Ivan Turgenev

“ Nikolai Petrovich still walked up and down and could not make up his mind to go into the house, into the cosy peaceful nest, which looked at him so hospitably 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 Petrovich's head sank despondently, and he passed his hand over his face.
"But to renounce 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 clump 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 pony was riding along the dark narrow path near the wood ”

“ He started. He felt no remorse, 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 enchanted 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. ”