A Nervous Breakdown

by Anton Chekhov

  ‘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, 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 …

  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. 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 ju
st 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.

  III

  After supper, when the guests had left, he went to his room and lay on the couch. He wanted to think about the monk, but a moment later in came Tanya.

  ‘Here, Andrey, read Father’s articles,’ she said, handing him a bundle of pamphlets and offprints. ‘They’re wonderful, he’s an excellent writer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that!’ Yegor Semyonych said, forcing a laugh as he followed her into the room; he felt embarrassed. ‘Don’t listen to her, please! Don’t read them! But if you need something to make you sleep, then go ahead. They’re an excellent soporific!’

  ‘In my opinion they’re magnificent,’ Tanya said with great conviction. ‘Read them, Andrey, and persuade Father to write more often. He could write a whole course in horticulture.’

  Yegor Semyonych gave a forced laugh, blushed and started speaking in the way shy authors usually do. In the end he gave in. ‘In that case, read Gaucher’s article first, then these short ones in Russian,’ he muttered, turning over the pamphlets with trembling hands. ‘Otherwise you won’t understand a thing. Before you read my objections, you must know what it is I’m objecting to. However, it’s rubbish … boring. What’s more, I think it’s time for bed.’

  Tanya went out. Yegor Semyonych sat beside Kovrin on the couch and sighed deeply. ‘Yes, my dear boy,’ he began after a short silence. ‘Yes, my dear Master of Arts. Here I am writing articles and exhibiting at shows and winning medals … They say Pesotsky has “apples as big as your head” and that he made his fortune with his orchard. Pesotsky is monarch of all he surveys, in short. But, you may ask, what’s the point of it all? The garden is really beautiful, a show-garden in fact. It’s not so much a garden as a complete institution, of the greatest importance to the state, a step, so to speak, towards a new era in Russian economics and industry. But what’s the point of it? What’s the use?’

  ‘It speaks for itself.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. I’d like to know, what will happen to the garden when I die? It won’t be kept up to its present standard for more than one month. The secret of my success isn’t that it’s a big garden, with lots of gardeners, but because I love the work – do you follow? Perhaps I love it better than myself. I work from dawn till dusk. The grafting, pruning, planting – I do them all myself. When people start helping me, I get jealous and irritated until I’m downright rude to them. The whole secret is love, and by that I mean the keen eye and head of the master looking after his own place, the feeling that comes over you when you’ve gone visiting for an hour and you just sit still. But your heart’s not there, you’re miles away – afraid something might be going wrong in the garden. And when I die who’ll look after it? Who’ll do the work? The head gardener? The ordinary gardeners? What do you think? So let me tell you, dear boy, the principal enemy in our work isn’t hares, cockchafers or frost, but the man who doesn’t care.’

  ‘And Tanya?’ laughed Kovrin. ‘She couldn’t possibly do more harm than a hare. She loves the work, she understands it.’

  ‘Yes, she loves and understands it. If the garden passes into her hands after my death and she takes charge, I could hope for nothing better. But supposing she marries, God forbid?’ Yegor Semyonych whispered and gave Kovrin a frightened look. ‘This is my point! She’ll marry, have children and then she’ll have no time to think about the garden. But my main worry is her marrying some young whipper-snapper who’ll grow greedy, rent the garden out to some market-woman and it’ll all go to rack and ruin within a year! In this kind of business women are like the plague!’

  Yegor Semyonych sighed and was silent for a few minutes. ‘Perhaps it’s just egotism, but I’m telling you quite frankly: I don’t want Tanya to marry. I’m afraid! There’s that young fop who comes here scraping his fiddle. I know Tanya won’t marry him, I know that very well, but I just can’t stand the sight of him. On the whole I’m quite a crank, dear boy. I admit it.’ Yegor Semyonych got up and paced the room excitedly; it was plain he wanted to say something very important, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

  ‘I’m extremely fond of you and I’ll be open with you,’ he said at last, stuffing his hands into his pockets. ‘I’m usually quite straight-forward when it comes to certain ticklish questions and I’m telling you exactly what I think – I can’t stand these so-called “innermost thoughts”. I’m telling you straight: you’re the only man I wouldn’t mind marrying my daughter. You’re clever, you have feelings and you wouldn’t let my beloved work perish. But the main reason is – I love you like a son … and I’m proud of you. If Tanya and yourself became fond of each other, well then, I’d be very glad, happy even. I’m telling you straight, without frills, as an honest man.’

  Kov
rin burst out laughing. Yegor Semyonych opened the door to go out and stopped on the threshold. ‘If Tanya gave you a son I’d make a gardener out of him,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘However, that’s an idle dream … Good night.’

  Left alone, Kovrin settled himself more comfortably on the couch and started on the articles. One bore the title Intermedial Cultivation, another A few Observations on Mr Z’s Remarks on Double-Trenching in New Gardens, and another More about Grafting Dormant Buds; and there were other titles like that. But what a restless, uneven tone, what highly charged, almost pathological fervour! Here was an article with apparently the most inoffensive title and unexceptionable subject – the winter dessert apple. But Yegor Semyonych first weighed in with an audiatur altera pars and ended with sapienti sat, interpolating these dicta with a whole torrent of venomous animadversions apropos the ‘learned ignorance of our self-appointed gentlemen-horticulturalists who look down on nature from their Olympian heights’: or Gaucher, ‘whose reputation was made by ignoramuses and dilettantes’. These remarks were followed by the totally irrelevant, forced, sham regret for the fact that it was no longer legal to birch peasants who stole fruit and damaged trees in the process.

  ‘It’s a fine, pleasant, healthy occupation, but even here it’s passion and warfare,’ Kovrin thought. ‘Probably, it’s because intellectuals are neurotic and over-sensitive everywhere, in all walks of life. Perhaps it can’t be avoided.’

  He thought of Tanya who liked Yegor Semyonych’s articles so much. She was not tall, was pale and thin, with protruding collar-bones; her dark, clever, staring eyes were always peering, seeking something. She walked just like her father, taking short, quick steps. Very talkative, she loved to argue and would accompany the most trivial phrase with highly expressive mimicry and gesticulations. She was probably highly strung.