Read Online Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk by Boris Akunin - Free Book Online Page B

his mind. The doctor said that that was for the best: there was no point in raking over the past, and what he needed to do now was to build his life over again from the beginning. Lev Nikolaevich is completely well already, but he does not wish to leave Canaan. He has grown attached to Korovin, and he feels afraid of the world. He said so in as many words: “I'm afraid of the world, in case it breaks me again. But it's calm and peaceful here. God's beauty all around and all the people are very good too. To live on the mainland, you have to be strong—strong enough to bear the entire weight of the world and not be bowed by it. It is a great man who can repeat after Jesus: ‘The yoke is my blessing, and my burden is light.’ But then it is also written: ‘An unbearable burden must not be laid upon the weak.’ I am weak; it is better for me to live on the island.” He is an original character in general, this former resident of St. Petersburg. It would be interesting for you to have a talk with him; you would like each other. But the reason I am telling you about Lev Nikolaevich is that your Possessed are now in his possession. So I shall never know how Verkhovensky's conspiracy turned out. It's a pity, of course, but Lev Nikolaevich was looking at the book with such desperate longing—I could see he wanted to ask for it, but he didn't dare. Well, I gave it to him. In any case, I have no free time for reading novels—I have been sent here as the Holy Inquisitions exorcist.
    Do not think, Oh Sheikh al-Islam, that all I do here is sit around in restaurants and coffeehouses and gaze at the Princess Lointaine (Oh, my delight, where are you?). I have already clambered all over this island of Canaan and examined Outskirts Island from every side through binoculars—I very nearly tumbled out of the boat. I have seen all three of the hermits emerge from their burrows for their daily constitutional. They are bent over double and can scarcely hobble along—more like moles than human beings. I can boast of the fact that the abbot (he has a white border to his cowl) has favored me with his most holy attention—he threatened me with his crutch to make sure I didn't sail too close.
    I have discovered that the head mole is called Israel, and the story of his life is highly intriguing. Before taking monastic vows he was the kind of rich and idle aristocrat who, for lack of anything useful to occupy his time, takes up some kind of hobby , devoting himself passionately to his chosen whimsy and spending his entire life and fortune on it. This man had chosen a passion that is not particularly rare, but is the most engrossing of all—he collected women, and he applied himself so keenly to this activity that a certain retired vice-chancellor of my acquaintance would seem like a genuine seraphim in comparison. This latter-day Don Juan's thirst for new knowledge was supposedly so insatiable that he compiled a geographical atlas of comparative female anatomy, for which purpose he took special voyages of voluptuousness to various countries, including such exotic destinations as Annam, the kingdom of Hawaii, and Darkest Africa. And the number of highly respectable matrons he seduced and haughty young maidens he perverted within the borders of our own Orthodox fatherland is beyond all count, because he possessed some special talent for casting a spell on female hearts. Reputation plays a great part in this matter too. Ladies will not even spare a glance for some common drab bay, but the moment the news spreads that he is a dangerous seducer, they will immediately discover something in him that is attractive and even irresistible: the eyes, the hands, or, if he has no outstanding features at all, they will invent some kind of magnetic aura.
    Ah, but I am only grumbling out of jealousy. To live one's life like the holy man Israel's would not be half-bad: plow your way wildly through all the lush years and then, when you get bored with it all and