"Look at me!" she whispers tenderly.
Oh, that is the last straw! Trying a man's patience like that can
but have a fatal ending. I am not to blame if something terrible
happens. I allow no one to make a laughing stock of me, and, God
knows, when I am furious, I advise nobody to come near me, damn it
all! There's nothing I might not do! One of the young ladies,
probably noticing from my face what a rage I am in, and anxious to
propitiate me, says:
"I did exactly what you told me, Nikolay Andreitch; I watched the
animals. I saw the grey dog chasing the cat just before the eclipse,
and wagging his tail for a long while afterwards."
So nothing came of the eclipse after all.
I go home. Thanks to the rain, I work indoors instead of on the
balcony. The wounded officer has risked it, and has again got as
far as "I was born in . . ." when I see one of the variegated young
ladies pounce down on him and bear him off to her villa.
I cannot work, for I am still in a fury and suffering from palpitation
of the heart. I do not go to the arbour. It is impolite not to,
but, after all, I can't be expected to go in the rain.
At twelve o'clock I receive a letter from Mashenka, a letter full
of reproaches and entreaties to go to the arbour, addressing me as
"thou." At one o'clock I get a second letter, and at two, a third
. . . . I must go. . . . But before going I must consider what I am
to say to her. I will behave like a gentleman.
To begin with, I will tell her that she is mistaken in supposing
that I am in love with her. That's a thing one does not say to a
lady as a rule, though. To tell a lady that one's not in love with
her, is almost as rude as to tell an author he can't write.
The best thing will be to explain my views of marriage.
I put on my winter overcoat, take an umbrella, and walk to the
arbour.
Knowing the hastiness of my temper, I am afraid I may be led into
speaking too strongly; I will try to restrain myself.
I find Nadenka still waiting for me. She is pale and in tears. On
seeing me she utters a cry of joy, flings herself on my neck, and
says:
"At last! You are trying my patience. . . . Listen, I have not slept
all night. . . . I have been thinking and thinking. . . . I believe
that when I come to know you better I shall learn to love you. . . ."
I sit down, and begin to unfold my views of marriage. To begin with,
to clear the ground of digressions and to be as brief as possible,
I open with a short historical survey. I speak of marriage in ancient
Egypt and India, then pass to more recent times, a few ideas from
Schopenhauer. Mashenka listens attentively, but all of a sudden,
through some strange incoherence of ideas, thinks fit to interrupt
me:
"Nicolas, kiss me!" she says.
I am embarrassed and don't know what to say to her. She repeats her
request. There seems no avoiding it. I get up and bend over her
long face, feeling as I do so just as I did in my childhood when I
was lifted up to kiss my grandmother in her coffin. Not content
with the kiss, Mashenka leaps up and impulsively embraces me. At
that instant, Mashenka's _maman_ appears in the doorway of the
arbour. . . . She makes a face as though in alarm, and saying "sh-sh"
to someone with her, vanishes like Mephistopheles through the
trapdoor.
Confused and enraged, I return to our villa. At home I find Varenka's
_maman_ embracing my _maman_ with tears in her eyes. And my _maman_
weeps and says:
"I always hoped for it!"
And then, if you please, Nadenka's _maman_ comes up to me, embraces
me, and says:
"May God bless you! . . . Mind you love her well. . . . Remember
the sacrifice she is making for your sake!"
And here I am at my wedding. At the moment I write these last words,
my best man is at my side, urging me to make haste. These people
have no idea of my character! I have a violent temper, I cannot
always answer for myself! Hang it all! God knows what will come of
it! To lead a violent, desperate man to the altar is as unwise as
to thrust one's hand into the cage of a ferocious tiger. We shall
see, we shall see!
* * * * *
And so, I am married. Everybody congratulates me and Varenka keeps
clinging to me and saying:
"Now you are mine, mine; do you understand that? Tell me that you
love me!" And her nose swells as she says it.
I learn from my best man that the wounded officer has very cleverly
escaped the snares of Hymen. He showed the variegated young lady a
medical certificate that owing to the wound in his temple he was
at times mentally deranged and incapable of contracting a valid
marriage. An inspiration! I might have got a certificate too. An
uncle of mine drank himself to death, another uncle was extremely
absent-minded (on one occasion he put a lady's muff on his head in
mistake for his hat), an aunt of mine played a great deal on the
piano, and used to put out her tongue at gentlemen she did not like.
And my ungovernable temper is a very suspicious symptom.
But why do these great ideas always come too late? Why?