CHAPTER XI
Half an hour later Nikolai Petrovitch went into the garden to hisfavourite arbour. He was overtaken by melancholy thoughts. For thefirst time he realised clearly the distance between him and his son; heforesaw that every day it would grow wider and wider. In vain, then,had he spent whole days sometimes in the winter at Petersburg over thenewest books; in vain had he listened to the talk of the young men; invain had he rejoiced when he succeeded in putting in his word too intheir heated discussions. 'My brother says we are right,' he thought,'and apart from all vanity, I do think myself that they are furtherfrom the truth than we are, though at the same time I feel there issomething behind them we have not got, some superiority over us.... Isit youth? No; not only youth. Doesn't their superiority consist inthere being fewer traces of the slaveowner in them than in us?'
Nikolai Petrovitch's head sank despondently, and he passed his handover his face.
'But to renounce poetry?' he thought again; 'to have no feeling forart, for nature ...'
And he looked round, as though trying to understand how it was possibleto have no feeling for nature. It was already evening; the sun washidden behind a small copse of aspens which lay a quarter of a milefrom the garden; its shadow stretched indefinitely across the stillfields. A peasant on a white nag went at a trot along the dark, narrowpath close beside the copse; his whole figure was clearly visible evento the patch on his shoulder, in spite of his being in the shade; thehorse's hoofs flew along bravely. The sun's rays from the farther sidefell full on the copse, and piercing through its thickets, threw such awarm light on the aspen trunks that they looked like pines, and theirleaves were almost a dark blue, while above them rose a pale blue sky,faintly tinged by the glow of sunset. The swallows flew high; the windhad quite died away, belated bees hummed slowly and drowsily among thelilac blossom; a swarm of midges hung like a cloud over a solitarybranch which stood out against the sky. 'How beautiful, my God!'thought Nikolai Petrovitch, and his favourite verses were almost on hislips; he remembered Arkady's _Stoff und Kraft_--and was silent, butstill he sat there, still he gave himself up to the sorrowfulconsolation of solitary thought. He was fond of dreaming; his countrylife had developed the tendency in him. How short a time ago, he hadbeen dreaming like this, waiting for his son at the posting station,and what a change already since that day; their relations that werethen undefined, were defined now--and how defined! Again his dead wifecame back to his imagination, but not as he had known her for manyyears, not as the good domestic housewife, but as a young girl with aslim figure, innocently inquiring eyes, and a tight twist of hair onher childish neck. He remembered how he had seen her for the firsttime. He was still a student then. He had met her on the staircase ofhis lodgings, and, jostling by accident against her, he tried toapologise, and could only mutter, '_Pardon, monsieur_,' while shebowed, smiled, and suddenly seemed frightened, and ran away, though atthe bend of the staircase she had glanced rapidly at him, assumed aserious air, and blushed. Afterwards, the first timid visits, thehalf-words, the half-smiles, and embarrassment; and melancholy, andyearnings, and at last that breathing rapture.... Where had it allvanished? She had been his wife, he had been happy as few on earth arehappy.... 'But,' he mused, 'these sweet first moments, why could onenot live an eternal, undying life in them?'
He did not try to make his thought clear to himself; but he felt thathe longed to keep that blissful time by something stronger than memory;he longed to feel his Marya near him again to have the sense of herwarmth and breathing, and already he could fancy that over him....
'Nikolai Petrovitch,' came the sound of Fenitchka's voice close by him;'where are you?'
He started. He felt no pang, no shame. He never even admitted thepossibility of comparison between his wife and Fenitchka, but he wassorry she had thought of coming to look for him. Her voice had broughtback to him at once his grey hairs, his age, his reality....
The enchanted world into which he was just stepping, which was justrising out of the dim mists of the past, was shaken--and vanished.
'I'm here,' he answered; 'I'm coming, run along.' 'There it is, thetraces of the slave owner,' flashed through his mind. Fenitchka peepedinto the arbour at him without speaking, and disappeared; while henoticed with astonishment that the night had come on while he had beendreaming. Everything around was dark and hushed. Fenitchka's face hadglimmered so pale and slight before him. He got up, and was about to gohome; but the emotion stirred in his heart could not be soothed atonce, and he began slowly walking about the garden, sometimes lookingat the ground at his feet, and then raising his eyes towards the skywhere swarms of stars were twinkling. He walked a great deal, till hewas almost tired out, while the restlessness within him, a kind ofyearning, vague, melancholy restlessness, still was not appeased. Oh,how Bazarov would have laughed at him, if he had known what was passingwithin him then! Arkady himself would have condemned him. He, a manforty-four years old, an agriculturist and a farmer, was sheddingtears, causeless tears; this was a hundred times worse than thevioloncello.
Nikolai Petrovitch continued walking, and could not make up his mind togo into the house, into the snug peaceful nest, which looked out at himso hospitably from all its lighted windows; he had not the force totear himself away from the darkness, the garden, the sense of the freshair in his face, from that melancholy, that restless craving.
At a turn in the path, he was met by Pavel Petrovitch. 'What's thematter with you?' he asked Nikolai Petrovitch; 'you are as white as aghost; you are not well; why don't you go to bed?'
Nikolai Petrovitch explained to him briefly his state of feeling andmoved away. Pavel Petrovitch went to the end of the garden, and he toogrew thoughtful, and he too raised his eyes toward the heavens. But inhis beautiful dark eyes, nothing was reflected but the light of thestars. He was not born an idealist, and his fastidiously dry andsensuous soul, with its French tinge of cynicism was not capable ofdreaming....
'Do you know what?' Bazarov was saying to Arkady the same night. 'I'vegot a splendid idea. Your father was saying to-day that he'd had aninvitation from your illustrious relative. Your father's not going; letus be off to X----; you know the worthy man invites you too. You seewhat fine weather it is; we'll stroll about and look at the town. We'llhave five or six days' outing, and enjoy ourselves.'
'And you'll come back here again?'
'No; I must go to my father's. You know, he lives about twenty-fivemiles from X----. I've not seen him for a long while, and my mothertoo; I must cheer the old people up. They've been good to me,especially my father; he's awfully funny. I'm their only one too.'
'And will you be long with them?'
'I don't suppose so. It will be dull, of course.'
'And you'll come to us on your way back?'
'I don't know ... I'll see. Well, what do you say? Shall we go?'
'If you like,' observed Arkady languidly.
In his heart he was highly delighted with his friend's suggestion, buthe thought it a duty to conceal his feeling. He was not a nihilist fornothing!
The next day he set off with Bazarov to X----. The younger part of thehousehold at Maryino were sorry at their going; Dunyasha even cried ...but the old folks breathed more easily.