6

WHENEVER Oblomov lay about indolently at home or was sunk into a dull slumber or indulged in flights of inspired fancies, there was always a woman in the foreground of his dreams, a woman who was his wife and sometimes – his mistress. The woman he saw in his dreams was tall and well-shaped, with her arms serenely folded on her breast, her eyes gentle yet proud, sitting leisurely under a clump of trees overhung with ivy, or stepping lightly on a carpet or a sandy path, her hips swaying, her head gracefully poised on her shoulders, and her eyes looking dreamily ahead; she was his ideal, the embodiment of a life full of enchantment and grave repose, she was the personification of rest itself. He dreamed of her first, smothered in flowers, standing at the altar wearing a long veil, then at the head of the marriage-bed with bashfully lowered eyes, and, finally, as a mother among a group of children. He dreamed of the smile on her lips, a smile that was not passionate, but sympathetic to him as her husband and indulgent to others; he dreamed of her eyes which were not moist with desire, but yielding only to him, and shy, even severe, to others. He never wanted to see her in a state of agitation, to hear of ardent dreams, sudden tears, languorous longings, exhaustion, followed by a frenzied burst of joy. He wanted neither moonlight nor sadness. She rhust not turn pale suddenly, faint, or experience shattering outbursts of emotion. «Women like that», he used to say, «have lovers, and they give you no end of trouble: doctors, watering- places, and all sorts of fancies. You will not be able to sleep in peace!» But beside a wife who was proud, shy, and serene a man could sleep care-free. He goes to sleep confident that when he wakes he will meet the same gentle and kind gaze; and twenty or thirty years later, in response to his affectionate look, he would meet the same gentle and softly gleaming ray of sympathy in her eyes. And so to their dying day! «Why, isn’t it the secret aim of every man and woman to find in his or her friend unfailing repose, an even and everlasting flow of feeling? That is the norm of love, and the moment we deviate from it, change or grow cold, we suffer; so that my ideal must be the common ideal of everybody, mustn’t it?» he thought. «Is not that the crowning achievement, the final solution of the relations of the sexes?» To give passion a legitimate outlet, to show the direction in which it should flow, like a river, for the benefit of a whole country is the common problem of mankind, it is the very pinnacle of progress to which all advanced people like George Sand are striving but invariably go astray. Once it is solved, there can be no more unfaithfulness, nor coolness, but an even-beating, calm, and contented heart and, therefore, a full and happy life and everlasting moral health. There are cases of such a state of blessedness, but they are rare; they are pointed out as phenomenal. One has to be born for it, people say. But perhaps one ought to be educated for it, try to achieve it consciously. Passion! All this is very well in poetry or on the stage, where actors strut about in cloaks and with daggers and then – the murderers and the murdered – go and have supper together. It would be a good thing if passions, too, ended like that, but they leave nothing but smoke and stench behind, and no happiness! And the memories are nothing but shame and tearing of hair.

Finally, if such a misfortune, if passion, should overtake you, it would be like finding yourself on a terribly rough and hilly road where horses slip and the rider is exhausted, but your native village can already be seen in the distance: you must not lose sight of it and must do all you can to get out of the dangerous spot as quickly as possible… Yes, passion must be curbed, stifled, and destroyed by marriage… He would have run away in horror from a woman who suddenly scorched him with her gaze, or uttered a moan and fell on his shoulder with her eyes closed, then came to and threw her arms about his neck in a tight embrace. That could be like a firework, like an explosion of a barrel of gunpowder; and afterwards? Deafness, blindness, and singed hair!

But let us see what sort of a woman Olga was.

For many days after his sudden avowal they did not see each other alone. He hid like a schoolboy as soon as he caught sight of Olga. She had changed towards him, but did not avoid him and was not cold to him, but had merely grown more thoughtful. He could not help feeling that she was sorry something had happened that prevented her from tormenting him with her inquisitive glances and teasing him good-humouredly for his lying about, his laziness, and his clumsiness. She would have liked to make fun of him, but it was the sort of fun enjoyed by a mother who cannot help smiling at her son’s comic get-up. Stolz had gone away, and she was bored to have no one to sing to; her piano was closed – in short, both felt constrained and awkward. And how wonderfully it had all gone at first! How simply had they come to know each other! How easily they had become friends! Oblomov was much more simple than Stolz, and more kind, too, though he did not amuse her so well – or rather he amused her by being what he was, and forgave her mockery so easily. Besides, before leaving, Stolz put Oblomov in her charge; he asked her to keep an eye on him and prevent him from stopping at home. In her clever, pretty little head she had devised a detailed plan of how she would break Oblomov of his habit of sleeping after dinner – and not only of sleeping but also of lying down on the sofa in the daytime; she would make him promise her. She dreamed of how she would «tell him» to read the books Stolz had left behind, to read the newspapers every day and tell her the news, to write letters to his estate, to finish his plan of estate management, to get ready to go abroad – in a word, she would not let him drowse; she would show him his aim in life, make him love once more the things he cared for no longer, and Stolz, when he returned, would not recognize him. And she – the silent, shy Olga – would perform this miracle, she, who had not yet begun to live and whom no one had even obeyed so far! She would be the cause of this transformation! It had begun already; the moment she began singing, Oblomov was a different person… He would live, work, and bless life and her. To restore a man to life – why, think of the glory a doctor won when he restored a hopeless invalid to health! And what about saving a man whose mind and soul were facing moral ruin? The very thought of it made her tremble with pride and joy; she looked upon it as a task assigned to her from above. In her mind she made him her secretary, her librarian. And suddenly all that had come to an end! She did not know what she ought to do and that was why she was silent when she met Oblomov.

Oblomov was tortured by the thought that he had shocked and offended her and he was expecting annihilating glances and cold severity, and he trembled when he caught sight of her, hastening to turn aside. In the meanwhile he had already moved to the country villa, and for three days walked alone over marshy ground to the forest, or went to the village and sat idly by the gates of some peasant’s cottage watching the children and the calves run about and the ducks swimming around in the pond. There was a lake and a huge park near his house: he did not go there because he was afraid of meeting Olga by herself. «What did I want to blurt it out for?» he thought, without even asking himself whether the words he had uttered were true, or were due to the momentary action of the music on his nerves. The feeling of awkwardness, shame, or «disgrace», as he called it, which he had brought on himself, prevented him from examining the nature of that outburst and, generally, what Olga meant to him. He no longer analysed the new thing that had entered his heart – a sort of lump that had not been there before. All his feelings coiled up into a huge ball of shame. And when she appeared for a moment before his imagination, there rose simultaneously that image, too, that ideal of incarnate peace, happiness, life: this ideal was the exact copy of – Olga. The two images were identical and merged into one another.

«Oh, what have I done!» he murmured. «I’ve ruined everything! Thank God, Stolz has gone: she has not had time to tell him, or I should have sunk through the ground! Love, tears – it doesn’t become me! Olga’s aunt hasn’t asked me to call again: I expect she must have told her. Oh, Lord!»

This was what he thought as he got farther and farther into the park, walking down a side avenue.

One thing that worried Olga was how she would meet him and how this encounter would go off: ought she to say something or ought she to pass it over in silence as if nothing had happened? But what could she say? Should she assume a stem expression, look at him proudly, or not look at all, but remark haughtily and dryly that she never expected him to behave like that: who does he think she is, to allow himself such an impertinence? That was what Sonia during a mazurka said to a second lieutenant, though she had taken a great deal of trouble to turn his head. «But», she asked herself, «has he been impertinent? If he really feels it, why shouldn’t he say it? But it was a bit sudden, all the same. He hardly knows me. No one would have said such a thing after seeing a woman for the second or third time, and no one would have fallen in love so quickly. Only Oblomov could…» But she remembered having read and heard that love came suddenly sometimes. «He acted on an impulse, he was carried away», she thought. «Now he doesn’t show himself. He is ashamed. It can’t be impertinence, then. But whose fault is it? Stolz’s, of course, because he made me sing». Oblomov did not want to listen at first – she resented it and – she tried… She blushed crimson… Yes, she had done all she could to rouse him. Stolz had said that he was apathetic, that nothing interested him, that all was dead within him. So she wanted to find out whether everything was dead, and she sang, she sang as never before… «Good heavens, then it is my fault: I must ask him to forgive me… But whatever for?» she asked herself a moment later. «What am I to tell him? „Mr Oblomov, I’m awfully sorry, I tried to seduce you!“… Oh, how disgraceful! It’s not true!» she said, flushing and stamping her foot. «Who’d dare to think such a thing? I did not know what was going to happen, did I? And if it hadn’t happened, if he had not said it – what then?» she asked. «I don’t know», she thought. Ever since that evening she had felt so strange – she must have been very much offended – she felt positively feverish, her cheeks glowed…

«Nervous irritation – a slight fever», the doctor told her.

«It is all Oblomov’s doing!» she thought as she walked in the park. «Oh, he must be taught a lesson so that it doesn’t happen again! I’ll ask auntie not to invite him to our house: he mustn’t forget himself.. How did he dare?» Her eyes blazed. Suddenly she heard someone coming.

«Someone’s coming!» thought Oblomov.

And they met face to face.

«Olga Sergeyevna», he said, shaking like an aspen leaf.

«Ilya Ilyich», she said, timidly, and they both stopped.

«Good morning», he said.

«Good morning», she replied.

«Where are you going?» he asked.

«Nowhere in particular», she said without raising her eves.

«I’m not in your way?»

«Oh, not at all», she replied, glancing at him quickly and curiously.

«May I come with you?» he asked suddenly, with a searching look.

They walked silently along the path. Neither the teacher’s ruler nor the headmaster’s eyebrows had ever made Oblomov’s heart thump as it was doing at that moment. He tried to make an effort and say something, but the words would not come; only his heart was pounding away as though in anticipation of some calamity.

«Have you had a letter from Mr Stolz?» she asked.

«Yes, I have», Oblomov replied.

«What does he say?»

«He wants me to join him in Paris».

«And what are you going to do?»

«I’ll go».

«When?»

«Oh – some time – no, to-morrow – as soon as I get ready».

«Why so soon?» she asked.

He made no answer.

«Don’t you like your house or – tell me, why do you want to go?»

«The impudent wretch!» she thought. «He wants to go abroad, does he?»

«I don’t know», Oblomov murmured, without looking at her, «I–I feel awful – awkward – something’s choking me».

She said nothing, picked a spray of lilac and sniffed it, burying her face in it.

«Smell it», she said, covering his face with it, too. «Doesn’t it smell lovely?»

«And here are some lilies of the valley», he said, bending down to the grass. «Wait, I’ll pick you some. They smell better: of fields and woods; there is more of nature about them. Lilac always grows close to houses, the branches thrust themselves in at the windows, the smell is so cloying. Look, the lilies of the valley are still wet with dew!»

He gave her a few lilies of the valley.

«And do you like mignonette?» she asked.

«I’m afraid not; the smell is too strong. I don’t like mignonette or roses. I don’t care for flowers; they’re all right in the fields, but they’re such a trouble indoors – they make such a mess when they drop…»

«You like it to be tidy indoors, don’t you?» she asked, looking slyly at him. «You don’t like a mess, do you?»

«No, I don’t», he murmured, «but my servant is such a-Oh, you’re wicked!» he added under his breath.

«Are you going straight to Paris?» she asked.

«Yes, Stolz has been expecting me for some time».

«Take a letter from me: I’ll write one to him», she said.

«Let me have it to-day: I’ll be going back to town to-morrow».

«To-morrow?» she asked. «Why so soon? There’s no one driving you out of here, is there?»

«Well, I’m afraid there is…»

«Who?»

«Shame…» he whispered.

«Shame!» she repeated mechanically. «Now I’ll tell him», she added to herself, «Mr Oblomov, I never expected…»

«Yes, Olga Sergeyevna», he brought himself to say at last, «I believe you’re surprised – you’re angry…»

«Now – now is the right moment to say it», she thought, her heart beating fast. «Oh dear, I can’t, I can’t!»

He tried to look into her face, to find out what she thought, but she was smelling the lilac and the lilies of the valley and did not know herself what she was thinking – what she ought to say or do.

«Oh», she thought, «Sonia would have thought of something at once, but I’m so silly – I never can do anything – it’s awful!»

«I had quite forgotten», she said.

«Please believe me, the whole thing – I mean, I don’t know what made me say it – I couldn’t help it», he began, gradually growing bolder. «I’d have said it if a thunderbolt had struck me or a stone had crashed on top of me. Nothing in the world could have stopped me. Please, please don’t think that I wanted – I’d have given anything a moment later to take back the rash word».

She walked with her head bowed, sniffing the flowers.

«Please forget it», he went on, «forget it, particularly as it wasn’t true…»

«Not true?» she suddenly repeated, drawing herself up and dropping the flowers.

Her eyes opened wide and flashed with surprise.

«How do you mean – not true?» she repeated.

«I mean – well – for God’s sake don’t be angry with me and forget it. Please, believe me, I was just carried away for a moment – because of the music».

«Only because of the music?»

She turned pale and her eyes grew dim.

«Well», she thought, «everything’s all right now. He took back his rash words and there’s no need for me to be angry any more! That’s excellent – now I needn’t worry any more… We can talk and joke as before».

She broke off a twig from a tree absent-mindedly, bit off a leaf, and then at once threw down the twig and the leaf on the path.

«You’re not angry with me, are you? You have forgotten, haven’t you?» Oblomov said, bending forward to her.

«What was that? What did you ask?» she said nervously, almost with vexation, turning away from him. «I’ve forgotten everything – I’ve such a bad memory!»

He fell silent and did not know what to do. He saw her sudden vexation but did not see the cause of it.

«Goodness», she thought, «now everything is all right again. It’s just as if that scene had never taken place, thank heaven! Well, all the better… Oh dear, what does it all mean? Oh, Sonia, Sonia, how lucky you are!»

«I’m going home», she said suddenly, quickening her steps and turning into another avenue.

There was a lump in her throat. She was afraid she might cry.

«Not that way», Oblomov said. «It’s nearer, here!»

«You ass», he said to himself gloomily. «What did you want to explain for? Now you’ve offended her more than ever. You should not have reminded her: it would have passed off by itself and been forgotten. Now you’ll jolly well have to ask her to forgive you».

«I expect», she thought to herself, «I’m feeling so vexed because I’ve had no time to say to him, „Mr Oblomov, I never expected you to presume…“ But he forestalled me. „It wasn’t true!“ How do you like that! So he was lying to me! How did he dare?»

«Have you really forgotten?» he asked softly.

«Yes, I’ve forgotten everything!» she said hurriedly, anxious to get home.

«Give me your hand to show you’re not angry».

Without looking at him, she gave him the tips of her fingers, and no sooner did he touch them than she snatched them away.

«No, you are angry!» he said with a sigh. «How can I convince you that I was just carried away for a moment, that I should never have forgotten myself to such an extent? Of course, I shan’t listen to your singing again!»

«Don’t try to convince me», she said quickly. «I don’t need your assurances. I shouldn’t dream of singing to you anyhow!»

«All right, I shan’t say another word», he said. «Only for heaven’s sake don’t go away like this, or there will be such a heavy load on my heart…»

She walked more slowly and listened intently to his words.

«If it’s true that you would have burst into tears if I hadn’t cried out in admiration of your singing, then – I mean – if you go away now without a smile and without holding out your hand to me like a friend and – have pity on me, Olga Sergeyevna! I shall be ill – my knees tremble – I can hardly stand…»

«Why?» she asked suddenly, glancing at him.

«I’m afraid I don’t know myself», he said. «I feel no longer ashamed: I am not ashamed of my words – I think they were…» Again his heart missed a beat, again there seemed to be a lump there; again her kind and curious gaze began to burn him. She had turned to him so gracefully, and was awaiting his answer so anxiously.

«They were – what?» she asked impatiently.

«I’m sorry, I’m afraid to say it: you’ll be angry again».

«Say it!» she said imperiously.

He was silent.

«Well?»

«I again feel like crying as I look at you… You see I’m not vain, I’m not ashamed of my feelings».

«Why do you feel like crying?» she asked, flushing again.

«I keep hearing your voice – I feel again…»

«What?» she said, breathing freely again: she was waiting tensely.

They came up to the front steps of her house.

«I feel…» Oblomov was in a hurry to finish, but stopped short. She was mounting the steps slowly, as though with an effort.

«The same music – the same – excitement – the same feel —… I’m sorry – I’m sorry – I can’t control my…»

«Sir», she began severely, but suddenly her face lit up with a smile, «I’m not angry and I forgive you», she added gently, «only in future…»

Without turning round, she stretched out a hand to him; he seized it and kissed her palm; she softly pressed it against his lips and instantly disappeared behind the glass door, while he remained rooted to the spot.