‘Duniashka!’ repeated the old lady.
Byelovzorov took leave; I went away with him.
Zinaida did not try to detain me.
The next day I got up early, cut myself a stick, and
set off beyond the town-gates. I thought I would
walk off my sorrow. It was a lovely day, bright
and not too hot, a fresh sportive breeze roved over
the earth with temperate rustle and frolic, setting
all things a-flutter and harassing nothing. I
wandered a long while over hills and through woods;
I had not felt happy, I had left home with the intention
of giving myself up to melancholy, but youth, the
exquisite weather, the fresh air, the pleasure of
rapid motion, the sweetness of repose, lying on the
thick grass in a solitary nook, gained the upper hand;
the memory of those never-to-be-forgotten words, those
kisses, forced itself once more upon my soul.
It was sweet to me to think that Zinaida could not,
anyway, fail to do justice to my courage, my heroism....’
Others may seem better to her than I,’ I mused,
’let them! But others only say what they
would do, while I have done it. And what more
would I not do for her?’ My fancy set to work.
I began picturing to myself how I would save her from
the hands of enemies; how, covered with blood I would
tear her by force from prison, and expire at her feet.
I remembered a picture hanging in our drawing-room—Malek-Adel
bearing away Matilda—but at that point my
attention was absorbed by the appearance of a speckled
woodpecker who climbed busily up the slender stem
of a birch-tree and peeped out uneasily from behind
it, first to the right, then to the left, like a musician
behind the bass-viol.
Then I sang ‘Not the white snows,’ and
passed from that to a song well known at that period:
‘I await thee, when the wanton zephyr,’
then I began reading aloud Yermak’s address
to the stars from Homyakov’s tragedy. I
made an attempt to compose something myself in a sentimental
vein, and invented the line which was to conclude each
verse: ‘O Zinaida, Zinaida!’ but could
get no further with it. Meanwhile it was getting
on towards dinner-time. I went down into the
valley; a narrow sandy path winding through it led
to the town. I walked along this path....
The dull thud of horses’ hoofs resounded behind
me. I looked round instinctively, stood still
and took off my cap. I saw my father and Zinaida.
They were riding side by side. My father was
saying something to her, bending right over to her,
his hand propped on the horses’ neck, he was
smiling. Zinaida listened to him in silence,
her eyes severely cast down, and her lips tightly
pressed together. At first I saw them only; but
a few instants later, Byelovzorov came into sight
round a bend in the glade, he was wearing a hussar’s
uniform with a pelisse, and riding a foaming black
horse. The gallant horse tossed its head, snorted
and pranced from side to side, his rider was at once
holding him in and spurring him on. I stood aside.
My father gathered up the reins, moved away from Zinaida,
she slowly raised her eyes to him, and both galloped
off ... Byelovzorov flew after them, his sabre
clattering behind him. ’He’s as red
as a crab,’ I reflected, ’while she ...
why’s she so pale? out riding the whole morning,
and pale?’
