Masha used to come in a carriage; I used to get in with her, and we drove to Dubetchnya, feeling light-hearted and free.  Or, after waiting till the sun had set, I would go back dissatisfied and dreary, wondering why Masha had not come; at the gate or in the garden I would be met by a sweet, unexpected apparition—­it was she!  It would turn out that she had come by rail, and had walked from the station.  What a festival it was!  In a simple woollen dress with a kerchief on her head, with a modest sunshade, but laced in, slender, in expensive foreign boots—­it was a talented actress playing the part of a little workgirl.  We looked round our domain and decided which should be her room, and which mine, where we would have our avenue, our kitchen garden, our beehives.

We already had hens, ducks, and geese, which we loved because they were ours.  We had, all ready for sowing, oats, clover, timothy grass, buckwheat, and vegetable seeds, and we always looked at all these stores and discussed at length the crop we might get; and everything Masha said to me seemed extraordinarily clever, and fine.  This was the happiest time of my life.

Soon after St. Thomas’s week we were married at our parish church in the village of Kurilovka, two miles from Dubetchnya.  Masha wanted everything to be done quietly; at her wish our “best men” were peasant lads, the sacristan sang alone, and we came back from the church in a small, jolting chaise which she drove herself.  Our only guest from the town was my sister Kleopatra, to whom Masha sent a note three days before the wedding.  My sister came in a white dress and wore gloves.  During the wedding she cried quietly from joy and tenderness.  Her expression was motherly and infinitely kind.  She was intoxicated with our happiness, and smiled as though she were absorbing a sweet delirium, and looking at her during our wedding, I realized that for her there was nothing in the world higher than love, earthly love, and that she was dreaming of it secretly, timidly, but continually and passionately.  She embraced and kissed Masha, and, not knowing how to express her rapture, said to her of me:  “He is good!  He is very good!”

Before she went away she changed into her ordinary dress, and drew me into the garden to talk to me alone.

“Father is very much hurt,” she said, “that you have written nothing to him.  You ought to have asked for his blessing.  But in reality he is very much pleased.  He says that this marriage will raise you in the eyes of all society, and that under the influence of Mariya Viktorovna you will begin to take a more serious view of life.  We talk of nothing but you in the evenings now, and yesterday he actually used the expression:  ‘Our Misail.’  That pleased me.  It seems as though he had some plan in his mind, and I fancy he wants to set you an example of magnanimity and be the first to speak of reconciliation.  It is very possible he may come here to see you in a day or two.”