In the country, he continued to lead the same anxious and worried life as in town. He read and wrote frequently, studied Italian, and when he took a walk, he relished the thought that he would soon sit down to work again. He slept so little that it astonished everyone; if he accidentally goes to sleep during the day at noon, then he does not sleep the whole night and after a sleepless night, he feels cheerful and jolly, as if there was nothing to it.
   He spoke a lot, drank wine and smoked expensive cigars. Often to Pesotzky’s, if not every single day, came the neighbor-girls, who together with Tanya played the piano and sang; sometimes a young man came, a neighbor, who played well on the violin. Kovrin listened to the music and song with spite and became tired of it, the latter was expressed physically, in that his eyelids were stuck together and his head tilted to the side.
   Once after evening tea he sat on the balcony and read. In the dining room at the time was Tanya— a soprano, one of the girls — a contra alto and a young man on violin practicing a well known serenade by Bragg. Kovrin listened closely to the words— they were Russian — and could not at all understand their intended meaning. Finally, having put aside the book and listened carefully, he understood: a girl with a troubled imagination heard some mysterious noises in the garden at night, beautiful and strange to such a degree that she had to recognize their sacred harmony, which to us mortals is indiscernible and therefore flies away back into the heavens. Kovrin’s eyes began to stick together. He woke up and crossed the dining room, then the hall in a state of exhaustion. When the singing came to and end, he took Tanya by the hand and went out with her onto the balcony.
   Today from first thing this morning I have been occupied by one legend, — he said. — I do not remember where I read or heard about it from, but the legend is a strange one, incomparable with anything else. To begin with, it is not distinguished by its clarity. A thousand years ago a group of monks, dressed in black, walked the desert, somewhere in Syria or Arabia… A few miles from that place where they walked, fishermen saw another black monk, who slowly moved on the surface of a lake. This second monk was a mirage. Now forget all the laws of optics, which it appears legends do not recognize, and keep listening. From one mirage emerged another, then from another, a third, so that the form of the black monk started to endlessly pass from one layer of atmosphere to another. They saw him then in Africa, then in Spain, then India, then in the distant north… finally, he exited the bounds of earth’s atmosphere and now wanders the entire universe, always in no way falling into those conditions, in which he could fade out. Perhaps they see him now somewhere on Mars, or one of the stars of the Southern Cross. But, my dear, the very heart, the climax of the legend consists in that, precisely a thousand years after the monks walked across the desert, a mirage again will come into the earthly atmosphere and appear to people. It would seem as if this thousand years is already reaching its outcome… According to the meaning of the legend, we must expect the black monk not today— tomorrow.
   — A strange mirage, — Tanya said, who did not like the legend.
   — But most remarkable of all, — Kovrin laughed, — is that I cannot even remember, from where this legend entered into my mind. Did I read it somewhere? Heard it? Or, maybe, I dreamed of the black monk? I swear to God, I do not remember. But the legend occupies me. Today I am thinking about it all day long.
   Having left Tanya to the guests, he exited the house and walked near the flower beds, lost in thought. The sun had already gone down. Since they were just watered, the flowers gave off a moist, irritating smell. In the house they began to sing once again, and from afar the violin produced the impression of a human voice. Kovrin, straining to recall where he heard or read the legend, set out into the yard, not in a hurry, and unwittingly came up to the river.
   Along the path, having run across the steep bank past bare roots, he descended down towards the water, startled the sandpipers there, frightened two ducks. On the gloomy pines shining somewhere were the last rays of the setting sun, but on the surface of the river it was already evening. Kovrin passed across the lava to the other side. Before him now lay two wide fields, covered with young, still not blossoming wheat. Not a human dwelling, or a living soul for a long way, and it seems that the path, if one walks along, leads to the most unknown mysterious place, to where the sun just sank down and where the evening dawn blazes so widely and majestically.
   “How spacious it is here, free, quiet! — thought Kovrin, walking along the path.— And it seems the whole world watches me, hides itself and waits for me to recognize it…”
   But here waves ran across the wheat, and a light evening breeze gently touched his uncovered head. After a minute another wind gust, but already stronger, — the wheat made a sound, and the murmur of the pines could be heard from behind. Kovrin stopped in amazement. On the horizon, like a whirlwind or tornado, a tall black column lifted from the earth to the sky. Its contours were indistinguishable, but at the first moment it was possible to see that he was not standing in place, but moving with frightful speed. It moved right here, straight at Kovrin, and the closer it moved, the smaller and clearer it became. Kovrin ran to the side, into the wheat, to give it a path, but he hardly had time to do this…
  A monk in black clothes, with gray head and black eyebrows, arms crossed over the chest, flying past… his bare feet did not touch the ground. Already flying three sazhens, he looked back at Kovrin, nodded his head and smiled at him tenderly and at the same time slyly. But what a pale, frightfully pale, gaunt face! Starting to advance again, he flew across the river, noiselessly collided with the muddy shore and pines and, passing through them, disappeared like smoke.
   — Well, here you see whether there is…— mumbled Kovrin. — It means the legend is true.
   Not trying to explain the strange phenomenon to himself, pleased only that he succeeded so closely and so clearly to see not only the black clothes, but even the face and eyes of a monk, he returned home pleasantly exhilarated.
    In the park and yard people walked peacefully, in the house they were playing, — which means, only he alone saw the monk. He badly wanted to tell both Tanya and Igor Semyenich, but he figured that they would probably consider his words nonsense and it would frighten them; better to keep quiet. He laughed loudly, sang, danced the mazurka, he was delighted, and everyone, the guests and Tanya, found that today his face was somehow unique, radiant, inspired, and that he was very compelling.