10

OBLOMOV was like a man who has just been watching a summer sunset and enjoying its crimson afterglow, unable to tear his eyes away from the sky and turn back to see the approaching night, thinking all the time of the return of light and warmth next day. He lay on his back enjoying the afterglow of his last meeting with Olga. «I love you, I love you, I love you», Olga’s words still rang in his ears, sweeter than anything she had ever sung; the last rays of the intent look she gave him still rested upon him. He was trying to get to the bottom of its meaning, to determine how much she loved him, and was about to fall asleep when suddenly –

Next morning Oblomov got up looking pale and gloomy; his face bore the traces of a sleepless night, his forehead was furrowed, his eyes dull and phlegmatic. His pride, his gay and cheerful look, the deliberate, sober movements of a busy man had all gone. He drank his tea listlessly, and without opening a single book or sitting down to his desk, he thoughtfully lit a cigar and sat down on the sofa. Formerly he would have lain down, but he had lost the habit of that now and he felt no compulsion to put his head on a pillow. He did, however, lean his elbow on it – a symptom of his former inclination. He was in a dismal mood. From time to tune he sighed, shrugged his shoulders suddenly, or shook his head bitterly. Something was agitating him violently, but it was not love. Olga’s image was before him, but it seemed to be far away, in a haze, without radiance, a stranger to him; he gave it a sickly look and sighed.

«Live as God commands and not as you would like is a wise rule, but» – And he sank into thought. «No, you can’t live as you like, that’s clear», some morose, cantankerous voice began speaking within him. «You will fall into a chaos of contradictions which no human intellect, however profound and daring, can unravel! One day you desire something, next day you get what you have so passionately desired, and the day after you blush at the thought of having desired it, and then you curse life because it has been fulfilled – that is what comes from your arrogant and independent striding into life, from your wilful I want to. A man has to grope his way through life; he must close his eyes to many things and not dream of happiness or dare to murmur if it escapes him – that is life! Whose idea was it that it was happiness or enjoyment? The madmen! „Life is life, it is duty,“ Olga says – an obligation, and an obligation may be hard. Let us, then, do our duty…». He sighed. «I’m not going to see Olga again – Lord, you have opened my eyes and shown me my duty», he said, looking up at the sky, «but where am I to get the necessary strength for it? To part! I can still do it now, though it may hurt. I shall not curse myself afterwards for not having parted from her. And one of her servants may come at any moment, for she said she would send me a message… She doesn’t expect…»

What was the cause of all this? What ill wind had suddenly blown on Oblomov? What clouds had it brought? And why did he assume so sorrowful a burden? The day before he seemed to have looked into Olga’s soul and seen a bright world and a bright future there, had read his horoscope and hers. What had happened then?

He must have had supper or lain on his back, and his poetic mood gave way to horrors. It often happens that one goes to sleep on a quiet, cloudless summer evening under the twinkling stars, thinking how lovely the fields will be in the bright morning sunshine! How refreshing it will be to take a walk deep into the forest to escape from the heat! And suddenly one awakens to the patter of the rain, to grey, melancholy clouds; it is cold and damp… In the evening Oblomov had been listening to the beating of his heart as usual, felt with his hand to make sure that it had not grown larger or had hardened, then, finally, he started analysing his happiness and suddenly came upon a drop of bitterness which poisoned him. The poison acted quickly and violently. He ran through his whole life in his mind: for the hundredth time repentance and belated regret for the past filled his heart. He imagined what he would have been now if he had gone boldly forward, how much fuller and more varied his life would have been if he had been active, and then passed over to the question of what he was now, and how Olga could possibly love him. What could she love him for? Was it not a mistake? The thought suddenly flashed through his mind like lightning, and the lightning struck him right in the heart and shattered it. He groaned. «A mistake! Yes – that’s what it is!» he could not help thinking.

«I love you, I love you, I love you», it came back to him, and his heart began to grow warmer, but was suddenly chilled again. Olga’s thrice-repeated «I love you" – what did it mean? Did her eyes deceive her? Did her heart beguile her? It was not love, but merely a presentiment of love! That voice would sound one day, and so powerfully, with such a tremendous crash of chords, that the whole world would be startled! The aunt and the baron would know of it, and the echo of that voice would resound far and wide! That feeling would not meander as gently as a brook concealed in the grass with hardly an audible murmur. She loved now just as she embroidered: the pattern came to light slowly, and she unfolded it even more lazily and, after admiring it for a moment, put it down and forgot all about it. Yes, that was only a preparation for love, it was only an experiment, and he chanced to have turned up as the first fairly tolerable subject for the experiment… For was it not chance that had brought them together? She would not have noticed him otherwise. Stolz had pointed him out to her and infected her young, impressionable heart with his own sympathy; she was sorry for him, was fired with the ambition to rouse him from his sleep, and then she would leave him. „That’s what it is!“ he muttered in horror, getting out of bed and lighting a candle with a trembling hand. „There has never been anything more than that! She was ready for love, her heart was waiting for it eagerly, and she met me accidentally, by chance… Let another man appear – and she will recognize her mistake with horror! How she will look at me then! How she will turn away! Awful! I’m taking what doesn’t belong to me! I’m a thief! What am I doing? How blind I have been – my God!“

He looked at himself in the mirror: he was pale, yellow, his eyes were lustreless. He thought of those lucky young men whose eyes were moist and dreaming but, like Olga’s, had a deep and forceful look in them and sparkled tremulously, whose smile was confident of victory, whose step was bold, and whose voice was strong and ringing. And one day one of them might come: she would flush suddenly, look at him and Oblomov and – burst out laughing!

He looked at himself in the glass again.

«Women don’t love men like me!» he said.

Then he lay down and buried his face in the pillow.

«Good-bye, Olga», he concluded. «Be happy».

«Zakhar!» he called in the morning. «If a servant comes from the Ilyinskys for me, say I am not at home, that I’ve gone to town».

«Very good, sir».

«Yes – no, I’d better write to her», he said to himself, «or she’ll think it strange that I’ve suddenly disappeared. I have to offer some explanation».

He sat down to the table and began writing quickly, eagerly, with feverish haste, quite differently from the way he had written to his landlord at the beginning of May. Not once was there an unpleasant collision between two whichs and two thats.

«You may find it strange, Olga Sergeyevna», (he wrote) «to get this letter instead of seeing me, when we meet each other so often. Read it to the end and you will see that I could not have done otherwise. I ought to have begun by writing it, then we should have both been saved a great deal of self-reproach in the future; but it is not too late even now. We fell in love with one another so suddenly and so quickly, as though we both had fallen ill, and this prevented me from coming to my senses sooner. Besides, looking at you and listening to you for hours on end, who would willingly have undertaken the hard task of recovering from the enchantment? How could one have sufficient caution or will-power to be able to stop at any moment at every slope instead of sliding down it? Every day I thought: „I am not going to let myself be carried away any further – I am going to stop here and now – it all depends on me,“ and I was carried away, and now comes the struggle in which I must ask you to help me. It is only to-day, or rather last night, that I realized how fast I was sliding down: it was only yesterday that I succeeded in looking deeper into the abyss into which I am falling, and I decided to stop».

«I am speaking only of myself – not out of egoism, but because when I am lying at the bottom of this abyss you will still be soaring high above it like a pure angel, and I doubt whether you will want to cast a glance into it. Listen, let me put it plainly and frankly and without circumlocution: you do not love me and you cannot love me. Trust my experience and believe me absolutely. For my heart began beating long ago; it may have been beating wrongly and out of tune, but that is what taught me to distinguish its regular from its irregular beat. You cannot but I can and should know how to recognize truth from error, and I am in duty bound to warn one who has not had time to recognize it. And so I am warning you: you are in error, turn back!»

«So long as our love took the form of a light, smiling vision, so long as it sounded in the Casta diva, came to US in the scent of a sprig of lilac, in unexpressed sympathy, in a shy glance, I did not trust it, taking it for a mere play of the imagination and the whisper of vanity. But the time for innocent play has passed; I have fallen ill with love, I have felt the symptoms of passion; you have grown thoughtful and serious; you have devoted your leisure to me, you are in a state of nerves, you have grown restless, and it was then – I mean, it is now, that I am frightened and feel that it is my duty to stop and tell you what it is».

«I have told you that I love you, and you said the same to me – don’t you hear how discordant this sounds? You don’t? Well, you will hear it later when I am already in the abyss. Look at me, think carefully of what my life is like: is it possible for you to love me? Do you love me? „I love you, I love you, I love you“ – you said yesterday. „No, no, no!“ I answer firmly».

«You do not love me, but – I hasten to add – you are not lying, nor are you deceiving me; you cannot say yes, when everything in you is saying no. I only want to prove to you that your present „I love you“ is not real love, but only the expectation of love in the future; it is merely an unconscious need of love which, for lack of proper food, for lack of fire, burns with a false flame, without warmth, which with some women finds expression in fondling a child and with others simply in fits of crying or hysterics. From the very beginning I ought to have said to you sternly: „You have made a mistake. The man you have longed for and dreamed of is not before you. Wait, he will come, and then you will come to yourself and you will be vexed and ashamed of your mistake, and your shame and vexation will hurt me.“ That’s what I should have said to you, had I been more perceptive and more courageous and, last but not least, more sincere… I have, as a matter of fact, said it, but – you remember? – fearful that you might believe me, that it should really happen; I told you beforehand everything people might say later, so as to prepare you not to listen to them and not to believe them, while I hastened to meet you, thinking that I might as well be happy before the right man came. Such is the logic of infatuation and passion».

«Now I think differently. What will happen when I grow deeply attached to her, when seeing her is no longer a luxury but a necessity, when love digs deep into my heart (it’s not for nothing that I feel a lump there)? How shall I be able to tear myself away then? Shall I be able to survive the pain? I shall have a bad time then. Even now I cannot think of it without horror. If you were older and more experienced, I should have blessed my happiness and given you my hand for ever. But now…»

«Why, then, do I write? Why haven’t I come to tell you straight that my desire to see you grows stronger every day and yet I ought not to see you. But, I’m afraid, I have not the courage to say it to your face. You know that yourself! Sometimes I feel like saying something of the kind, but I say something quite different. Perhaps you would look sad (if it is true that you haven’t been bored with me), or, having misunderstood my good intentions, you would be offended: I could not bear either, I would again say something different, and my honourable intentions would crumble into dust and end in an arrangement to meet next day. Now, away from you, it is quite different: your gentle eyes, your kind, pretty face is not before me; the paper is silent and does not mind, and I write calmly (this isn’t true): we shall never see each other again (this is true)».

«Another man might have added: I write this in a flood of tears, but I am not trying to show off before you, I do not parade my grief, because I do not want to make the pain worse, to aggravate regret and sorrow. All such showing off generally conceals the intention of making the feeling strike deeper roots, and I want to destroy its seeds in both you and me. Besides, tears are suitable either to seducers who try to capture a woman’s imprudent vanity by phrases, or to languid dreamers. I am saying this, parting from you as one parts from a good friend who sets out on a long journey. In another three weeks or in another month it would be too late: love makes incredible progress, it is a kind of gangrene of the soul. Now I am in as bad a state as can be, I don’t count time by hours and minutes, I know nothing of sunrise and sunset, but only by whether I have seen you or have not seen you, whether I shall or shall not see you, whether you have been or not, whether you will come… All this is all right for youth, which bears easily pleasant and unpleasant sensations; what I want is peace and quiet, however dull and somnolent, for it is familiar to me; for I cannot weather storms».

«Many people would be surprised at my action. „Why is he running away?“ some will say, and others will laugh at me. Well, I can put up with this, too. If I can put up with not seeing you, I can put up with anything».

«I am comforted a little in my deep anguish by the thought that this brief episode of our lives will for ever leave so pure and fragrant a memory in my mind that it alone will be sufficient to prevent me from sinking into my former state of torpor, and without harming you, will serve you as a guiding principle for your normal life in future. Good-bye, my angel; make haste and fly away as a frightened bird flies from a branch on which it has alighted by mistake, and do it as lightly, cheerfully, and gaily!»

Oblomov was writing with inspiration; his pen was flying over the pages. His eyes shone and his cheeks were flushed. The letter turned out to be long, like all love-letters: lovers are terribly long-winded.

«Funny! I don’t feel bored or depressed any more!» Oblomov thought. «I am almost happy. Why is that? Probably because I’ve got a load off my mind by writing the letter».

He read the letter over, folded and sealed it.

«Zakhar», he said, «when the servant comes give him this letter for the young lady».

«Very good, sir», said Zakhar.

Oblomov really felt almost cheerful. He sat down on the sofa with his feet tucked under him and even asked if there was anything for lunch. He ate two eggs and lighted a cigar. His heart and his mind felt at ease: he was living. He imagined how Olga would receive his letter, how she would be surprised, what she would look like reading it! What would happen afterwards? He was enjoying the prospects of the day and the newness of the position. He listened with a sinking heart for a knock at the door, wondering if the servant had been, if Olga was already reading his letter. No, all was quiet in the entrance hall.

«What can it mean?» he thought anxiously. «No one has called. Why is that?»

A secret voice whispered to him: «What are you so worried about? You want to break off all relations with her, don’t you?» But he stifled that voice.

Half an hour later he at last succeeded in calling in Zakhar, who had been sitting in the yard with the coachman.

«Hasn’t anyone been?» he asked. «Hasn’t the servant called?»

«He has called, sir», Zakhar replied.

«Well, what did you do?»

«I said you were not at home – you had gone to town».

Oblomov glared at him.

«Why did you say that?» he asked. «What did I tell you to do when the man came?»

«But it was a maid, sir, not a man», Zakhar answered with unruffled calmness.

«Did you give her the letter?»

«No, sir. You told me first to say you were not at home and then give the letter. When the man-servant comes, I’ll give it to him».

«Why, you – you’re a murderer! Where’s the letter? Give it me!»

Zakhar brought the letter, which was considerably soiled by then.

«Why don’t you wash your hands?» Oblomov cried angrily, pointing to a stain. «Look at it!»

«My hands are clean, sir», Zakhar replied, looking away.

«Anisya! Anisya!» cried Oblomov.

Anisya thrust her head and shoulders in at the door.

«Look what Zakhar has done!» he complained to her. «Take this letter and give it to the maid or the man-servant who calls from the Ilyinskvs, for the young lady. Do you hear?»

«Yes, sir. Let me have it, I’ll see that it’s delivered».

But as soon as she left the room Zakhar snatched the letter out of her hands.

«Go along», he shouted, «and mind your own business».

Soon the maid came again. Zakhar was opening the door to her, and when Anisya was about to go up to it, he glared furiously at her.

«What do you want here?» he asked hoarsely.

«I’ve just come to hear what you…»

«All right, all right», he thundered, threatening her with his elbow. «Out you go!»

She smiled and went out, but watched through a crack in the door to see if Zakhar was carrying out his master’s orders.

Hearing the noise, Oblomov himself rushed out into the hall.

«What is it, Katya?» he asked.

«My mistress, sir, sent me to ask where you have gone but it seems you haven’t gone anywhere. You’re at home. I’ll run and tell her», she said, turning to go.

«Of course I’m at home», said Oblomov. «Zakhar is always talking nonsense. Here, give this letter to your mistress».

«Yes, sir, I will».

«Where is she now?»

«She’s gone for a walk in the village, sir. She asked me to tell you, sir, if you’d finished the book, to come to the park at two o’clock».

Katya went away.

«I won’t go», Oblomov thought, walking towards the village. «Why exacerbate one’s feelings when all should be over?»

From a distance he saw Olga walking up the hill; he watched Katya overtaking her and giving her the letter; he saw Olga stop for a moment, glance at the letter, think it over, then nod to Katya and turn into the avenue leading to the park.

Oblomov made a detour, and walking past the hill, entered the same avenue from the other end and, half-way down it, sat down on the grass among the bushes and waited.

«She’s bound to pass here», he thought. «I’ll just peep at her unobserved, see how she is, and then go away for ever».

He listened for the sound of her footsteps with a sinking heart. No – all was quiet. Nature carried on with her never- ceasing work: all around him unseen, tiny creatures were busy while everything seemed to be enjoying a solemn rest. In the grass everything was moving, creeping, bustling. Ants were running in different directions, looking very busy and engrossed in their work, running into one another, scampering about, hurrying – it was just like looking from a height at a busy marketplace: the same small crowds, the same crush, the same bustle. Here a bumble-bee was buzzing about a flower and crawling into its calyx; here hundreds of flies were clustering round a drop of resin running out of a small crack in a lime-tree; and somewhere in the thicket a bird had long been repeating one and the same note, perhaps calling to its mate. Two butterflies, flying round and round one another, danced off precipitately as in a waltz among the tree trunks. The grass exuded a strong fragrance; an unceasing din rose from it.

«What a row is going on here», he thought, watching intently all this bustle and listening to the faint noises of nature. «And outside everything is so still, so quiet».

But there was no sound of footsteps. At last – yes! «Oh», Oblomov sighed, quietly parting the branches, «it is she – she… But what’s this? She’s crying! Good heavens!»

Olga walked slowly along, wiping her tears with a handkerchief; but no sooner had she wiped them, than fresh tears came. She was ashamed of them, she tried to swallow them, to hide them from the very trees, but she could not. Oblomov had never seen Olga cry; he did not expect it, and her tears seemed to burn him, but in a way that made him feel warm, not hot. He walked quickly after her.

«Olga, Olga!» he called tenderly, as he followed her.

She gave a start, looked round, gazed at him in surprise, then turned away and walked on.

He walked beside her.

«You’re crying?» he said.

Her tears flowed faster than ever. She could no longer keep them back and, pressing her handkerchief to her face, she burst into sobs and sat down on the nearest seat.

«What have I done!» he whispered in dismay, taking her hand and trying to draw it away from her face.

«Leave me, please!» she said. «Go away. Why are you here? I know I ought not to cry. For what is there to cry about? You are right: yes, anything might happen!»

«What can I do to make you stop crying?» he asked, going down on his knees before her. «Tell me, command me. I am ready for anything».

«You’ve made me cry, but it’s not in your power to stop my tears. You’re not so strong as all that! Let me go, sir!» she said, fanning her face with her handkerchief.

He looked at her and cursed himself inwardly.

«The stupid letter!» he said penitently.

She opened her work-basket, took out the letter and gave it him.

«Take it», she said, «and carry it away with you so that I don’t cry any longer looking at it».

He put it in his pocket silently and sat beside her, hanging his head.

«At any rate you will do justice to my intention, Olga, won’t you?» he said softly. «It proves how dear your happiness is to me».

«Yes, it does», she said, sighing. «I’m afraid, Mr Oblomov, you must have begrudged me my peaceful happiness and you hastened to destroy it».

«Destroy it! So you haven’t read my letter? I’ll repeat it to you…»

«I haven’t read it to the end because I could not see it for tears: I’m still so silly. But I guessed the rest. Please, don’t repeat it, for you will only make me cry again».

Her tears began to flow again.

«But», he began, «am I not giving you up because of your future happiness? Am I not sacrificing myself? Do you think I am doing this cold-bloodedly? Am I not weeping inwardly? Why do you think I am doing it?»

«Why?» she repeated, turning to him and leaving off crying suddenly. «For the same reason that you hid in the bushes to see whether I would cry and how I would cry – that’s why! Had you sincerely meant what you have written, had you been convinced that we ought to part, you would have gone abroad without seeing me».

«What an idea!.». he said reproachfully, and fell silent.

He was struck by her suggestion because he suddenly realized that it was true.

«Yes», she confirmed, «yesterday you wanted me to say „I love you,“ to-day you wanted to see me cry, and to-morrow you may want to see me die».

«Olga, how can you say a thing like that! Surely, you must know that I’d gladly give half my life now to hear you laugh and not to see your tears».

«Yes, perhaps now when you have already seen a woman weeping for you, No», she added, «you have no pity. You say you didn’t want my tears. Well, if you really meant it, you wouldn’t have made me cry».

«But I didn’t know, did I?» he cried, pressing both his hands to his chest.

«A loving heart has its own way of reasoning», she replied. «It knows what it wants, and knows what is going to happen. Yesterday I shouldn’t have come here because we had some visitors who arrived suddenly, but I knew how upset you would have been waiting for me and that you might have slept badly: so I came because I did not want you to suffer… And you – you are glad because I am crying. Well, look at me and be happy!»

And she began to cry again.

«I have slept badly as it is, Olga. I had an awful night…»

«So you were sorry that I slept well, that I didn’t have an awful night, were you?» she interrupted. «Had I not been crying now, you would have slept badly to-night, wouldn’t you?»

«What am I to do now?» he said with submissive tenderness. «Say I am sorry?»

«Only children do that, or people who tread on a person’s toes in a crowd – it’s no good your being sorry», she said, fanning her face with her handkerchief again.

«But what if it’s true, Olga? I mean, what if I am right and our love is a mistake? What if you fall in love with another and blush when you look at me?»

«Well, what if I do?» she asked, looking at him with such deep, piercing, ironical eyes that he felt embarrassed.

«She is out to get something from me!» he thought. «Take care, Oblomov!»

«What do you mean – „if I do?“» he repeated mechanically, looking at her anxiously and at a loss to know what was at the back of her mind and how she would explain her question, since it was obvious that it was impossible to justify their love if it was a mistake.

She looked at him with such conscious deliberation and confidence that it was clear that she knew what she was talking about.

«You are afraid», she replied bitingly, «of falling „to the bottom of the abyss“. You are afraid of being made a fool of if I should cease loving you. „It will go badly with me,“ you write».

He still did not quite understand her.

«But don’t you see if I fell in love with another man, I should be happy, shouldn’t I? And don’t you say that you know I shall be happy in future and that you are ready to sacrifice everything, even your life, for me?»

He looked intently at her, blinking from time to time.

«So that’s her logic!» he whispered. «I must say I didn’t expect that…»

And she looked him up and down with such annihilating irony.

«And what about the happiness that is driving you mad?» she went on. «And these mornings and evenings, this park, my „I love you“ – isn’t this all worth something, some sacrifice, some pain?»

«Oh, I wish I could sink through the ground!» he thought, feeling miserable, as he grasped Olga’s meaning more and more.

«And what if you grew tired of this love», she began warmly with another question, «as you have grown tired of books, of your work at the Civil Service, of society? What if in due course, even if I have no rival, if you don’t fall in love with some other woman, you just drop asleep beside me as on your sofa, and even my voice won’t waken you? If that lump in your heart disappears, if not even another woman, but your dressing-gown becomes dearer to you than I?»

«Olga, that’s impossible!» he interrupted, displeased, and drew away from her.

«Why is it impossible?» she asked, «You say that I am mistaken, that I will fall in love with somebody else, and I can’t help feeling sometimes that you will simply fall out of love with me. And what then? How shall I justify myself for what I am doing now? What shall I say to myself, let alone to other people or society? I, too, sometimes spend sleepless nights because of this, but I do not torture you with conjectures about the future because I believe that everything will be for the best. With me happiness overcomes fear. I think it is something if your eyes begin to shine because of me, when you climb hills in search of me, when you forget your indolence and rush off in the heat to town for some flowers or a book for me, when I see that I make you smile and wish to live… I am waiting and searching for one thing – happiness, and I believe I have found it. If I am making a mistake, if it is true that I shall weep over it, at any rate I feel here» (she put her hand to her heart) «that I am not to blame for it; it will mean that it was not to be, that it was not God’s will. But I am not afraid of having to shed tears in the future; I shall not be weeping for nothing: I still have bought something for them… I was so happy – till now!» she added.

«Do go on being happy!» Oblomov besought her.

«And you see nothing but gloom ahead; happiness is nothing to you. This», she went on, «is ingratitude. It isn’t love, it is» —

«– egoism!» Oblomov finished the sentence for her, not daring to look at Olga or to speak or to ask her forgiveness.

«Go», she said softly, «where you wanted to go to».

He looked at her. Her eyes were dry. She was looking down thoughtfully and drawing in the sand with her parasol.

«Lie down on your back again», she added, «You won’t be making a mistake then, you won’t „fall into an abyss“».

«I’ve poisoned myself and poisoned you instead of being happy simply and openly», he murmured penitently.

«Drink kvas: it won’t poison you», she taunted him.

«Olga, that’s not fair!» he said. «After I’ve been punishing myself with the consciousness of…»

«Yes, in words you punish yourself, throw yourself into an abyss, give half your life, but when you are overwhelmed by doubt and spend sleepless nights how tender you become with yourself, how careful and solicitous, how far-seeing!»

«How true and simple it is I», thought Oblomov, but he was ashamed to say it aloud. Why had he not understood it himself, but had to wait for a woman who had scarcely begun to live to explain it to him? And how quickly she had grown up! Only a short time ago she had seemed such a child!

«We’ve nothing more to say to each other», she concluded, getting up. «Good-bye, and keep your peace of mind. That’s your idea of happiness, isn’t it?»

«Olga, no, for God’s sake, no! Don’t drive me away now everything has become clear again», he said, taking her hand.

«But what do you want of me? You are not sure whether my love for you is a mistake and I cannot dispel your doubts. Perhaps it is a mistake – I don’t know».

He let go her hand. Again the knife was raised over him.

«You don’t know? But don’t you feel?» he asked, looking doubtful once more. «Do you think…»

«I don’t think anything. I told you yesterday what I felt, but I don’t know what’s going to happen in a year’s time. And do you really think that one happiness is followed by another and then by a third just like it?» she asked, looking open-eyed at him. «Tell me, you’ve had more experience than I».

But he was no longer anxious to confirm her in the idea, and he was silent, shaking an acacia branch with one hand.

«No», he said, like a schoolboy repeating a lesson, «one only loves once!»

«There, you see: I believe it too», she added. «But if it is not so, then perhaps I shall fall out of love with you, perhaps I shall suffer from my mistake and you too, perhaps we shall part!.. To love two or three times – no… I don’t want to believe it!»

He sighed. The perhaps damped his spirits and he walked slowly and thoughtfully after her. But he felt more lighthearted at every step; the mistake he had invented at night seemed so far away. «Why», it occurred to him, «it is not only love, all life is like this. And if every opportunity is to be rejected as a mistake, when is one to be sure that one is not making a mistake? What was I thinking of? I seem to have gone blind…»

«Olga», he said, barely touching her waist with two fingers (she stopped), «you’re wiser than I am».

She shook her head.

«No», she said, «I’m simpler and more courageous. What are you afraid of? Do you seriously think one may fall out of love?» she asked, with proud confidence.

«Now I’m not afraid, either!» he said cheerfully. «With you I do not fear the future».

«I’ve read that phrase somewhere recently – in Sue, I think», she suddenly said, with irony, turning towards him, «only there, it’s a woman who says it to a man…»

Oblomov flushed.

«Olga», he implored, «let everything be as yesterday. I’ll never be afraid of mistakes».

She said nothing.

«Well?» he asked timidly.

She said nothing.

«Well, if you don’t want to say it, give me some sign – a sprig of lilac…»

«The lilac – is over!» she replied. «You can see for yourself – it’s all withered».

«It’s over – withered!» he repeated, looking at the lilac. «It’s all over with the letter, too!» he said suddenly.

She shook her head. He walked after her, thinking about the letter, yesterday’s happiness, the withered lilac.

«The lilac is certainly withered!» he thought. «Why did I send that letter? Why didn’t I sleep all night and why did I write it in the morning? Now that my mind is at rest again» (he yawned) «…I feel awfully sleepy. If I hadn’t written the letter, nothing of this would have happened: she wouldn’t have cried, everything would have been as yesterday, we should have sat quietly in this avenue, looking at each other and talking of happiness. And it would have been the same to-day, and tomorrow…» he gave a big yawn.

Then he suddenly began to wonder what would have happened if his letter had achieved its object, if she had agreed with him, if she had been afraid of mistakes and future distant storms, if she had listened to his so-called experience and common sense and agreed that they should part and forget each other. Heaven forbid! To say good-bye, to return to town, to a new flat! To be followed by an interminable night, a dull tomorrow, an unbearable day after to-morrow, and a long succession of days, each more colourless than the last… He could not allow that to happen! That was death! And it would most certainly have happened! He would have fallen ill. He had never wanted to part from her, he could not have endured it, he would have come and implored her to see him.

«Why, then, did I write that letter?» he asked himself.

«Olga Sergeyevna», he said.

«What do you want?»

«I must add one more confession».

«What?»

«Why, there was no need for that letter at all!»

«Oh yes, there was», she decided.

She looked round and laughed when she saw the face he made, how his drowsiness had suddenly vanished, and how he opened his eyes wide with astonishment.

«Was there?» he repeated, slowly fixing his gaze at her back, with surprise.

But all he could see were the two tassels of her cloak. What, then, was the meaning of her tears and reproaches? It was not cunning, was it? But Olga was not cunning – he saw that clearly. It was only women of comparatively low mentality who were cunning or subsisted on cunning. Possessing no real intelligence, they set the springs of their petty, everyday lives in motion by means of cunning, and wove, like lace, their domestic policies without suspecting the existence of the main currents of life, their points of intersection and their direction. Cunning was like a small coin with which one could not buy a great deal. Just as a small coin could keep one going for an hour or two, so cunning might help to conceal or distort something or to deceive someone, but it was not sufficient to enable one to scan a far horizon or to survey a big event from beginning to end. Cunning was short-sighted: it saw well only what was happening under its nose, but not at a distance, and that was why it was often caught in the trap it had set for others. Olga was simply intelligent: how easily and clearly she had solved the problem to-day, and, indeed, any problem! She grasped the true meaning of events at once and she reached it by a direct road. While cunning was like a mouse, running round and round everything and hiding… Besides, Olga’s character was different. So what was the meaning of it? What was it all about?

«Why was the letter necessary?» he asked.

«Why?» she repeated, turning round to him quickly with a gay face, delighted that she could nonplus him at every step. «Because», she began slowly, «you did not sleep all night and wrote it all for me. I too am an egoist! This is in the first place…»

«Then why did you reproach me just now, if you now agree with me?» Oblomov interrupted.

«Because you invented these torments. I did not invent them, they simply came, and I am glad that they have gone, but you prepared them and enjoyed it all beforehand. You’re wicked! That is why I reproached you. Then – your letter shows feeling and thought – last night and this morning you lived not in your usual way, but as your friend and I wanted you to live – that’s in the second place; thirdly…»

She walked up so close to him that the blood rushed to his heart and his head; he began to breathe hard, with excitement. She looked him straight in the eyes.

«Thirdly, because in this letter is reflected as in a mirror your tenderness, your solicitude, your care for me, your fear for my happiness, your pure conscience – everything Mr Stolz pointed out to me in you, that made me love you and forget your laziness – your apathy. You revealed yourself in your letter without wishing to do so. You’re not an egoist, you didn’t write it because you wanted to part from me – you did not want that, but because you were afraid to deceive me. It was your honesty that spoke in it, otherwise your letter would have offended me and I should not have cried – from pride! You see, I know why I love you, and I am not afraid of a mistake: I am not mistaken in you!»

She looked radiant and magnificent as she said this. Her eyes shone with the triumph of love, with the consciousness of her power; her cheeks were flushed. And he – he was the cause of it! It was an impulse of his honest heart that had kindled this fire in her soul, inspired this outburst of feeling, this brilliance.

«Olga, you’re better than any woman in the world, you’re one of the best!» he said, ecstatically, and, beside himself, put out his arms and bent over her. «For God’s sake – one kiss as a pledge of ineffable happiness», he whispered as in a delirium.

She instantly drew back a step; the triumphant radiance, the colour left her face, and her gentle eyes blazed sternly.

«Never! Never! Don’t come near me!» she said in alarm, almost in horror, stretching out both arms and her parasol to keep him at a distance and standing motionless, as though rooted to the spot, without breathing, in a stern attitude, and looking sternly at him, her head half turned.

He sobered down suddenly: it was not the gentle Olga who stood before him, but an offended goddess of pride and anger with compressed lips and lightning in her eyes.

«I’m sorry!» he muttered in confusion, feeling utterly crushed.

She turned slowly and walked on, glancing fearfully over her shoulder to see what he was doing. But he was doing nothing: he was walking slowly like a dog that had been scolded and that was walking with its tail between its legs. She had quickened her pace, but seeing his face, suppressed a smile, and walked on more calmly, though still shuddering from time to time. The colour came and went in her cheeks. As she walked, her face cleared, her breathing became more even and quieter, and once more she proceeded on her way with measured steps. She saw how sacred her «never» was to Oblomov, and her fit of anger subsided gradually and gave way to pity. She walked slower and slower. She wanted to soften her outburst and she was trying to find some excuse for speaking.

«I’ve made a mess of everything! That was my real mistake. „Never!“ Good God! The lilac has withered», he thought, looking at the flowers on the tree. «Yesterday has withered, too, and the letter has withered, and this moment, the best in my life, when a woman has told me for the first time, like a voice from heaven, what good there is in me, has also withered!»

He looked at Olga – she stood, waiting for him, with lowered eyes.

«Please, give me the letter», she said softly.

«It has withered!» he replied sadly, giving her the letter.

She drew close to him once more and bent down her head; her eyes were closed. She was almost trembling. He gave her the letter; she did not raise her head or move away.

«You frightened me», she added softly.

«I’m sorry, Olga», he murmured.

She said nothing.

«This stern „never!“…» he said sadly and sighed.

«It will wither!» she said in a barely audible whisper, and blushed.

She cast a shy, tender glance at him, took both his hands, pressed them warmly in hers, and then put them to her heart.

«Do you hear how fast it is beating?» she said. «You frightened me! Let me go!»

And without looking at him, she turned round and ran along the path, lifting the hem of her skirt lightly.

«Where are you off to?» he cried. «I’m tired, I can’t keep up with you».

«Leave me», she repeated with burning cheeks. «I’m running to sing, sing, sing! There’s such a tightness in my chest that it almost hurts me!»

He remained standing and gazed after her a long time, as if she were an angel that was flying away.

«Will the moment wither too?» he thought almost sadly, and he did not seem to know whether he was walking or standing.

«The lilacs are over», he thought again. «Yesterday is over, and the night with its phantoms and its stifling horrors is over too… Yes, and this moment will also be gone like the lilac. But while last night was drawing to a close, this morning was beginning to dawn».

«What is it, then?» he said aloud in a daze. «And love too – love? And I had thought that like a hot noonday sun it would hang over lovers and that nothing would stir or breathe in its atmosphere; but there is no rest in love, either, and it moves on and on like all life, Stolz says. And the Joshua has not yet been born who could tell it: „Stand still and do not move!“ What will happen to-morrow?» he asked himself anxiously and wistfully, and walked home slowly.

Passing under Olga’s windows he heard the strains of Schubert in which her tightened chest found relief and seemed to be sobbing with happiness.

Oh, how wonderful life was!