have the sense of her
warmth 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 the
possibility of comparison between his wife and Fenitchka, but he was
sorry she had thought of coming to look for him. Her voice had brought
back to him at once his grey hairs, his age, his reality....

The enchanted world into which he was just stepping, which was just
rising 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, the
traces of the slave owner,' flashed through his mind. Fenitchka peeped
into the arbour at him without speaking, and disappeared; while he
noticed with astonishment that the night had come on while he had been
dreaming. Everything around was dark and hushed. Fenitchka's face had
glimmered so pale and slight before him. He got up, and was about to go
home; but the emotion stirred in his heart could not be soothed at
once, and he began slowly walking about the garden, sometimes looking
at the ground at his feet, and then raising his eyes towards the sky
where swarms of stars were twinkling. He walked a great deal, till he
was almost tired out, while the restlessness within him, a kind of
yearning, vague, melancholy restlessness, still was not appeased. Oh,
how Bazarov would have laughed at him, if he had known what was passing
within him then! Arkady himself would have condemned him. He, a man
forty-four years old, an agriculturist and a farmer, was shedding
tears, causeless tears; this was a hundred times worse than the
violoncello.

Nikolai Petrovitch continued walking, and could not make up his mind to
go into the house, into the snug peaceful nest, which looked out at him
so hospitably from all its lighted windows; he had not the force to
tear himself away from the darkness, the garden, the sense of the fresh
air in his face, from that melancholy, that restless craving.

At a turn in the path, he was met by Pavel Petrovitch. 'What's the
matter with you?' he asked Nikolai Petrovitch; 'you are as white as a
ghost; you are not well; why don't you go to bed?'

Nikolai Petrovitch explained to him briefly his state of feeling and
moved away. Pavel Petrovitch went to the end of the garden, and he too
grew thoughtful, and he too raised his eyes toward the heavens. But in
his beau