The one with the mad sister. In my opinion, they’re both mad, or else both in their right minds, because there’s absolutely no difference between brother and sister, but that’s not the point. Fate, ma’am, there’s fate everywhere, and fate in everything. Verenitsyn has a daughter, a greenish little thing, pale little eyes, a red little nose, yellow little teeth—in short, a very nice girl. She plays the piano, and she also lisps, so everything’s as it should be. She comes with two hundred souls, plus a hundred and fifty from her aunt. The aunt’s still alive and will live for a long time yet. Mad people all live a long time—you know, every grief has its good side. She signed her will, leaving everything to her niece, and the day before I personally poured cold water over her head, which, by the way, didn’t do any good, because there’s no way to cure her. Well, so Verenitsyn has this daughter, not a bad catch at all. He began taking her out, suitors started to show up, among others a certain Perekuzov, a scrawny young man, shy, but well behaved. So, ma’am, the father liked our Perekuzov, and so did the daughter . . . Why wait? To the altar, and God bless them! In fact, everything was going beautifully: Mr. Verenitsyn, Platon Vassilyevich, was already starting to slap Mr. Perekuzov on the belly, you know, like this, and to pat him on the shoulder, when suddenly, out of the blue, a visiting officer appears—Ardalion Protobekasov! At the marshal’s ball he sees Verenitsyn’s daughter, dances three polkas with her, probably tells her, rolling up his eyes like this: “Oh, how unhappy I am!”—and my young lady goes completely out of her mind right there. Tears, sighs, moans . . . Perekuzov isn’t looked at, Perekuzov isn’t spoken to, the mere word “wedding” causes convulsions . . . My God, what a story! Well, Verenitsyn thinks, if it’s Protobekasov, it’s Protobekasov. He’s also got money. They invite Protobekasov, do us the honor, they say . . . Protobekasov does them the honor. Protobekasov comes, hangs around, falls in love, finally offers his hand and heart. And what do you think? Does Miss Verenitsyn joyfully accept at once? Too easy! God help us! Again tears, sighs, fits. The father’s at his wit’s end. What is it now? What do you want? And what do you think she answers? “I don’t know which of them I love, papa, this one or that one.” “What?!” “I swear I don’t know, and I’d better not marry anybody, but I am in love!” Verenitsyn, naturally, goes apoplectic on the spot, the suitors also don’t know what to make of it, but she stands her ground. So there, ma’am, see what wonders go on around us!

NATALYA

I don’t find anything astonishing about that . . . As if you can’t love two people at once?

RAKITIN

So you think . . .

NATALYA

(Slowly) I think . . . though, I don’t know . . . maybe it only shows that you don’t love either of them.