We shall all come together again; and then we shall be perfectly happy, and the old people will be reconciled when they see us.
Who knows, perhaps, our marriage will be the first step to their reconciliation.
I think, in fact, it’s bound to be so.
What do you think?”
“You speak of your marriage.
When is the wedding to be!” I asked, glancing at Natasha.
“Tomorrow or the day after. The day after tomorrow at the latest – that’s settled.
I don’t know much about it myself yet, you see; and in fact I’ve not made any arrangements.
I thought that perhaps Natasha wouldn’t come today.
Besides, my father insisted on taking me to see my betrothed today. (You know they’re making a match for me; has Natasha told you?
But I won’t consent.) So you see I couldn’t make any definite arrangements.
But anyway we shall be married the day after tomorrow.
I think so, at least, for I don’t see how else it can be.
Tomorrow we’ll set off on the road to Pskov.
I’ve a schoolfriend, a very nice fellow, living in the country not faroff, in that direction; you must meet him.
There’s a priest in the village there; though I don’t know whether there is or not.
I ought to have made inquiries, but I’ve not had time. . . . But all that’s of no consequence, really.
What matters is to keep the chief thing in view.
One might get a priest from a neighbouring village, what do you think?
I suppose there are neighbouring villages!
It’s a pity that I haven’t had time to write a line; I ought to have warned them we were corning.
My friend may not be at home now perhaps.... But that’s no matter.
So long as there’s determination everything will be settled of itself, won’t it?
And meanwhile, till tomorrow or the day after, she will be here with me.
I have taken a flat on purpose, where we shall live when we come back.
I can’t go on living with my father, can I?
You’ll come and see us? I’ve made it so nice.
My schoolfriends will come and see us. We’ll have evenings ...”
I looked at him in perplexity and distress.
Natasha’s eyes besought me to be kind and not to judge him harshly.
She listened to his talk with a sort of mournful smile, and at the same time she seemed to be admiring him as one admires a charming, merry child, listening to its sweet but senseless prattle, I looked at her reproachfully.
I was unbearably miserable.
“But your father?” I asked. “Are you so perfectly certain he’ll forgive you?”
“He must,” he replied. “What else is there left for him to do?
Of course he may curse me at first; in fact, I’m sure he will.
He’s like that; and so strict with me.
He may even take some proceedings against me; have recourse to his parental authority, in fact. . . . But that’s not serious, you know.
He loves me beyond anything. He’ll be angry and then forgive us.
Then everyone will be reconciled, and we shall all be happy.
Her father, too.”
“And what if he doesn’t forgive you? Have you thought of that?”
“He’s sure to forgive us, though perhaps not at once.
But what then?
I’ll show him that I have character.
He’s always scolding me for not having character, for being featherheaded.
He shall see now whether I’m featherheaded.
To be a married man is a serious thing. I shan’t be a boy then.... I mean I shall be just like other people... that is, other married men.
I shall live by my own work.
Natasha says that’s ever so much better than living at other people’s expense, as we all do.
If you only knew what a lot of fine things she says to me!