dictates of nature, you keep
waiting for something. What's more, it's laid down by law that the
normal man should enter upon matrimony. There's no happiness without
marriage. When the propitious moment has come, get married. There's
no use in shilly-shallying. . . . But you don't get married, you
keep waiting for something! Then the Scriptures tell us that 'wine
maketh glad the heart of man.' . . . If you feel happy and you want
to feel better still, then go to the refreshment bar and have a
drink. The great thing is not to be too clever, but to follow the
beaten track! The beaten track is a grand thing!"

"You say that man is the creator of his own happiness. How the devil
is he the creator of it when a toothache or an ill-natured mother-in-law
is enough to scatter his happiness to the winds? Everything depends
on chance. If we had an accident at this moment you'd sing a different
tune."

"Stuff and nonsense!" retorts the bridegroom. "Railway accidents
only happen once a year. I'm not afraid of an accident, for there
is no reason for one. Accidents are exceptional! Confound them! I
don't want to talk of them! Oh, I believe we're stopping at a
station."

"Where are you going now?" asks Pyotr Petrovitch. "To Moscow or
somewhere further south?

"Why, bless you! How could I go somewhere further south, when I'm
on my way to the north?"

"But Moscow isn't in the north."

"I know that, but we're on our way to Petersburg," says Ivan
Alexyevitch.

"We are going to Moscow, mercy on us!"

"To Moscow? What do you mean?" says the bridegroom in amazement.

"It's queer. . . . For what station did you take your ticket?"

"For Petersburg."

"In that case I congratulate you. You've got into the wrong train."

There follows a minute of silence. The bridegroom gets up and looks
blankly round the company.

"Yes, yes," Pyotr Petrovitch explains. "You must have jumped into
the wrong train at Bologoe. . . . After your glass of brandy you
succeeded in getting into the down-train."

Ivan Alexyevitch turns pale, clutches his head, and begins pacing
rapidly about the carriage.

"Ach, idiot that I am!" he says in indignation. "Scoundrel! The
devil devour me! Whatever am I to do now? Why, my wife is in that
train! She's there all alone, expecting me, consumed by anxiety.
Ach, I'm a motley fool!"

The bridegroom falls on the seat and writhes as though someone had
trodden on his corns.

"I am un-unhappy man!" he moans. "What