pars," and finished it with "Sapienti sat"; and
between these two quotations a perfect torrent of venomous phrases
directed "at the learned ignorance of our recognised horticultural
authorities, who observe Nature from the height of their university
chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher, "whose success has been the work
of the vulgar and the dilettanti." "And then followed an inappropriate,
affected, and insincere regret that peasants who stole fruit and
broke the branches could not nowadays be flogged.

"It is beautiful, charming, healthy work, but even in this there
is strife and passion," thought Kovrin, "I suppose that everywhere
and in all careers men of ideas are nervous, and marked by exaggerated
sensitiveness. Most likely it must be so."

He thought of Tanya, who was so pleased with Yegor Semyonitch's
articles. Small, pale, and so thin that her shoulder-blades stuck
out, her eyes, wide and open, dark and intelligent, had an intent
gaze, as though looking for something. She walked like her father
with a little hurried step. She talked a great deal and was fond
of arguing, accompanying every phrase, however insignificant, with
expressive mimicry and gesticulation. No doubt she was nervous in
the extreme.

Kovrin went on reading the articles, but he understood nothing of
them, and flung them aside. The same pleasant excitement with which
he had earlier in the evening danced the mazurka and listened to
the music was now mastering him again and rousing a multitude of
thoughts. He got up and began walking about the room, thinking about
the black monk. It occurred to him that if this strange, supernatural
monk had appeared to him only, that meant that he was ill and had
reached the point of having hallucinations. This reflection frightened
him, but not for long.

"But I am all right, and I am doing no harm to any one; so there
is no harm in my hallucinations," he thought; and he felt happy
again.

He sat down on the sofa and clasped his hands round his head.
Restraining the unaccountable joy which filled his whole being, he
then paced up and down again, and sat down to his work. But the
thought that he read in the book did not satisfy him. He wanted
something gigantic, unfathomable, stupendous. Towards morning he
undressed and reluctantly went to bed: he ought to sleep.

When he heard the footsteps of Yegor Semyonitch going out into the
garden, Kovrin rang the bell and asked the footman to bring him
some wine. He d