Boris (good-looking young man, about thirty years old, blonde, a little effeminate, wistful.  A curious appurtenance in the military household of so vigorous a general).  “Natacha, there is not an hour that I can call truly good if I spend it away from you, dear, dear Natacha.”

“I ask you seriously if you have passed a good night?”

She touched his hand a moment and looked into his eyes, but he shook his head.

“What did you do last night after you reached home?” she demanded insistently.  “Did you stay up?”

“I obeyed you; I only sat a half-hour by the window looking over here at the villa, and then I went to bed.”

“Yes, it is necessary you should get your rest.  I wish it for you as for everyone else.  This feverish life is impossible.  Matrena Petrovna is getting us all ill, and we shall be prostrated.”

“Yesterday,” said Boris, “I looked at the villa for a half-hour from my window.  Dear, dear villa, dear night when I can feel you breathing, living near me.  As if you had been against my heart.  I could have wept because I could hear Michael snoring in his chamber.  He seemed happy.  At last, I heard nothing more, there was nothing more to hear but the double chorus of frogs in the pools of the sland.  Our pools, Natacha, are like the enchanted lakes of the Caucasus which are silent by day and sing at evening; there are innumerabel throngs of frogs which sing on the same chord, some of them on a major and some on a minor.  The chorus speaks from pool to pool, lamenting and moaning across the fields and gardens, and re-echoing like AEolian harps placed opposite one another.”

“Do AEolian harps make so much noise, Boris?”

“You laugh?  I don’t find you yourself half the time.  It is Michael who has changed you, and I am out of it. (Here they spoke in Russian.) I shall not be easy until I am your husband.  I can’t understand your manner with Michael at all.”

(Here more Russian words which I do not understand.)

“Speak French; here is the gardener,” said Natacha.

“I do not like the way you are managing our lives.  Why do you delay our marriage?  Why?”

(Russian words from Natacha.  Gesture of desperation from Boris.)

“How long?  You say a long time?  But that says nothing — a long time.  How long?  A year?  Two years?  Ten years?  Tell me, or I will kill myself at your feet.  No, no; speak or I will kill Michael.  On my word!  Like a dog!”

“I swear to you, by the dear head of your mother, Boris, that the date of our marriage does not depend on Michael.”

(Some words in Russian.  Boris, a little consoled, holds her hand lingeringly to his lips.)

Conversation between Michael and Natacha in the garden: 

“Well?  Have you told him?”

“I ended at last by making him understand that there is not any hope.  None.  It is necessary to have patience.  I have to have it myself.”