Half an hour later Nikolai Petrovich went into the garden to his favorite arbor1. He was filled with melancholy2 thoughts. For the first time he saw clearly the distance separating him from his son and he foresaw that it would grow wider every day. So they were spent in vain, those winters in Petersburg, when sometimes he had pored for whole days on end over the latest books; in vain had he listened to the talk of the young men, and rejoiced when he succeeded in slipping a few of his own words into heated discussions.
“My brother says we are right,” he thought, “and laying aside all vanity, it even seems to me that they are further from the truth than we are, though all the same I feel they have something behind them which we lack, some superiority over us . . . is it youth? No, it can’t only be that; their superiority may be that they show fewer traces of the slaveowner than we do.”
Nikolai Petrovich’s head sank despondently3, and he passed his hand over his face.
“But to renounce4 poetry, to have no feeling for art, for nature . . .”
And he looked round, as though trying to understand how it was possible to have no feeling for nature. It was already evening; the sun was hidden behind a small clump5 of aspens which grew about a quarter of a mile from the garden; its shadow stretched indefinitely across the motionless fields. A little peasant on a white pony6 was riding along the dark narrow path near the wood; his whole figure was clearly visible even to the patch on his shoulder, although he was in the shade; the pony’s hoofs7 rose and fell with graceful8 distinctness. The sun’s rays on the farther side fell full on the clump of trees, and piercing through them threw such a warm light on the aspen trunks that they looked like pines, and their leaves seemed almost dark blue, while above them rose a pale blue sky, tinged10 by the red sunset glow. The swallows flew high; the wind had quite died down, some late bees hummed lazily among the lilac blossoms, a swarm11 of midges hung like a cloud over a solitary12 branch which stood out against the sky. “How beautiful, my God!” thought Nikolai Petrovich, and his favorite verses almost rose to his lips; then he remembered Arkady’s Stoff und Kraft — and remained silent, but he still sat there, abandoning himself to the sad consolation13 of solitary thought. He was fond of dreaming, and his country life had developed that tendency in him. How short a time ago he had been dreaming like this, waiting for his son at the posting station, and how much had changed since that day; their relations, then indeterminate, had now been defined — and how defined! His dead wife came back to his imagination, but not as he had known her for so many years, not as a good domesticated14 housewife, but as a young girl with a slim waist, an innocent inquiring look and a tightly twisted pigtail on her childish neck. He remembered how he had seen her for the first time. He was still a student then. He had met her on the staircase of his lodgings15, and running into her by accident he tried to apologize but could only mutter “Pardon, Monsieur,” while she bowed, smiled, then suddenly seemed frightened and ran away, glanced quickly back at him, looked serious and blushed. Afterwards the first timid visits, the hints, the half-smiles and embarrassment16; the uncertain sadness, the ups and downs and at last that overwhelming joy . . . where had it all vanished away? She had been his wife, he had been happy as few on earth are happy . . . “But,” he mused17, “those sweet fleeting18 moments, why could one not live an eternal undying life in them?”
He made no effort to clarify his thoughts, but he felt that he longed to hold that blissful time by something stronger than memory; he longed to feel his Marya near him, to sense her warmth and breathing; already he could fancy her actual presence . . .
“Nikolai Petrovich,” came the sound of Fenichka’s voice close by. “Where are you?”
He started. He felt no remorse19, no shame. He never admitted even the possibility of comparison between his wife and Fenichka, but he was sorry that she had thought of coming to look for him. Her voice had brought back to him at once his grey hairs, his age, his daily existence . . .
The enchanted20 world arising out of the dim mists of the past, into which he had just stepped, quivered — and disappeared.
“I’m here,” he answered; “I’m coming. You run along.” “There they are, traces of the slaveowner,” flashed through his mind. Fenichka peeped into the arbor without speaking to him and went away again; and he noticed with surprise that night had fallen while he was dreaming. Everything around was dark and hushed, and Fenichka’s face had glimmered21 in front of him, so pale and slight. He got up and was about to go home, but the emotions stirring his heart could not be calmed so soon, and he began walking slowly about the garden, sometimes meditatively22 surveying the ground, then raising his eyes to the sky where multitudes of stars were twinkling. He went on walking till he was almost tired out, but the restlessness within him, a yearning23 vague melancholy excitement, was still not appeased24. Oh, how Bazarov would have laughed at him if he had known what was happening to him then! Even Arkady would have condemned25 him. He, a man of forty-four, an agriculturist and a landowner, was shedding tears, tears without reason; it was a hundred times worse than playing the cello26.
Nikolai Petrovich still walked up and down and could not make up his mind to go into the house, into the cosy27 peaceful nest, which looked at him so hospitably28 from its lighted windows; he had not the strength to tear himself away from the darkness, the garden, the sensation of fresh air on his face, and from that sad restless excitement.
At a turn in the path he met Pavel Petrovich. “What is the matter with you?” he asked Nikolai Petrovich. “You are as white as a ghost; you must be unwell. Why don’t you go to bed?” Nikolai said a few words to his brother about his state of mind and moved away. Pavel Petrovich walked on to the end of the garden, also deep in thought, and he, too, raised his eyes to the sky — but his beautiful dark eyes reflected only the light of the stars. He was not born a romantic idealist, and his fastidiously dry though ardent29 soul, with its tinge9 of French scepticism, was not addicted30 to dreaming . . .
“Do you know what?” Bazarov was saying to Arkady that very night. “I’ve had a splendid idea. Your father was saying today that he had received an invitation from that illustrious relative of yours. Your father doesn’t want to go, but why shouldn’t we be off to X? You know the man invites you as well. You see what fine weather it is; we’ll stroll around and look at the town. Let’s have a jaunt31 for five or six days, no more.
“And you’ll come back here afterwards?”
“No, I must go to my father’s. You know he lives about twenty miles from X. I’ve not seen him or my mother for a long time; I must cheer the old people up. They’ve been good to me, my father particularly; he’s awfully32 funny. I’m their only one. “Will you stay long with them?”
“I don’t think so. It will be dull, of course. “And you’ll come to us again on your way back.”
“I don’t know . . . we’ll see. Well, what do you say? Shall we go?”
“If you like,” answered Arkady languidly.
In his heart he was overjoyed by his friend’s suggestion, but thought it a duty to conceal33 his feeling. He was not a nihilist for nothing!
The next day he set off with Bazarov to X. The younger members of the household at Maryino were sorry about their departure; Dunyasha even wept . . . but the older people breathed more freely.
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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cello
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| n.大提琴 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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