town. He read and wrote a great deal, he studied Italian, and when
he was out for a walk, thought with pleasure that he would soon sit
down to work again. He slept so little that every one wondered at
him; if he accidentally dozed for half an hour in the daytime, he
would lie awake all night, and, after a sleepless night, would feel
cheerful and vigorous as though nothing had happened.

He talked a great deal, drank wine, and smoked expensive cigars.
Very often, almost every day, young ladies of neighbouring families
would come to the Pesotskys', and would sing and play the piano
with Tanya; sometimes a young neighbour who was a good violinist
would come, too. Kovrin listened with eagerness to the music and
singing, and was exhausted by it, and this showed itself by his
eyes closing and his head falling to one side.

One day he was sitting on the balcony after evening tea, reading.
At the same time, in the drawing-room, Tanya taking soprano, one
of the young ladies a contralto, and the young man with his violin,
were practising a well-known serenade of Braga's. Kovrin listened
to the words--they were Russian--and could not understand their
meaning. At last, leaving his book and listening attentively, he
understood: a maiden, full of sick fancies, heard one night in her
garden mysterious sounds, so strange and lovely that she was obliged
to recognise them as a holy harmony which is unintelligible to us
mortals, and so flies back to heaven. Kovrin's eyes began to close.
He got up, and in exhaustion walked up and down the drawing-room,
and then the dining-room. When the singing was over he took Tanya's
arm, and with her went out on the balcony.

"I have been all day thinking of a legend," he said. "I don't