foreign languages, sang. . . . Poor thing! she died of consumption.
The Kingdom of Heaven be hers."

The unreal Yegor Semyonitch sighed, and after a pause went on:

"When he was a boy and growing up in my house, he had the same
angelic face, good and candid. The way he looks and talks and moves
is as soft and elegant as his mother's. And his intellect! We were
always struck with his intelligence. To be sure, it's not for nothing
he's a Master of Arts! It's not for nothing! And wait a bit, Ivan
Karlovitch, what will he be in ten years' time? He will be far above
us!"

But at this point the real Yegor Semyonitch, suddenly coming to
himself, would make a terrible face, would clutch his head and cry:

"The devils! They have spoilt everything! They have ruined everything!
They have spoilt everything! The garden's done for, the garden's
ruined!"

Kovrin, meanwhile, worked with the same ardour as before, and did
not notice the general commotion. Love only added fuel to the flames.
After every talk with Tanya he went to his room, happy and triumphant,
took up his book or his manuscript with the same passion with which
he had just kissed Tanya and told her of his love. What the black
monk had told him of the chosen of God, of eternal truth, of the
brilliant future of mankind and so on, gave peculiar and extraordinary
significance to his work, and filled his soul with pride and the
consciousness of his own exalted consequence. Once or twice a week,
in the park or in the house, he met the black monk and had long