Chapter 14 fourteen

I got up early the next morning, whittled myself a cane, and went out of town.I told myself to go out and relax.It was a very fine day, sunny and not too hot: there was a refreshing cool breeze, just right to be loud and playful.It blows everything, but disturbs nothing.I've wandered a long time in the hills and woods; I don't think I'm happy--I've come out of the house to make myself miserable; but youth, fine weather, fresh air, the joy of swimming, lying alone All the ease and comfort of the lush meadow had an effect on me: memories of those unforgettable words and those kisses came back to me.I was very pleased when I thought that Zinaïda had to do justice to my determination and courage... "In her opinion, everyone else is better than me," I thought, "let her think so! Others just talk about what they're going to do, but I've done it... Is there anything else I can do for her!"...my imagination came alive.I began to fantasize about how I would rescue her from the hands of her enemies, how I would rescue her bloodied from prison, how I would fall dead at her feet.

I am reminded of a painting that hangs in my living room: Mattik Adair Taking Mathilde away.My attention was immediately drawn away by the appearance of a large spotted woodpecker, which was busily climbing up the thin trunk of the birch tree, peeping nervously from behind it now and then—now to Look right, then left for a while, like a musician looking out from the back of the neck of a cello. Then I sang "This Is Not White Snow", and I also sang a passionate song that was famous at that time: "When the wind blows, I will wait for you"; Yermak's appeal to the stars in the tragedy of the book; I was going to write a sad poem, and I even thought of the line that should end the whole poem: "Ah, Zinay Da! Zinaida!" But it was not written.However, it was time to eat.I descended into a valley; a narrow sandy road wound its way to the town.I walked down the path... There was a muffled clatter of hooves behind me.

I looked back, stopped involuntarily, and took off my cap: I saw my father and Zinaïda.They walked side by side in the bridle.The father, bending over her, was talking to her, one hand on the horse's neck; he was smiling; Zinaïda listened in silence, eyes closed gravely, and lips tightly shut.At first I saw only the two of them; only after a while Belovzorov appeared from a bend in the valley, in a hussar uniform with a short cape, riding a hot, sweaty black horse.The thoroughbred shook its head, snorted, and leaped: The rider choked it up and stabbed it with spurs.I dodged to the side.Father tightened the reins and left Zinaïda, who slowly raised her eyes to him—

The two galloped off... Belovzorov galloped after them, his saber clanging... "His face was as red as a lobster," I thought, "but she... her Why is her face so pale? She has ridden all morning, so her face is pale?" I doubled my pace and got home just in time for dinner.My father had changed and washed, and was sitting refreshed by my mother's armchair, and was reading to her in a steady and sonorous voice an essay in the Journal des Debats; Where was I all day, and added that she didn't like me hanging out with god-knows-what people. "I was walking alone," I was about to answer, but after glancing at my father, I fell silent for some reason.