Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic
of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at nignt,
and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that
have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have
climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and
from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched
it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the moun-
tain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched
from there the lightning flashing over my head and
cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests,
fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing
of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes;
I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew



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264 The Tales of Chekhov

down to converse with me of God. ... In your
books I have flung myself into the bottomless pit,
performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached
new religions, conquered whole kingdoms. . ..
"Your books have given me wisdom. All that
the unresting thought of man has created in the ages
is compressed into a small compass in my brain.
I know that I am wiser than all of you.
"And I despise your books, I despise wisdom
and the blessings of this world. It is all worthless,
fleeting, illusory, and deceptive, like a mirage.
You may be proud, wise, and fine, but death will
wipe you off the face of the earth as though you
were no more than mice burrowing under the floor,
and your posterity, your history, your immortal
geniuses will burn or freeze together with the earthly
globe.
