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 Zinaïda
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
Zinaïda, Zinaïda!” 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 Zinaïda. 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. Zinaïda 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 Zinaïda, 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?”
I redoubled my pace, and got home just at dinner-time. My father was
already sitting by my mother’s chair, dressed for dinner, washed and
fresh; he was reading an article from the _Journal des Débats_ in his
smooth musical voice; but my mother heard him without attention, and
when she saw me, asked where I had been to all day long, and added that
she didn’t like this gadding about God knows where, and God knows in
what company. “But I have been walking alone,” I was on the point of
replying, but I looked at my father, and for some reason or other held
my peace.