyonych in a terribly worried state. The clear, starry sky and the thermometer foretold frost towards morning, but the head gardener Ivan Karlych had gone off to town and there was no one left they could rely on.

  During supper, they talked only of this morning frost and decided that Tanya would not go to bed, but would go round the orchard after midnight to check if everything was all right, while Yegor Semyonych would get up at three, even earlier perhaps. Kovrin sat with Tanya the whole evening and after midnight went with her into the garden. It was cold and there was a strong smell of burning. In the big orchard, called ‘commercial’ as it brought Yegor Semyonych several thousand roubles profit every year, a dense, black, acrid smoke was spreading over the ground and enveloping the trees, saving all those thousands from the frost. Here the trees were planted like draughts pieces, in straight, even rows, like columns of soldiers. This strict, pedantic regularity, plus the fact that all the trees were exactly the same height, all of them having absolutely identical crowns and trunks, made a monotonous, even boring picture. Kovrin and Tanya walked between the rows, where bonfires of manure, straw and all kind of refuse were smouldering, and every now and then they met workers drifting through the smoke like shadows. Only cherries, plums and certain varieties of apple were in bloom, but the whole orchard was drowning in smoke. Kovrin breathed a deep breath only when they reached the nurseries.

  ‘When I was a child the smoke used to make me sneeze’, he said, shrugging his shoulders, ‘but I still don’t understand why this smoke saves the plants from frost.’

  ‘Smoke is a substitute for clouds when the sky is clear…’ Tanya said.

  ‘But what use are they?’

  ‘You don’t normally get a frost when it’s dull and overcast.’

  ‘That’s right!’

  He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very serious face, chill from the cold, with its fine black eyebrows, the raised coat collar which cramped her movements, her whole slim, graceful body, her dress tucked up from the dew – all this moved him deeply.

  ‘Heavens, how you’ve grown up!’ he said. ‘Last time I left here, five years ago, you were still a child. You were so thin, long-legged, bareheaded, with that short little dress you used to wear. And I teased you and called you a heron… How time changes everything!’

  ‘Yes, five years!’ Tanya sighed. ‘A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then. Tell me, Andrey, in all honesty’, she said in an animated voice, peering into his face, ‘have you grown tired of us? But why am I asking you this? You’re a man, you live your own interesting life, you’re an eminent person… Becoming like strangers to each other is really so natural! Anyway, Andrey, I want you to treat us as your family, we have a right to that.’

  ‘But I do, Tanya.’

  ‘Word of honour?’

  ‘Yes, word of honour.’

  ‘You were surprised before that we had so many of your photos. You must know Father idolizes you. At times I think he loves you more than me. He’s proud of you. You are a scholar, a remarkable person, you’ve made a dazzling career for yourself and he’s convinced this is because he brought you up. I let him think this, I don’t see why I should stop him.’

  Dawn was breaking – this was particularly evident from the clarity with which puffs of smoke and the tree tops were outlined now in the air. Nightingales were singing and the cries of quails came from the fields.

  ‘But it’s time for bed’, Tanya said. ‘Besides that, it’s cold.’ She took his arm. ‘Thanks for coming, Andrey. Our friends aren’t very interesting, not that we have many. All we have is the garden, garden, garden, nothing else.’ She laughed. ‘First-class, second-class, Oporto,1 rennets and winter apples, budding, grafting. Our whole life has gone into this garden, I dream of nothing but apple and pear trees. Of course, it’s all very nice and useful, but sometimes I want something else, to break the monotony. I remember the times you came for the holidays, or just for a short visit, how the house became somehow fresher and brighter then, as though the covers had been taken off the chandeliers and furniture. I was a little girl then, but I did understand.’

  She spoke for a long time and with great feeling. Suddenly Kovrin was struck by the idea that he might even conceive an affection for this small, fragile, loquacious creature during the course of the summer, become attracted to her and fall in love. In their situation that would be so natural and possible! He was both touched and amused by the thought. He leant down towards that dear, worried face and softly sang:

  Onegin, I will not hide it,

  I love Tatyana madly…2

  Yegor Semyonych was up already when they returned to the house. Kovrin did not feel like sleeping, got into conversation with the old man and went back to the
garden with him. Yegor Semyonych was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a large paunch. Although he suffered from short breath, he always walked so fast it was hard keeping up with him. He had an extremely worried look and was always hurrying off somewhere as if all would be lost should he be just one minute late.

  ‘It’s a peculiar thing, my dear boy’, he began, then paused for breath. ‘As you see, it’s freezing down on the ground, but just you hold a thermometer on a stick about twelve feet above it and you’ll find it’s warm there… Why is it?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know’, Kovrin said, laughing.

  ‘Hm… one can’t know everything of course… However capacious your brain is, it won’t accommodate everything. Philosophy’s more your line, isn’t it?’

  ‘I give lectures on psychology, but my main interest is philosophy.’

  ‘And you’re not bored?’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s my life.’

  ‘Well, God bless you…’ Yegor Semyonych murmured, thoughtfully stroking his grey side-whiskers. ‘God bless you… I’m very pleased for you… very pleased, dear boy.’

  But suddenly he pricked up his ears, pulled a horrified face, ran to one side and soon disappeared in the clouds of smoke behind the trees.

  ‘Who tied a horse to that apple tree?’ the despairing, heart-rending cry rang out. ‘What swine, what scum dared to tie a horse to an apple tree? Good Lord! They’ve ruined, frozen, polluted, mucked everything up! The garden’s ruined! Ruined! Oh, God!’

  He went back to Kovrin, looking exhausted, outraged. ‘What can you do with this confounded riff-raff?’ he said tearfully, flinging his arms out helplessly. ‘Last night Stepka was carting manure and tied his horse to the apple tree. He twisted the reins so hellishly tight, damn him, that the bark’s rubbed off. How could he do it? I had words with him, but the idiot just stood gaping. Hanging’s too good for him!’

  After he had calmed down he put his arms round Kovrin and kissed him on the check. ‘Well, God bless, God bless…’ he muttered. ‘I’m very pleased you came. I can’t say how glad I am… Thanks.’

  Then, at the same rapid pace and with that same worried look, he toured the whole garden, showing his former ward all the conservatories, greenhouses, cold frames, and the two apiaries he called the ‘wonder of the century’.

  As they walked along, the sun rose, filling the garden with a bright light. It grew warm. Anticipating a fine, cheerful, long day, Kovrin recalled that in fact it was only the beginning of May and that the whole summer lay ahead – just as bright, cheerful and long, and suddenly there welled up within him that feeling of radiant, joyous youth he had known in his childhood, when he had run around this garden. And he embraced the old man in turn and kissed him tenderly. Both of them, deeply moved, went into the house and drank tea from old-fashioned porcelain cups, with cream and rich pastries. These little things again reminded Kovrin of his childhood and youth. The beautiful present, the freshly awakened impressions of the past, blended together: they had a somewhat inhibiting effect, but none the less gave him a feeling of well-being.

  He waited for Tanya to wake up, drank coffee with her, went for a stroll, and then returned to his room and sat down to work. He read attentively, took notes, now and again looking up at the open window or the fresh flowers that stood, still moist with dew, in vases on the table, then lowering his eyes on his book again; it seemed every vein in his body was pulsating and throbbing with pleasure.

  II

  In the country he continued to lead the same nervous, restless life as in town. He read and wrote a great deal, studied Italian, and on his strolls took pleasure in the thought that he would soon be back at work again. Everyone was amazed he slept so little. If he chanced to doze off during the day for half an hour, he could not sleep at all later and would emerge from a night of insomnia vigorous and cheerful, as if nothing was wrong.

  He talked a lot, drank wine and smoked expensive cigars. Young ladies who lived nearby called on the Pesotskys almost every day and played the piano and sang with Tanya. Sometimes a young gentleman from the neighbourhood, an excellent violinist, would call. Kovrin would listen so hungrily to the playing and singing it tired him out, and the exhaustion was plainly visible from the way his eyelids seemed to stick together and his head dropped to one side.

  One evening, after tea, he was sitting on the balcony reading. At the same time Tanya, who sang soprano, together with one of the young ladies – a contralto – and the young violinist, were practising Braga’s famous Serenade.3 Kovrin listened hard to the words (they were Russian) but could not understand them at all. Finally, after putting his book aside and listening very closely, he did understand: a young girl, with a morbid imagination, was in her garden one night and heard some mysterious sounds, so beautiful and strange, she had to admit that their harmony was something divine, incomprehensible to mere mortals as it soared up again into the heavens whence it came. Kovrin began to feel sleepy. He rose to his feet, wearily walked up and down the drawing-room, then the ballroom. When the singing stopped, he took Tanya by the arm and went out onto the balcony with her.

  ‘Since early this morning I haven’t been able to get a certain legend out of my mind’, he said. ‘I can’t remember if I read it somewhere or if I heard it, but it’s really quite strange – doesn’t appear to make any sense at all. I should say from the start that it’s not distinguished for its clarity. A thousand years ago a certain monk, dressed in black, was walking across a desert – somewhere in Syria or Arabia… A few miles from where he was walking a fisherman saw another black monk slowly moving across the surface of a lake. This second monk was a mirage. Now forget the laws of optics, which the legend apparently doesn’t acknowledge, and listen to what happened next. The mirage produced another one. This second mirage produced a third, so that the image of the black monk began to be transmitted endlessly from one layer of the atmosphere to the other. He was sighted in Africa, then Spain, India, the far north… He finally left the earth’s atmosphere and now wanders through the whole universe, never meeting the conditions which would make it possible for him to fade away. Perhaps he’ll be seen somewhere on Mars now, or on some star in the Southern Cross. But, my dear, the essence, the real crux of the legend is this: precisely one thousand years after that monk first walked across the desert, the mirage will return to the earth’s atmosphere and appear to people. And it seems these thousand years are almost up. According to the legend, we can expect the black monk any day now.’

  ‘A strange mirage’, said Tanya, who did not care for the legend.

  ‘But the most amazing thing is’, Kovrin said, laughing, ‘I just can’t remember what prompted me to think of it. Did I read it somewhere? Did I hear about it? Perhaps the black monk was only a dream? I swear to God, I can’t remember. But I’m intrigued by this legend. I’ve been thinking about it all day.’

  Leaving Tanya to her guests, he went out of the house and strolled by the flowerbeds, deep in thought. The sun was setting. The freshly watered flowers gave off a moist, irritating scent. In the house the singing had started again; from the distance the violin sounded like a human voice. Kovrin racked his brains trying to remember where he had read or heard about that legend as he walked unhurriedly towards the park, reaching the river before he knew where he was.

  He descended the path that ran down a steep bank, past bare roots, to the water, where he disturbed some sandpipers and frightened two ducks away. Here and there on the gloomy pines gleamed the last rays of the setting sun, but evening had already come over the surface of the river. Kovrin crossed the footbridge to the other side. Before him lay a broad field full of young rye not yet in ear. There was no human habitation, not a living soul out there, and it seemed the path would lead him to that same unknown, mysterious spot where the sun had just set and where the evening glow spread its flames so magnificently over all that wide expanse.

  ‘So much space, freedom, peace here!’ Kovrin thought as he walked along the path. ‘The
whole world seems to be looking at me, has gone silent, and is waiting for me to understand it.’

  But just then some ripples spread across the rye and a gentle evening breeze lightly caressed his bare head. A moment later there was another gust, stronger this time, and the rye rustled and he could hear the dull murmur of the pines behind him. Kovrin stood motionless in astonishment. On the horizon a tall black column was rising up into the sky, like a whirlwind or tornado. Its outlines were blurred, but he could see at once that it was not standing still, but moving at terrifying speed straight towards him – and the nearer it came, the smaller and clearer it grew. Kovrin leapt aside into the rye to make way – and he was only just in time… A monk in black vestments, grey-haired and with black eyebrows, his arms across his chest, flashed past; his bare feet did not touch the ground. After he had raced on another six yards he looked round at Kovrin, nodded and gave him a friendly, but artful, smile. What a pale, terribly pale, thin face though! Growing larger again, he flew across the river, struck the clayey bank and the pines without making a sound, passed straight through and disappeared into thin air.

  ‘So, there it is…’ murmured Kovrin. ‘That shows there’s truth in the legend.’

  Without trying to find an explanation for this strange apparition and satisfied that he had managed to get such a close look, not only at the black vestments, but even at the monk’s face and eyes, he went back to the house feeling pleasantly excited.

  People were strolling peacefully in the park and garden, the musicians were playing in the house, so only he had seen the monk. He had a strong urge to tell Tanya and Yegor Semyonych about everything, but he realized they would surely think the story crazy and be scared stiff. Better keep quiet about it. He laughed out loud, sang, danced a mazurka; he was in high spirits and everyone – Tanya, her guests – found that he really had a radiant, inspired look about him that evening, that he was most interesting.