and Kovrin only just had time to get out of the way to let it pass
. . . . The monk with bare grey head, black eyebrows, barefoot, his
arms crossed over his breast, floated by him, and stood still in
the middle of the room.

"Why did you not believe me?" he asked reproachfully, looking
affectionately at Kovrin. "If you had believed me then, that you
were a genius, you would not have spent these two years so gloomily
and so wretchedly."

Kovrin already believed that he was one of God's chosen and a genius;
he vividly recalled his conversations with the monk in the past and
tried to speak, but the blood flowed from his throat on to his
breast, and not knowing what he was doing, he passed his hands over
his breast, and his cuffs were soaked with blood. He tried to call
Varvara Nikolaevna, who was asleep behind the screen; he made an
effort and said:

"Tanya!"

He fell on the floor, and propping himself on his arms, called
again:

"Tanya!"

He called Tanya, called to the great garden with the gorgeous flowers
sprinkled with dew, called to the park, the pines with their shaggy
roots, the rye-field, his marvellous learning, his youth, courage,
joy--called to life, which was so lovely. He saw on the floor
near his face a great pool of blood, and was too weak to utter a