I try to continue, but the eclipse is over.

“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.