My friend Platon Mikhailovich decided to move to the village. He settled in the house of the late uncle and at first was quite blissful. From one kind of huge rustic uncle's armchairs, in which it is quite possible to drown, his spleen almost passed. Frankly, I marveled reading these confessions. Imagine Platon Mikhailovich in a rural outfit traveling with visits to neighboring landowners - it was beyond my strength. Together with new friends, Platon Mikhailovich got a new philosophy. The neighbors liked him because he showed himself to be a good fellow, who thinks that it is better not to know anything than as much as our scientists, and that the main thing is good digestion. Excessive intelligence, as you know, harms this process.

Two months later, Platon Mikhailovich was sad again. He assured inadvertently that ignorance is not salvation. Among the so-called simple, natural people, passions also rage. It was sick to watch him how the whole mind of these practical people went to win the wrong thing, get a bribe, take revenge on his foe. Their most innocent occupations are card games, drunkenness, debauchery ... Having bored neighbors, Platon Mikhailovich locked himself in the house and did not order anyone to be received. His gaze turned to the old sealed cabinets left after his uncle. The steward said that there were uncles' books. After my uncle died, my aunt told me to seal these cabinets and not touch them again. With great difficulty Platon Mikhailovich entreated the old servant to open them. He denied, sighed and said that sin would be. However, the lordly order he had to fulfill. Having ascended to the mezzanine, he pulled back the wax seals, opened the doors, and Platon Mikhailovich discovered that he did not know his uncle at all. The cabinets were filled with the works of Paracelsus, Arnold Villanova and other mystics, alchemists, and Kabbalists.

Judging by the selection of books, the uncle's passion was alchemy and Kabbalah. I'm afraid Platon Mikhailovich fell ill with this too. He zealously began to read books about the first matter, about the soul of the sun, about star spirits. And not only read, but also told me in detail about it. Among other books he came across one curious manuscript. What would you think was in it? As many as recipes for summoning spirits. Another, perhaps, would have laughed at this, but Platon Mikhailovich was already captured by his thought. He placed a glass vessel with water and began to collect sunlight into it, as shown in the manuscript. He drank this water every day. He believed that in this way he comes into contact with the spirit of the sun, which opens his eyes to the world of the invisible and unknown. Further more. My friend decided to get engaged to La Sylphide - and for this purpose threw his turquoise ring into the water. After a long time, he noticed some movement in the ring. Plato saw the ring crumble and turn into small sparks ... Thin blue and gold threads filled the entire surface of the vase, gradually turning pale, disappearing and staining the water in gold with blue tints. It was worth putting the vase in place - as the ring again appeared at the bottom. My friend was convinced that what was hidden from the rest of the world was open to him, that he became a witness to the great mystery of nature and was simply obliged to understand and make people aware of it.

During the experiments, Platon Mikhailovich completely forgot about his business. It was a matter, though somewhat unexpected for Platon Mikhailovich, but quite understandable in his position and, I would even say, useful for his state of mind. He met one of the neighbors, by the way, with his daughter Katya. For a long time Platon Mikhailovich tried to talk to the girl and defeat her natural shyness, which made her blush at every word addressed to her. Having got to know her better, he found out that Katya (as he already called her in letters) not only has a natural mind and heart, but also is in love with her .. Her father hinted to Platon Mikhailovich that he was not averse to seeing him as his son-in-law and was ready for it the case would end the thirty-year lawsuit over several thousand acres of wood that made up the main income of the peasants of Platon Mikhailovich. So he thought: would he marry this Katya? He liked Katya; he found her a docile and non-compliant girl. In a word, he now asked rather for my blessing than for my advice. Of course, I resolutely wrote to Plato that I completely approve of his marriage, I am happy for him and for Katya.

I must say that sometimes attacks of activity are found on my friend. So it was that time. He immediately jumped to Rezhensky, made a formal proposal and set a wedding day - immediately after the fast. He was glad that he would do a good deed for the peasants, he was proud that he understood his bride better than her own father. Platon Mikhailovich with his characteristic enthusiasm already found in every Katya’s word a whole world of thoughts. I do not know if he was right, but I did not dissuade him. His decision seemed final.

And yet, I admit, I was somehow uncomfortable. Already painfully strange letters I began to receive. I already told how Platon Mikhailovich was convinced that his ring in a vase crumbles into separate sparks. Then he dreamed that the ring had turned into a rose. Finally, he saw between the petals of a rose, among the stamens, a miniature creature - a woman who was barely visible to the eye. My friend was fascinated by her fair-haired curls, her perfect forms and natural charms. From all he did was that he watched her wonderful dream. It would be half the trouble. In the last letter, he announced that he was ceasing relations with the world and was fully committed to exploring the wonderful world of Sylphides.

In a short time, I nevertheless received a letter, not only from Platon Mikhailovich, but from Gavrila Sofronovich Rezhensky, the father of Katya. The old man was terribly offended that Platon Mikhailovich suddenly stopped visiting him, it seemed that he had completely forgotten about the wedding. Finally he found out that my friend had locked himself up, was not letting anyone in and that he was being served all the dishes through the door window. Then Gavrila Sofronovich was seriously worried. He remembered that when he lived in the house, Uncle Platon Mikhailovich was called a warlock. Gavrila Sofronovich himself, although he did not believe in the Black Book, heard that Platon Mikhailovich spent days looking at a carafe of water, he decided that my friend was ill.

With this letter and with the letters of Platon Mikhailovich himself, I went for advice to a doctor I knew. After listening to everything, the doctor positively assured me that Platon Mikhailovich simply went crazy, and for a long time explained to me how this happened. I made up my mind and invited him to my friend. We found my friend in bed. For several days he did not eat anything, did not recognize us, did not answer our questions. Some kind of fire burned in his eyes. Beside him were sheets of paper. It was a record of his imaginary conversations with Sylphide. She called him with her to her sunny, blooming, fragrant world. She was burdened by a dead, cold earthly world, he inflicted indescribable suffering on her.

Together, we brought Platon Mikhailovich out of his stupor. First a bath, then a spoonful of potion, then a spoonful of broth and all over again. Gradually, the patient developed an appetite, he began to recover. I tried to talk with Platon Mikhailovich about practical and positive things: about the state of the estate, about how to transfer the peasants from the quitrent to the corvee. My friend listened to everything very carefully. He didn’t contradict, ate, drank, but did not take part in anything. More successful were my conversations about our reckless youth, several bottles of Lafite that I had taken with me, and a bloody roast beef. Platon Mikhailovich was so strong that I even reminded him of the bride. He agreed with me. I jumped to the future father-in-law, settled the controversial matter, and put Plato himself in his uniform and finally waited for the wedding.

A few months later I visited the young. Platon Mikhailovich sat in a bathrobe, with a pipe in his mouth. Katya poured tea, the sun was shining, a pear looked in the window, juicy and ripe. Platon Mikhailovich seemed even delighted, but was generally silent. Seizing the minute when my wife left the room, I asked him: “Well, brother, are you not happy?” I did not expect a long answer or thanks. Yes, and what can I say? Yes, only my friend started talking. But how strange was his tirade! He explained that I should be content with the praises of uncles, aunts and other prudent people. “Katya loves me, the estate is arranged, incomes are collected regularly. Everyone will say that you gave me happiness - and that's for sure. But not my happiness: you were wrong with the number. Who knows, maybe I'm an artist of an art that is not yet there. This is not poetry, not painting, not music <...>. I had to discover this art, but now I can’t - and everything will freeze for a thousand years <...>. After all, you need to clarify everything, put everything in parts ... ”, said Platon Mikhailovich.

However, this was the last fit of his illness. Over time, everything returned to normal. My friend took up the household and left the old nonsense. True, they say that he now drinks hard - not only with his neighbors, but also one, and he does not give a single maid a passage. But this is so, little things. But now he is a man, like all others.