It struck three o'clock. Kovrin put out the light and lay down to
sleep, lay for a long time with his eyes closed, but could not get
to sleep because, as he fancied, the room was very hot and Tanya
talked in her sleep. At half-past four he lighted the candle again,
and this time he saw the black monk sitting in an arm-chair near
the bed.

"Good-morning," said the monk, and after a brief pause he asked:
"What are you thinking of now?"

"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?"