Five Great Short Stories

CHAPTER VII Don’t Be Afraid!

IT HAPPENED on one of the long winter nights that Kovrin was lying in bed reading a French novel. Poor little Tania, who was not yet accustomed to live in a town, had a bad headache, as she often had by the evening, and was long since asleep, but from time to time she was uttering disconnected phrases in her sleep.

It had struck three. Kovrin blew out his candle and lay down. He lay long with closed eyes, but could not get to sleep, because (so it seemed to him) it was very hot in the bedroom and Tania was talking in her sleep. At half-past four he again lit the candle, and at that moment he saw the black monk sitting on the arm-chair that stood near the bed.

“How do you do?” the monk said, and after a short pause he asked: “Of what are you thinking now?”

“Of fame,” Kovrin answered. “In the French novel I have just been reading there is a man, a young scientist, who did stupid things, and who pined away from longing for fame. These longings are incomprehensible to me.”

“Because you are wise. You look upon fame with indifference, like a plaything that does not interest you.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Fame has no attraction for you. What is there flattering, interesting or instructive in the fact that your name will be carved on your gravestone, and then time will efface this inscription together with its gilding? Besides, happily you are too many for man’s weak memory to be able to remember all your names.”

“Naturally,” Kovrin agreed. “Why should they be remembered? But let us speak of something else. For example, of happiness. What is happiness?”

When the clock struck five he was sitting on his bed with his feet resting on the rug and turning to the monk he was saying:

“In ancient times one happy man was at last frightened at his own happiness—it was so great! And in order to propitiate the gods he sacrificed to them his most precious ring. You know that story? Like Polycrates, I am beginning to be alarmed at my own happiness. It appears to me strange that from morning to night I only experience joy; I am filled with joy and it smothers all other feelings. I do not know what sadness, grief or dullness is. Here am I not asleep. I suffer from sleeplessness, but I am not dull. Quite seriously, I’m beginning to be perplexed.”

“Why?” the monk asked in astonishment. “Is joy a superhuman feeling? Ought it not to be the normal condition of man? The higher a man is in his intellectual and moral development, the more free he is, the greater are the pleasures that life offers him. Socrates, Diogenes and Marcus Aurelius knew joy, and not grief. The apostle says: ‘Rejoice always.’ Therefore rejoice and be happy.”

“What if suddenly the gods were angered?” Kovrin said jokingly, and he laughed. “What if they take from me my comfort and make me suffer cold and hunger, it will scarcely be to my taste.”

In the meantime Tania had awaked and looked at her husband with amazement and terror. He was talking, addressing himself to the armchair, gesticulating and laughing; his eyes glistened and there was something strange in his laughter.

“Andryusha, with whom are you talking?” she asked, catching hold of the hand he was stretching out to the monk. “Andryusha, with whom? . . .”

“Eh? With whom?” Kovrin became confused. “With him. There he sits,” he answered, pointing to the black monk.

“There’s nobody here . . . nobody! Andryusha, you’re ill!”

Tania put her arms round her husband and pressed close to him, and as if to protect him from visions she put her hand over his eyes. “You are ill!” She sobbed and her whole body trembled. “Forgive me, darling, my dear one; I have long noticed that your soul is troubled about something. You are mentally ill, Andryusha. . . .”

Her shivering fit was communicated to him. He looked again at the armchair, which was now empty; he suddenly felt a weakness in the arms and legs, he was alarmed and began to dress.

“It’s nothing, Tania, nothing . . .” he mumbled, shivering. “I really feel a little out of sorts . . . it’s time to admit it.”

“I have long noticed it—and papa has noticed it too,” she said, trying to restrain her sobs. “You talk to yourself, you smile in a strange way . . . you don’t sleep. Oh, my God, my God, save us!” she said in terror. “But you must not be afraid, Andryusha, don’t be afraid, for God’s sake, don’t be afraid. . . ”

She also began to dress. Only now, when he looked at her, Kovrin understood all the danger of his position, he understood what the black monk and his talks with him meant. It was now quite clear to him that he was a madman.

They both dressed, without knowing why, and went into the drawing-room. She went first, he followed her. Here Egor Semenych, who was staying with them, was already standing in his dressing-gown with a candle in his hand.

“Don’t be afraid, Andryusha,” Tania said again, trembling like one with a fever. “Don’t be afraid. Papa, it will soon pass, it will soon pass.”

Kovrin was too excited to be able to speak. He wanted to say to his father-in-law in a playful tone:

“Congratulate me, I think I’m out of my mind,” but his lips only moved, and he smiled bitterly.

At nine o’clock in the morning he was wrapped up in a fur coat and a shawl and driven in a carriage to the doctor’s. He began a cure.