(Pacing back and forth for a while) What’s the matter with her? (After a pause) Just a whim! A whim? I’ve never noticed it in her before. On the contrary, I don’t know a more levelheaded woman. What’s the reason for it? . . . (He paces again and suddenly stops) Ah, how ridiculous they are, people with only one thought in their head, one purpose, one occupation in life . . . Like me, for instance. What she said is true: you observe little trifles from morning till night, and turn into a trifle yourself . . . It’s all true. But I can’t live without her. When I’m with her, I’m more than happy—“happy” doesn’t begin to describe it. I belong to her completely. For me to part with her would be tantamount to parting with life. It’s no exaggeration. What’s the matter with her? This anguish, this involuntary sarcasm—what do they mean? Is she beginning to be tired of me? Hm. (Sits down) I’ve never deceived myself. I know very well how she loves me. But I hoped that in time this comfortable feeling . . . I hoped! Do I have the right, do I dare hope? I admit my position is quite ridiculous . . . almost contemptible. (Pause) Well, why such words? She’s an honest woman, and I’m no seducer. (With a bitter smile) Unfortunately. (Quickly standing up) Well, enough! Get all this nonsense out of your head! (Pacing slowly) What a beautiful day today! (Pause) How skillfully she skewered me . . . My “refined and fortunate phrases” . . . She’s very intelligent, especially when she’s out of sorts. And what’s this sudden worship of simplicity and innocence? . . . This Russian tutor . . . She talks about him a lot. I must say I see nothing special in him. Just a student, like all students. Can it be that she . . . Impossible! She’s out of sorts . . . she doesn’t know what she wants herself, so she kicks me. Children do hit their nannies . . . What a flattering comparison! But there’s no need for me to get into it. When this fit of anguish passes, she’ll be the first to laugh at this lanky fledgling, this fresh youth . . . Your explanation’s not bad, Mikhail Alexandrych, my friend, but is it right? God only knows! We’ll see. This wouldn’t be the first time, my dear fellow, that after a lot of fussing with yourself, you suddenly stop trying to figure things out, fold your arms, and humbly wait for whatever comes. And meanwhile, admit that you yourself feel rather awkward and bitter . . . That’s become your trade . . . (He looks around) Ah! here he is himself, our artless youth . . . Just in time . . . I’ve yet to have a proper talk with him. Let’s see what kind of man he is.

Belyaev enters left.

Alexei Nikolaich! So you, too, are out for some fresh air?