“Of fame,” answered Kovrin. “In the French novel I have just been reading, there is a description of a young savant, who does silly things and pines away through worrying about fame. I can’t understand such anxiety.”
“Because you are wise. Your attitude towards fame is one of indifference, as towards a toy which no longer interests you.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Renown does not allure you now. What is there flattering, amusing, or edifying in their carving your name on a tombstone, then time rubbing off the inscription together with the gilding? Moreover, happily there are too many of you for the weak memory of mankind to be able to retain your names.”
“Of course,” assented Kovrin. “Besides, why should they be remembered? But let us talk of something else. Of happiness, for instance. What is happiness?”
When the clock struck five, he was sitting on the bed, dangling his feet to the carpet, talking to the monk:
“In ancient times a happy man grew at last frightened of his happiness —it was so great!—and to propitiate the gods he brought as a sacrifice his favourite ring. Do you know, I, too, like Polykrates, begin to be uneasy of my happiness. It seems strange to me that from morning to night I feel nothing but joy; it fills my whole being and smothers all other feelings. I don’t know what sadness, grief, or boredom is. Here I am not asleep; I suffer from sleeplessness, but I am not dull. I say it in earnest; I begin to feel perplexed.”
“But why?” the monk asked in wonder. “Is joy a supernatural feeling? Ought it not to be the normal state of man? The more highly a man is developed on the intellectual and moral side, the more independent he is, the more pleasure life gives him. Socrates, Diogenes, and Marcus Aurelius, were joyful, not sorrowful. And the Apostle tells us: ‘Rejoice continually’; ‘Rejoice and be glad.’”
“But will the gods be suddenly wrathful?” Kovrin jested; and he laughed. “If they take from me comfort and make me go cold and hungry, it won’t be very much to my taste.”
Meanwhile Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at her husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing and gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was something strange in his laugh.
“Andryusha, whom are you talking to?” she asked, clutching the hand he stretched out to the monk. “Andryusha! Whom?”
“Oh! Whom?” said Kovrin in confusion. “Why, to him. . . . He is sitting here,” he said, pointing to the black monk.
“There is no one here . . . no one! Andryusha, you are ill!”
Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as though protecting him from the apparition, and put her hand over his eyes.
“You are ill!” she sobbed, trembling all over. “Forgive me, my precious, my dear one, but I have noticed for a long time that your mind is clouded in some way. . . . You are mentally ill, Andryusha . . . .”