"Yesterday I was in the woods and wanted to sit down, but I cannot sit in the snow. No, I cannot, though I could ten years ago. I must wait till there is really something to sit on. A rock is good enough, but you can't sit on a rock for very long in May."
Nikolai looks uneasily at the mare through the window.
"Yes, let's go.... And there were no butterflies, either. You know those butterflies that have wings exactly like pansies--there weren't any. And if happiness lives in the forest, I mean if God himself--well, He hasn't moved out yet; it's too early."
Nikolai does not reply to my nonsense. After all, it is only the incoherent expression of a vague feeling, a gentle melancholy.
We go outside together.
"Nikolai, I'm not going."
He turns around and looks at me, his eyes smiling good-humoredly.
"You see, Nikolai, I think I have got an idea; I feel exactly as though an idea had come to me that may turn into a great, red-hot iron. So I mustn't disturb myself. I'm staying."
"Well, I'm very glad to hear that," says Nikolai. "As long as you like being here...."
And a quarter of an hour later, I can see Nikolai and the mare trotting briskly down the road. Fru Ingeborg stands in the yard with the boy on her arm to watch the gamboling calves.