4

WE must now go back a little to the time before Stolz’s arrival on Oblomov’s name day and to another place, far from Vyborg. There the reader will meet people he knows, about whom Stolz did not tell Oblomov all he knew, either for some special rеаsons of his own or, perhaps, because Oblomov did not ask there was to ask – also, no doubt, for special reasons of his оwn.

One day Stolz was walking down a boulevard in Paris, glancing absent-mindedly at the passers-by and the shop signboards without pausing to look at anything in particular. He had not had any letters from Russia for some time, neither frond Kiev, nor from Odessa, nor from Petersburg. He was bored and, having posted three more letters, he was on his way home. Suddenly his eyes lighted on something with amazement and then assumed their usual expression. Two ladies crossed the boulevard and went into a shop. «No, it can’t be», he thought. «What an idea! I’d have known about it! It can’t be them». All the same, he went up to the shop window and examined the ladies I through the glass. «Can’t see a thing! They are standing with their backs to the windows!» Stolz went into the shop and asked for something. One of the ladies turned to the light and he recognized Olga Ilyinsky – and did not recognize her! He was about to rush up to her, but stopped and began watching her narrowly. Good Lord, what a change! It was she and not she. The features were the same as hers, but she was pale, her eyes seemed a little hollow, there was no childish smile on her lips, no naivety, no placidity. Some grave, sorrowful thought was hovering over her eyebrows, and her eyes said a great deal they had not known and had not said before. She did not look as she used to – frankly, calmly, and serenely – a cloud of sorrow or perplexity lay over her face.

He went up to her. Her eyebrows contracted a little; for a moment she looked at him in bewilderment, then she recognized him; her eyebrows parted and lay symmetrically, and her eyes shone with the light of a calm and deep, not an impulsive, joy. A brother would be happy if his favourite sister had been as glad to see him.

«Goodness, is it you?» she cried in a voice that penetrated to the very soul and that was joyful to the point of ecstasy.

Her aunt turned round quickly, and all three of them began speaking at once. He reproached them for not having written to him, and they made excuses. They had arrived in Paris only two days before and had been looking for him everywhere. At one address they were told that he had gone to Lyons, and they did not know what to do.

«But what made you come? And not a word to me!» he reproached them.

«We made up our minds so quickly», said Olga’s aunt, «that we didn’t want to write to you. Olga wanted to give you a surprise».

He glanced at Olga: her face did not confirm her aunt’s words. He looked at her more closely, but she was impervious, inaccessible to his scrutiny.

«What is the matter with her?» Stolz thought. «I used to guess her thoughts at once, but now – what a change!»

«How you have grown up, Olga Sergeyevna!» he said aloud. «I don’t recognize you. And it’s scarcely a year since we met. What have you been doing? Tell me!»

«Oh, nothing special», she said, examining some material.

«How is your singing?» Stolz asked, continuing to study his new Olga and trying to read the unfamiliar expression on her face; but her expression flashed and disappeared like lightning.

«I haven’t sung for ages», she said in a casual tone of voice. «For two months or more».

«And how is Oblomov?» he asked suddenly. «Is he alive? Does he write to you?»

At this point Olga might have betrayed her secret had not her aunt come to her rescue.

«Just fancy», she said, walking out of the shop, «he used to visit us every day, then he suddenly vanished. After we had made our arrangements for going abroad, I sent a message to him, but was told that he was ill and received no one; so we did not see him again».

«Didn’t you know anything, either?» Stolz asked Olga solicitously.

Olga was examining through her lorgnette a carriage that was driving past.

«He really had fallen ill», she said, looking with feigned attention at the carriage. «Look, Auntie, it’s our travelling companions that have just driven past».

«No, you must give me a full account of my Ilya», Stolz insisted. «What have you done to him? Why haven’t you brought him with you?»

«Mais mа tante vient de dire», she said.

«He’s frightfully lazy», the aunt observed, «and so shy that as soon as three or four visitors arrived he went home. Just fancy, he booked a seat at the opera for the season and did not hear half the operas!»

«He did not hear Rubini», Olga added.

Stolz shook his head and sighed.

«How is it you made up your minds to go abroad? Is it f long? What gave you the idea so suddenly?» Stolz asked.

«It’s for her», the aunt said, pointing to Olga. «On the doctor’s advice. Petersburg was having a distinctly bad effect on her health, and we went away for the winter, but haven’t decided yet where to spend it – at Nice or in Switzerland».

«Yes, you have certainly changed a lot», Stolz said, looking closely at Olga and scrutinizing every line on her face.

The Ilyinskys spent six months in Paris; Stolz was their daily and only companion and guide. Olga’s health began perceptibly to improve; her brooding gave way to calm and indifference, outwardly at any rate. It was impossible to say what was going on inside her, but she gradually became as friendly to Stolz as before, though she no longer burst into her former loud, child-like, silvery laughter, but only smiled with restraint when Stolz tried to amuse her. Sometimes she seemed to be annoyed at not being able to laugh. He at once realized that she was not to be amused any more: she often listened to some amusing, sally of his with a frown between her unsymmetrically-lying eyebrows, looking silently at him, as though reproaching him for his frivolity, or impatient with him; or instead of replying to his joke, she would suddenly ask him some serious question and follow it up with so insistent a look that he felt ashamed of his insipid, empty talk. At times she seemed so weary of the daily senseless rushing about and chatter that Stolz had suddenly to discuss some subject which he seldom and reluctantly discussed with women. How much mental resourcefulness and thought he had to spend so that Olga’s deep questioning eyes should grow bright and calm and should not seek for some answer from someone else. How upset he was when, as a result of a careless explanation, her look became dry and stern, her eyebrows contracted, and a shadow of silent but profound dissatisfaction fell over her face. And he had to spend the next two or three days in applying all the subtlety and even cunning of which he was capable, all his fervour and skill in dealing with women, in order to call forth, little by little and not without difficulty, a glimmer of serenity on her face and the gentleness of reconciliation in her eyes and her smile. Sometimes he returned home in the evening worn out by this struggle, and he was happy when he emerged from it victorious.

«Dear me, how mature she has grown! How this little girl has developed! Who was her teacher? Where did she take her lessons in life? From the baron? But he is so smooth you can learn nothing from his exquisitely turned phrases! Not from Ilya, surely?»

He could not understand Olga, and he ran to her again the next day; but this time he read her expression cautiously and with fear; he often felt baffled, and it was only his intelligence and knowledge of life that helped him to deal with the questions, doubts, demands, and everything else he divined in Olga’s features. With the torch of experience in his hands, he ventured into the labyrinth of her mind and character, and each day he discovered new facts and new traits, but was still far from fathoming her, merely watching with amazement and alarm how her mind demanded its daily sustenance and how her soul never ceased asking for life and experience. Every day the life and activity of another person attached itself to Stolz’s life and activity. Having surrounded Olga with flowers, books, music, and albums, Stolz stopped worrying in the belief that he had provided plenty of occupation for his friend’s leisure hours, and he went to work, or to inspect some mine or some model farm, or into society to meet and exchange views with new or remarkable men; then he returned to her tired out, to sit by her piano and rest at the sound of her voice. And suddenly he found in her face new questions and in her eyes an insistent demand for an answer. Gradually, imperceptibly and involuntarily, he laid before her what he had seen that day and why. Sometimes she expressed a wish to see and learn for herself what he had seen and learnt. And he went over his work again: went with her to inspect a building or some place, or an engine, or to read some historical event inscribed on stones or walls. Gradually and imperceptibly he acquired the habit of thinking and feeling aloud in her presence; and one day he suddenly discovered, after subjecting himself to a stern self-examination, that he had someone to share his life with him, and that this had started on the day he met Olga. Almost unconsciously, as though talking to himself, he began to estimate aloud in her presence the value of some treasure he had acquired, and was amazed at himself and her; then he checked up carefully to see whether there was still a question left in her eyes, whether the gleam of satisfied thought was reflected in her face, and whether her eyes followed him as a conqueror. If that was so, he went home with pride, with tremulous emotion, and for hours at night he prepared himself for the next day. The most tedious and indispensable work did not seem dry to him, but merely indispensable: it entered deeper into the very foundation and texture of his life; thoughts, observations, and events were not put away negligently and in silence into the archives of memory, but lent brilliant colour to every day that passed. What a warm glow spread over Olga’s pale face when, without waiting for her eager questioning glance, he hastened to throw down before her, with fervour and energy, fresh supplies and new material! And how perfectly happy he was when her mind, with the identical solicitude and charming obedience, hastened to catch his every word and every glance; both observed each other keenly: he looked at her to see whether there still was a question in her eyes, and she at him to see whether he had left anything unsaid or forgotten something or, worst of all, whether he had – heaven forbid! – omitted to open up for her some dark corner, which was still inaccessible to her, or to develop his thought completely. The more important and complicated the subject, the more thoroughly he expounded it to her, and the longer and more attentively her appreciative glance was fixed on him, and the warmer, deeper, and more affectionate it became.

«That child, Olga!» he thought in amazement. «She is outgrowing me!»

He pondered over Olga as he had never pondered over anything.

In the spring they all went to Switzerland, Stolz having decided already in Paris that he could not live without Olga. Having settled this question, he began wondering whether Olga could live without him or not. But that question was not so easy to answer. He approached it slowly, circumspectly, cautiously, now groping his way, now advancing boldly, and thought that he had practically reached his goal whenever he caught sight of some unmistakable sign, glance, word, boredom, or joy: one more step, a hardly perceptible movement of Olga’s eyebrows, a sigh, and to-morrow the mystery would be solved: she loved him! He could read in her face an almost childish confidence in him; she sometimes looked at him as she would not look at anyone, except perhaps at her mother, if she had a mother. She regarded his visits and the fact that he devoted all his leisure time to her and spent days trying to please her, not as a favour, as a flattering present of love, or as an act of gallantry, but simply as an obligation, as though he were her brother, her father, or even her husband: and that is a great deal, that is everything. She herself was so free and sincere with him in every word she uttered and every step she took that he could not help feeling that he exercised undisputed authority over her. He knew he possessed such an authority; she confirmed it every moment, told him that she believed him alone and could rely on him blindly in life as she could not rely on anyone in the whole world. He was, of course, proud of it, but then any elderly, intelligent, and experienced uncle could be proud of it, even the baron, if he had been a man of intelligence and character. But was that the sort of authority a man exercised over his beloved? That was the question! Did his authority have that seductive deception of love about it, that flattering blindness through which a woman is ready to be cruelly mistaken and be happy in her mistake? No, she submitted to him consciously. It is true her eyes glowed when he developed some idea or laid bare his soul to her; she gazed on him with radiant eyes, but he could always tell why she did it; sometimes she told him the reason herself. But in love merit is acquired blindly and without any conscious reason, and it is in this blindness and unconsciousness that happiness lies. If she was offended, he could see at once what offended her. He had never caught her unawares blushing suddenly, or being overcome with joy bordering on fear, or looking at him with a languishing or ardent glance; if anything of the kind had happened – if he thought she looked upset when he told her that he would be leaving for Italy in a few days and his heart missed a beat in one of those rare and precious moments – everything seemed suddenly to be hidden under a veil once more.

«What a pity», she said naively and openly, «I can’t go there with you. I’d love to, but I expect you will tell me all about it and so well that I shall feel as though I’d been there myself».

And the spell was broken by this openly expressed desire, which she did not conceal from anyone, and this vulgar and formal praise of his narrative powers. As soon as he gathered up all the threads and succeeded in weaving a most delicate network of lace and had only to fasten the last loop – steady now – one more moment and – she would suddenly once again grow calm, even, and sometimes actually cold. She would be sitting, carrying on with her work, listening to him in silence, raise her head from time to time, and look at him in such a questioning, curious, matter-of-fact way that he more than once threw down the book in vexation or, cutting short some explanation, jumped up from his seat and went away. If he turned round he would catch her surprised glance and he would feel ashamed, come back and invent some excuse. She listened to him with such unaffected simplicity and believed it. She did not doubt him in the least; there was not even the ghost of a sly smile on her lips. «Does she love me or not?» he wondered. If she did love him, why was she so reserved and so cautious? If she did not, why was she so submissive and so anxious to anticipate his wishes? He had to go for a week to Paris and London, and came to tell her about it on the very day he was leaving, without any previous warning. If she gave a sudden start or changed colour, it; was love, the mystery was solved, he was happy! But she just shook him firmly by the hand and looked grieved: he was in, despair.

«I’ll miss you awfully», she said. «I could cry, I feel like a real orphan. Auntie», she added plaintively, «look, Mr Stolz is going away!»

That was the last straw. «Turned to her aunt!» he thought, «That’s the limit! I can see that she is sorry I am going, that she loves me, perhaps, but – this sort of love can be bought like shares on the exchange at the price of so much time, attention, and gallantry… I won’t come back», he thought sullenly. «How do you like that? Olga – a little girl – why, she used to do everything I asked her! What’s the matter with her?»

And he sank into deep thought.

What was the matter with her? There was one little thing he did not know: that she had loved, that, as far as she was capable, she had passed through the period of girlish lack of control, sudden blushes, badly concealed heartache, the feverish symptoms of love and its first ardour. Had he known this, he would have found out, if not whether she loved him or not, at any rate why it was so difficult to guess what was the matter with her.

In Switzerland they visited every place where tourists go, but more often they liked to stay in out-of-the-way and little- frequented spots. They, or at any rate Stolz, were so preoccupied with their own affairs, that they were weary of travelling, which they regarded as of secondary importance. He went for walks with her in the mountains, looked at precipices and waterfalls, and she was in the foreground of every landscape. He would walk behind her up some narrow path, while her aunt remained sitting in the carriage below; he would watch her keenly and in secret, stopping when she reached the top and taking breath, and wonder how she would look at him, for it was at him that she looked first of all; there was no doubt in his mind about that by now. It would have been splendid: it made his heart feel warm and joyful, but then she would suddenly cast a glance over the landscape, and stand fascinated, lost in dreamy contemplation – and he was no longer there so far as she was concerned. The moment he stirred, reminded her of himself, or uttered a word, she gave a start and sometimes cried out: it was evident that she had forgotten whether he were beside her or far away – indeed, whether he existed at all. But afterwards, at home, at the window or on the balcony, she would speak to him alone for hours, describing her impressions at length till she had put it all into words; she spoke warmly and with enthusiasm, choosing her words and rapidly seizing some expression he suggested, and he would catch in her eyes a look of gratitude for his help. Or she would sit down in a large armchair, pale with fatigue, and only her eager and never-tired eyes would tell him that she wanted to listen to him.

She would listen to him without moving or uttering a word, and without missing a single detail. When he fell silent, she still listened, her eyes still questioned him, and in answer to this mute challenge, he went on talking with fresh force and fresh enthusiasm. It would have been splendid: he felt warm and joyful, and his heart beat fast; it meant that she lived in the present and that she wanted nothing more: her light, her inspiration, her reason was beside her. But she would suddenly get up looking tired, and those same questioning eyes of hers would ask him to go away, or she would grow hungry and eat with such an appetite.

All that would have been excellent: he was not a dreamer; he did not want violent passion any more than Oblomov, only for different reasons. He would have wished, however, that their feeling should flow in a smooth and broad stream, but not before it first boiled up hotter at the source, so that they could scoop it up and drink their fill of it and afterwards know all their lives where this spring of happiness flowed from.

«Does she or does she not love me?» he cried in an agony of suspense, nearly bursting into tears, nearly on the point of a nervous breakdown.

This question was becoming more and more an obsession with him, spreading like a flame, paralysing his intentions: it was becoming a question not of love, but of life and death. There was no room in his heart for anything else now. It was as though in these six months he had experienced all the agonies and torments of love against which he had so skilfully guarded in his relations with women. He felt that his robust constitution would break down if this strain on his mind, his will, and his nerves went on for many more months. He understood what he had so far failed to understand – how a man’s powers are wasted in this secret struggle of the soul with passion, how incurable though bloodless, wounds are inflicted upon the heart and give rise to cries of agony, and how even life may be lost. He lost some of his arrogant confidence in his own powers; he no longer joked light-heartedly when he heard stories of people going оut of their minds, or pining away for all sorts of reasons, an among them – for love. He was frightened.

«I’m going to put an end to this», he said. «I’ll find out what’s at the back of her mind, as I used to before, and to-morrow – I shall either be happy or go away! I can’t bear it any more!» he went on, looking at himself in the glass. «I look like nothing on earth – enough!»

He went straight to his goal – that is, to Olga.

And what about Olga? Had she not noticed the state he was in or was she completely indifferent to it? She could not help noticing it: women less subtle than she know how to distinguish between friendly devotion and acts of kindness and the tender expression of another feeling. One could not accuse her of being a flirt, for she had a correct understanding of true undissembling and unconventional morality. She was above such vulgar weakness. It can only be assumed that, without having anything particular in mind, she liked the adoration, so full of passion and understanding, of a man like Stolz. Of course she liked it: this adoration made amends for her hurt feeling of self-respect and gradually put her back on the pedestal from which she had fallen; little by little her pride was revived. But what did she think would be the end of this adoration? It could not go on for ever expressing itself in the continual conflict between Stolz’s inquiring mind and her obstinate silence. Did she, at any rate, realize that all this conflict was not in vain and that he would gain the suit on which he had spent so much will and determination? He was not spending all his fire and brilliance for nothing, was he? Would Oblomov’s image and her old love dissolve in its rays? She did not understand anything of this, she had no clear conception of it, and she struggled desperately with these questions, with herself, and did not know how to escape from this confusion. What was she to do? She could not remain in a state of indecision: sooner or later this mute struggle and interplay of the feelings which were locked in their breasts would give way to words – what could she tell him about her past? How would she describe it and how would she describe her feeling for Stolz? If she loved Stolz, then what was her first love? Flirtation, frivolity, or worse? She blushed with shame and turned hot at this thought. She would never accuse herself of that. But if that was her first pure love, what were her relations to Stolz? Again play, deception, subtle calculation to entice him into marriage so as to cover up the frivolity of her conduct? She turned cold and pale at the very thought of it. But if it was not play, or deception or calculation – so … was it love again? But such a supposition made her feel utterly at a loss: a second love – eight or seven months after the first! Who would believe her? How could she mention it without causing surprise, perhaps – contempt! She dared not think of it. She had no right. She ransacked her memory: there was nothing there about a second love. She recalled the authoritative opinions of her aunts, old maids, all sorts of clever people, and, finally, writers, «philosophers of love’ – and on all sides she heard the inescapable verdict: „A woman loves truly only once“. Oblomov, too, pronounced the same verdict. She recalled Sonia and wondered what she would have said about a second love, but visitors from Russia had told her that her friend was already engaged on her third…

No, she decided, she had no love for Stolz and, indeed, could not have! She had loved Oblomov, and that love had died and the flower of life had withered for ever! She had only friendship for Stolz, a friendship based on his brilliant qualities and his friendship for her, his attention, his confidence.

It was thus that she banished the thought, or even the possibility of love for her old friend. This was the reason why Stolz could not detect in her face or words any sign either of positive indifference or a momentary flash or even spark of feeling which overstepped by a hair’s-breadth the limits of warm, cordial, but ordinary friendship. There was only one way she could have ended it once and for all: having noticed the first symptoms of love in Stolz, she ought to have gone away at once, and thus nipped it in the bud. But it was already too late: it had happened long ago, and, besides, she ought to have foreseen that his feeling would develop into passion; and he was not Oblomov: she could not run away anywhere from him. Even if it had been physically possible, it was morally impossible for her to go away. At first she enjoyed only the rights of their old friendship and, as before, found in Stolz either a playful, witty, and ironical companion or a true and profound observer of life and of everything that interested them. But the more frequently they met, the more intimate they grew spiritually and the more active his role became: from a mere observer of events he imperceptibly became their interpreter and her guide. Without her noticing it, he became her reason and conscience, and new rights made their appearance, new secret ties that entangled the whole of Olga» s life, all except one cherished corner which she carefully hid from his observation and judgement. She had accepted this spiritual guardianship over her heart and mind, and saw that she had in her turn acquired an influence over him. They had exchanged rights; she had permitted this exchange to happen somehow without noticing it and without saying anything about it. How could she take it all away again now? And, besides, there was in it so much fun – pleasure – variety – life. What would she do if she were suddenly deprived of it? And, anyway, when the id: of running away occurred to her, it was too late; she had not the strength to do it. Each day she did not spend with him, every thought she did not confide in him and share with him, lost its colour and significance. «Oh dear», she thought, «if only I could be his sister! What happiness it would be to possess a permanent claim on a man like that, not only on his mind, but also on his heart, to enjoy his presence openly and legitimately, without having to pay for it by heavy sacrifices, disappointments, and confessions of one’s miserable past. And now – what am I? If he goes away, I not only have no right to keep him, but I ought to wish to part from him; and if I do make him stay, what am I to tell him? What right have I to wish to see and hear him every minute? Because I am bored, because I feel miserable, because he teaches me, amuses me, is useful and pleasant to me? That is a reason, of course, but not a right. And what do I give him in exchange? The right to admire me disinterestedly without daring to think of reciprocity when so many women would have thought themselves lucky…»

She was unhappy and tried to find a way out of that situation, and saw no end to it, no purpose in it. All the future held for her was fear of his disappointment and of parting from him for ever. Sometimes it occurred to her to tell him everything and so bring to an end both his struggle and hers, but her courage failed her the moment she thought of it. She felt ashamed and unhappy. The strange thing was that since she had been inseparable from Stolz and he had taken possession of her life, she ceased to respect her past, and even began to be ashamed of it. If the baron, for instance, or anyone else had got to know about it, she would, of course, have felt embarrassed and uncomfortable, but she would not have tortured herself as much as she was doing now at the thought that Stolz might find out about it. She imagined with horror the expression of his face, how he would look at her, what he would say, and what he would think afterwards. She would suddenly appear so worthless to him, so weak and insignificant. No, no, not for anything in the world! She began observing herself, and she was horrified to discover that she was ashamed not only of her love affair, but also of its hero… And she was consumed with remorse for being ungrateful for the deep devotion of her former lover. Perhaps she would have grown used to her shame and made the best of it – what doesn’t a person get used to? – if her friendship for Stolz had been free from any selfish thoughts and desires. But if she was successful in suppressing the artful and flattering whisper of her heart, she could not control the flight of her imagination: the shilling image of this other love often appeared before her eyes; the dream of splendid happiness on the wide arena of many-sided life, with all its depths, sorrows, and delights – her happiness with Stolz and not in indolent drowsiness with Oblomov – grew more and more seductive. It was then that she shed tears over her past and could not wash it away. She recovered from her dream and sought refuge more than once behind the impenetrable wall of silence and friendly indifference that Stolz felt to be so unendurable. Then, forgetting herself, she was again carried away selflessly by the presence of her friend, and was charming, amiable, and trustful till the unlawful dream of happiness to which she had forfeited the right reminded her that the future was lost for her, that she had left her rosy dreams behind, and that the flower of life had withered. It is possible that, as the years passed, she would have become reconciled to her position and, like all old maids, would have renounced her dreams of the future and sunk into cold apathy or devoted herself to charitable works; but suddenly her unlawful dream assumed a more threatening aspect when from some words that escaped Stolz she realized that she had lost him as a friend and had acquired a passionate admirer. Friendship was lost in love.

She was pale on the morning she discovered it, she did not go out all day, she was agitated, she struggled with herself, wondering what she should do now and what her duty was – but could think of nothing. She merely cursed herself for not having overcome her shame and revealed her past to Stolz earlier, for now she had to overcome fear as well. At times, unable to bear the agony of her heartache any longer, she seemed to be filled with resolution and was ready to rush to him and tell him of her past love not in words but in sobs, convulsions, and fainting fits, so that he should see how great her repentance was. She heard how other women acted in similar cases. Sonia, for instance, to her fiancé about the lieutenant, that she had made a fool him, that he was just a boy, that she purposely kept him waiting out in the frost till it pleased her to go to her carriage, and so on. Sonia would not have hesitated to say about Oblomov that she had made fun of him for amusement, that he was so ridiculous that she could not possibly be in love with «such a clumsy lout», that no one could possibly believe that. But such conduct might be excused by Sonia’s husband and many others, but not by Stolz. Olga might have been able to put the whole thing in a better light by saying that she only wanted to draw Oblomov out of the abyss and, to do that, made use of a friendly flirtation – to revive a dying man and then leave him. But this would have been too sophisticated and forced and, in any case, false. No, no, there was no way out!

«Oh dear, what an awful mess I am in!» Olga thought in agony of despair. «To tell him! No, no! I don’t want him ever to know about it, not for a long time! But not to tell him is no better than stealing. It’s like deceiving him, like trying to ingratiate myself with him. O Lord, help me!» But there was no help.

However much she enjoyed Stolz’s presence, there were times when she wished not to meet him again, to pass through his life as a hardly perceptible shadow, and not to darken his serene and rational existence by an illicit passion. She would grieve for her unhappy love, weep over her past, bury in her heart the memory of him, and then – then she would perhaps make «a respectable match», of which there are so many, and become a good, intelligent, solicitous wife and mother, and would not live, but make the most of her life. Was it not what all women did?

But, unfortunately, it was not a question of her alone; someone else, too, was concerned in it, and he rested the last and ultimate hopes of his life on her.

«Why did I – love?» she asked herself in agony, recalling the morning in the park when Oblomov wanted to run away and she had thought that the book of her life would be closed for ever if he did. She had solved the question of love and life so boldly and so easily, everything had seemed so clear to her – and everything had got tangled up in a hopeless knot. She had tried to be too clever, she had thought it was enough to look simply at things and go straight ahead and life would spread out before her obediently like a carpet under her feet – and there she was! She had no one even to put the blame on: it was all her own fault.

Without suspecting what Stolz had come for, Olga got up light-heartedly from the sofa, put down her book, and went to meet him.

«I’m not disturbing you?» he asked, sitting down at the window her room that overlooked the lake. «You’ve been reading?»

«No, I had stopped», she replied, speaking gently, trustfully, and friendlily. «It’s getting dark. I was expecting you!»

«So much the better», he observed gravely, drawing up another chair to the window for her. «I want to speak to you».

She gave a start and turned numb. Then she sank mechanically into the chair and remained sitting in an agony of suspense with her head bowed and without raising her eyes. She wished she were a hundred miles away. At that moment her past flashed through her mind like lightning. «The hour of reckoning has come. One can’t play with life as one plays with dolls», she seemed to hear a voice saying. «Don’t trifle with it, or you’ll have to pay dearly for it».

For several minutes neither of them spoke. He was evidently collecting his thoughts. Olga looked fearfully at his face that had grown thinner, his knit brows and compressed lips which expressed determination. «Nemesis!» she thought, shuddering inwardly. Both seemed to be preparing for a duel.

«I suppose», he said, looking questioningly at her, «you’ve guessed what I want to talk to you about».

He was sitting with his back to the wall so that his face was in shadow, while the light from the window fell straight upon her, and he could read what she had in mind.

«How am I to know?» she replied softly.

Confronted by this dangerous opponent, she no longer possessed the will-power, strength of character, penetration, and self-control she had always displayed with Oblomov. She realized that if she had so far been successful in concealing herself from Stolz’s keen eyes and in carrying on the war against him, it was not due to her own powers, as in her struggle with Oblomov, but to Stolz’s obstinate silence and his reserve. In the open field the odds were not in her favour; by her question she therefore merely wanted to gain an inch of ground and a minute of time so as to force the enemy to show his hand more clearly.

«You don’t know?» he said ingenuously. «All right, I’ll tell you…»

«No, don’t!» she cried involuntarily.

She seized him by the hand and looked at him as though imploring for mercy.

«You see, I guessed that you knew!» he said. «But why „don’t“?» he added sadly afterwards.

She made no answer.

«If you had foreseen that I should declare myself one day, you must have known, of course, what your answer would mustn’t you?»

«Yes, I have foreseen it and it made me so unhappy!» she said leaning back in her chair and turning away from the light, offering up a silent prayer for the dusk to come to her aid so that could not read the struggle of embarrassment and anguish in her face.

«Unhappy? That is a terrible word», he said almost in a whisper. «It is Dante’s „Abandon all hope!“ I have nothing more to say: it is all there! But I thank you for it, all the same», he added with a deep sigh. «I’ve come out of the confusion and the darkness, and I know at any rate what I have to do. My only salvation is to run away as soon as possible!»

He got up.

«No, for God’s sake, no!» she cried imploringly, in alarm, rushing up to him and seizing him again by the hand. «Have pity on me – what is to become of me?»

He sat down and so did she.

«But I love you, Olga», he said, almost sternly. «You’ve seen what has been happening to me in the last six months. What more do you want: complete triumph? Do you want me to waste away or go off my head? Thank you very much!»

She turned pale.

«You can go!» she said with the dignity of suppressed injury and deep sorrow she was unable to conceal.

«I am awfully sorry», he apologized. «Here we have already quarrelled without knowing what it is all about. I know that you cannot wish it, but you cannot enter into my position, and that is why you think that my impulse to run away is strange. A man sometimes unconsciously becomes an egoist».

She shifted her position in the arm-chair, as though she were uncomfortable, but she said nothing.

«Well, suppose I did stay – how would it help matters?» he went on. «You will, of course, offer me your friendship, but it is mine as it is. If I were to go away and return in a year or two, it would still be mine. Friendship is a good thing, Olga, when it is love between a young man and a young woman or the memory of love between old people. But heaven help us if it is friendship on one side and love on the other. I know that you are not f bored with me, but what do you think I feel when I am with you?»

«Well, if that’s how you feel, you had better go!» she murmured in a hardly audible whisper.

«To stay?» he reflected aloud. «To walk on the edge of a knife – some friendship!»

«And do you think it is better for me?» she retorted unexpectedly.

«What do you mean?» he asked quickly. «You – you don’t love…»

«I don’t know; I swear I don’t! But if you – I mean, if there should be some change in my present life, what’s going to happen to me?» she added sombrely, almost to herself.

«How am I to understand that? Explain yourself for God’s sake!» he cried, drawing his chair nearer to her, taken aback by her words and the genuine, unfeigned tone of voice in which they were uttered.

He tried to make out her face. She was silent. She was deeply anxious to reassure him, to take back the word «unhappy’, or explain it differently from the way he understood it – she did not know herself, but she vaguely felt that both of them were labouring under a misapprehension, that they were in a false position, and that both were wretched because of it, and that only he, or she with his assistance, could bring order and clarity into the past and the present. But to do that she had to cross the gulf that separated her from him and tell him what had happened to her: how she prayed for and was afraid of – his verdict!

„I don’t understand anything myself“, she said. „I am more confused and more in the dark than you!“

„Listen; do you trust me?“ he asked, taking her by the hand.

„Entirely, as my mother – you know that“, she replied weakly.

„In that case tell me what has happened to you since we parted. You’re a closed book to me now, but before I could read your thoughts from your face. It seems to me this is the only way for us to understand each other. Do you agree?“

„Oh, yes, yes, I must do that – I must end it somehow“, she said, feeling wretched at the inevitable confession. „Nemesis! Nemesis!“ she thought, bowing her head.

She cast down her eyes and was silent. And he felt terrified at these simple words and still more at her silence.

„She is suffering! Oh, Lord, what could have happened to her?“ he thought, turning cold and feeling that his hands and feet were trembling. He imagined something very dreadful. She was still silent and obviously struggling with herself.

„Well – Olga“ – he prompted her.

She was silent, except for again making some nervous movement he could not make out in the dark; he only heard the rustle of her silk dress.

„I am plucking up my courage“, she said at last. „If only you knew how hard it was!“ she added afterwards, turning away a trying to get the better of her fears. What she wanted was that Stolz should find everything out not from her, but by some miracle. Fortunately, it had grown darker and her face was already in shadow: only her voice could give her away, and she could not bring herself to speak, as though she could not make up her mind on which note to begin.

„Oh dear, how much I must be to blame, if I feel so ashamed so miserable!“ she thought agonizingly.

And not so long ago she was so confidently planning her own life and another one’s and was so strong and intelligent! And now the time had come for her to tremble like a little girl! Shame for her past, poignant regret for the present and her false position, tortured her – it was unbearable!

„Let me help you – you – have loved?“ Stolz brought himself to say with an effort – his own words hurt him so much.

She confirmed it by her silence. And once more he felt terrified

„Who was it?“ he asked, trying to speak firmly, though he felt that his lips quivered. „It isn’t a secret, is it?“

She felt even more dreadful. She wished she could give him another name, invent another story. For a moment she hesitated, but there was nothing for it: like a man who in a moment of extreme danger jumps off a steep bank or throws himself into the flames, she suddenly said:

„Oblomov!“

He was dumbfounded. For two minutes neither of them spoke.

„Oblomov!“ he repeated in astonishment. „It’s not true!“ he added emphatically, lowering his voice.

„It is true!“ she said calmly.

„Oblomov!“ he repeated. „It’s impossible!“ he added confidently again. „There’s something wrong here: you did not understand yourself, Oblomov, or love!“

She was silent.

„That was not love; it was something else, I tell you!“ he repeated insistently.

„Yes, I suppose you think I flirted with him, led him by the nose, made him unhappy, and – am now starting on you!“ she said in a restrained voice in which, however, her feeling of resentment broke through.

„Dear Olga, please don’t be angry. Don’t speak like that: it isn’t like you. You know I don’t think anything of the kind. But I’m afraid the whole thing is beyond me. I can’t understand how Oblomov“ -

„But he is worthy of your friendship, isn’t he? You can’t speak highly enough of him. Why, then, shouldn’t he be worthy of love?“ she declared in self-defence.

„I know“, he said, „that love is less exacting than friendship. It is often blind, it cares nothing for merit – that is so. But something special is needed for love, sometimes just a trifle, something you cannot define or name and that my incomparable but clumsy Ilya has not got. That is why I am surprised. Listen“, he went on, speaking with great animation. „We shall never get to the bottom of it – we shall never understand each other. Don’t be ashamed of details, don’t spare yourself for half an hour, tell me everything, and I’ll tell you what it was, and perhaps also what it’s going to be. I can’t help feeling that there is something – wrong somewhere. Oh, if only it were true“, he added with enthusiasm. „If it were Oblomov and no one else! Oblomov! Why, that means that you don’t belong to the past, to love, that you are free… Tell me, please, tell me quickly!“ he concluded in a calm, almost cheerful voice.

„Yes, oh yes!“ she replied trustfully, glad that some of her chains had been taken off. „All alone, I am going mad. If only you knew how wretched I was! I don’t know whether I am to blame or not, whether I ought to be ashamed of my past or be sorry for it, whether to hope for the future or to despair. You have been talking of your sufferings, but you never suspected mine. Hear me out, then, but not with your intellect – I’m afraid of your intellect – better with your heart; perhaps it will realize that I have no mother, that I was completely at sea“, she added softly in a toneless voice. „No“, she hastily corrected herself a moment later, „do not spare me. If it was love, you’d better – go“. She paused for a minute. „But come back later, when you don’t feel anything but friendship for me again. But if it was frivolous coquetry, then punish me, run away from me as far as you can and forget me! Listen“.

In reply, he pressed both her hands warmly.

Olga’s confession began, long and detailed. Distinctly, word for word, she transferred from her mind into his all that had long been gnawing at it, that had made her blush, that had on made her happy and moved her deeply until she suddenly fell into a slough of doubt and sorrow. She told of their walks, of the park, of her hopes, of Oblomov’s renascence and of his fall, of the spray of lilac, even of the kiss. She only passed over in silence the sultry evening in the garden – probably because she still could not decide what had come over her then. At first only her embarrassed whisper could be heard, but as she went on with her story, her voice became clearer and more unconstrained; from a whisper it rose to an undertone, and then to full, deep notes. She finished calmly, just as though she were telling somebody else’s story. She felt as though a curtain were being raise and the past, into which she had till that moment been afraid to look, slowly unfolded before her. Her eyes were opened to many things and she would have looked boldly at her companion if it had not been dark.

She finished and waited for the verdict. But dead silence was his answer. What did he have to say to it? She could not hear a word, not a movement, not a breath even, as though there were no one in the room with her. This muteness made her feel doubtful again. The silence continued. What did it mean? What verdict was being prepared for her by the most perspicacious and most lenient judge in the whole world? All the rest would condemn her without mercy, he alone could be her counsel, it was he she would have chosen – he would have understood it all, weighed it, and settled it in her favour better than she herself could have done. But he was silent: had she lost her case? She felt terrified again.

The door was opened and the two candles brought in by the maid lighted up their corner.

She threw a timid but eager and questioning glance at him. He had crossed his arms and was looking at her with such gentle, frank eyes, enjoying her confusion. A great weight lifted from her heart. She sighed with relief and nearly cried. Forbearance towards herself and confidence in him all at once returned to her. She was happy like a child that has been forgiven, soothed, and fondled.

Is that all?» he asked softly.

«All!» she said.

«And his letter?»

She took the letter out of her case and gave it him. He went up to the candle, read it, and put it on the table. And his eyes turned on her again with an expression she had not seen in them for a long time. The old self-confident, slightly ironical, and infinitely kind friend who used to spoil her was standing before her. There was not a trace of suffering or doubt in his face. He took both her hands, kissed them, then pondered deeply. She, too, grew quiet and watched without blinking the movement of thought in his face.

Suddenly he got up.

«Good heavens, if I had known that it was a question of Oblomov, I shouldn’t have suffered so!» he said, looking so kindly and trustfully at her as though she had not had that terrible past.

She felt so light-hearted, so festive. All her worries had gone. She saw clearly that it was before him alone she had been ashamed, and that he did not think of punishing her and running away. What did she care for the opinion of the whole world!

He was again self-possessed and cheerful; but this was not enough for her. She saw that she had been acquitted; but, as the accused, she wanted to hear the verdict. He picked up his hat.

«Where are you off to?» she asked.

«You are excited, and you must have a rest», he said. «We’ll talk to-morrow».

«Do you want me to lie awake all night?» she interrupted, keeping him back by the hand and making him resume his seat. «You want to go without telling me what it – was, what I am now, and what – I am going to be. Have pity on me: who else will tell me? Who will punish me if I deserve it or – who will forgive me?» she added, looking at him with such tender affection that he threw down his hat and nearly threw himself at her feet.

«Angel – allow me to say – my angel!» he said. «Don’t torment yourself for nothing: there is no need to punish or pardon you. In fact, I have nothing to add to your story. What doubts can you have? You want to know what it was? You want me to tell you its name? You’ve known it long ago. Where is Oblomov’s letter?»

He picked up the letter from the table.

«Listen», he said, and he read: «Your present I love you is not real love, but the love you will feel in future. It is merely your unconscious need of love which, for lack of proper food, sometimes finds expression with women in caressing a child, in love for another woman, or simply in tears or fits of hysteria… You have made a mistake» (Stolz read, emphasizing the words) «the man before you is not the one you have been expecting dreaming of. Wait – he will come, and then you will come your senses and you will feel vexed and ashamed of your mistake… You see how true it is», he said. «You were vexed and ashamed of – your mistake. There is nothing to add to this, was right and you did not believe him – that is all your amounts to. You should have parted at the time but he could not resist your beauty, and you were touched by his – dove-like tenderness!» he added, not without a touch of irony.

«I did not believe him. I thought one’s heart could not be mistaken».

«Yes, it can, and sometimes very disastrously! But with you it never went as far as the heart», he added. «It was imagination and vanity on one side, and weakness on the other. And you were afraid that there would be no more sunshine in your life, that that pale ray had lit up your life and would be followed by eternal night».

«What about my tears?» she said. «Did they not come from my heart when I cried? I was not lying, I was sincere».

«Dear me, women will shed tears about anything! You said yourself that you were sorry for the bunch of lilac and your favourite seat in the park. Add to that injured vanity, your failure as Oblomov’s saviour, a certain degree of habit – and there you have lots of reasons for tears!»

«And our meetings and walks – are they mistakes, too? You remember I–I went to his flat», she concluded in embarrassment, wishing, it seemed, to stifle those words herself.

She was trying to accuse herself only so as to make him defend her the more warmly, to appear more and more justified in his eyes.

«I can see from your account that during your last meetings you had nothing even to talk about. Your so-called „love“ lacked all inner content – it could not have gone any farther. You had parted before your final separation, and you were faithful not to love but to its phantoms which you had yourself invented – that is the whole mystery».

«And the kiss?» she whispered so softly that he guessed rather than heard it.

«Oh, that’s awfully important», he said with ironic severity, «for that you ought to go – without your sweet at dinner».

He was looking at her with ever-growing tenderness and affection.

«A joke is no condonation of such a mistake», she retorted sternly, offended by his indifference and casual tone. «I should have felt happier if you had punished me by some harsh word and called my misdemeanour by its proper name».

«I should not have joked if it were a question of someone else and not of Ilya», he said by way of apology. «If it had been somebody else your mistake might have ended in – disaster, but I know Oblomov».

«Someone else, never I», she interrupted him, flaring up. «I got to know him better than you do».

«There you are!» he assented.

«But if – if he had changed, if he had come to life and listened to me and – don’t you think I’d have loved him then? Could it have been a lie and a mistake even then?» she said, anxious to examine the position from every point of view so that there should be nothing whatever left unexplained.

«That is, if another man had been in his place», Stolz interrupted. «In that case, no doubt, your relationship would have grown into love, would have become consolidated, and then – But that is another love-story and another hero, and it has nothing to do with us».

She sighed as though throwing the last load off her mind. Both were silent.

«Oh, how lovely it is to – recover!» she said slowly, as though opening up like a flower, and turned on him a look of such deep gratitude, such warm and unparalleled friendship that in her glance he seemed to catch a glimpse of the spark he had been vainly seeking for almost a year.

A thrill of happiness went through him.

«No, it is I who am recovering», he said, looking thoughtful. «Oh, had I only known that the hero of your romance was Ilya! How much time was wasted, how much bad feeling bred! Why? Whatever for?» he kept on repeating almost with vexation.

But suddenly he seemed to recover from his vexation and came to himself after his heavy brooding. His forehead was smooth and his eyes were bright again.

«It seems it was inevitable, but», he added with rapture, «I am no longer worried now, I am – happy!»

«It’s like a dream, as though nothing had happened», she said pensively, barely audibly, amazed at her sudden regeneration. «You have taken away not only the shame and remorse, but also the bitterness and the pain – everything. How did you do it?» she asked softly. «But will it all pass – this mistake?»

«Why, I should think it has passed already!» he said, looking at her for the first time with eyes full of passion, and not concealing it. «I mean, all that has been».

«And what’s going to be – will not be – a mistake, but real thing?» she asked, hesitantly.

«It is written here», he declared, picking up the letter again, «The man before you is not the one you’ve been waiting for) dreaming of: he will come and you will come to your senses», «and, I may add, will fall in love, so much in love that not only year but a whole lifetime will be too short for that love, but I do not know – with whom», he concluded, looking intently at her.

She dropped her eyes and compressed her lips, but from und her eyelids a gleam of light broke through, and, though she tried hard, her lips could not control a smile. Then she looked at and laughed so happily that tears came into her eyes.

«I’ve told you what has happened to you and what is going to happen», he concluded, «but you never gave me an answer to my question, which you did not let me finish».

«But what can I say?» she said in embarrassment. «And if I could, should I have the right to say what you want me to say and what – you deserve so much?» she added in a whisper, looking shyly at him.

He seemed once more to catch in her glance a spark of great affection; again he trembled with happiness.

«Don’t hurry», he added. «Tell me what I deserve when your heart’s mourning, your mourning of propriety, is over. This year, too, has taught me something. Now I want you to answer one question. Shall I go away or shall I stay?»

«Listen! You’re flirting with me!» she cried gaily suddenly.

«Oh no», he observed gravely. «That is not the question I asked before. It has quite a different meaning now: if I stay, it will be as – what?»

She was suddenly embarrassed.

«You see, I am not flirting!» he laughed, pleased to have caught her. «For after our talk to-night we shall have to treat each other differently: we are no longer the same people we were yesterday».

«I don’t know», she whispered, still more embarrassed.

«May I give you a piece of advice?»

«Speak – I’ll carry it out blindly!» she added, with almost passionate submissiveness.

«Marry me while you are waiting for him to come!»

«I daren’t yet» – she whispered, burying her face in her hand, excited but happy.

«Why don’t you dare?» he asked, in a whisper, drawing her head down to him.

«But this past?» she whispered again, putting her head on his chest as though he were her mother.

He softly removed her hands from her face, kissed her head, and looked with pleasure at her embarrassed face and at the tears that started to her eyes and were again absorbed by them.

«It will wither like your lilac», he concluded. «You’ve had your lesson, now it’s time to make use of it. Life is beginning: give your future to me and do not worry about anything – I vouch for it all. Let us go to your aunt».

Stolz went home late. «I have found what I was looking for», he thought, gazing with a lover’s eyes at the sky, the trees, the lake, and even the mist rising from the water. «I’ve got it at last! So many years of patience, of craving for love, of economy of spiritual powers! How long I have waited – at last I have been rewarded. This is it – a man’s greatest happiness!»

His happiness pushed all his other interests into the background: the office, his father’s dog-cart, the chamois-leather gloves, the greasy accounts – the whole of his business life. The only thing that came back to his memory was his mother’s fragrant room, Herz’s variations, the prince’s gallery, the blue eyes, the powdered chestnut hair – and Olga’s tender voice rang through it all: in his mind he heard her singing…

«Olga – my wife!» he whispered, with a quiver of passion. «Everything is found, there is nothing more to look for, there is nowhere further to go».

And he walked home in a thoughtful daze of happiness, not noticing his way or the streets…

Olga followed him for some time with her eyes, then she opened the window and for several minutes breathed the cool air of the night; her agitation gradually died down and her breast rose and fell evenly. She gazed at the lake, into the far distance, and fell into such a serene and deep reverie that it seemed as though she were asleep. She wanted to catch what she was thinking and feeling, but could not. Her thoughts drifted along as evenly as waves, her blood flowed smoothly in her veins. She felt happy, but she could not tell where her happiness began or ended and what it was. She wondered why she felt so calm and peaceful, why she was so wonderfully happy, why her mind was so utterly at peace, while –

«I am his fiancée», she whispered.

«I am engaged!» а girl thinks with a proud tremor, having at last reached the moment which sheds a radiance over the whole of her life, and looking down upon the dark path along which she walked alone and unnoticed only yesterday.

Why, then, did Olga feel no tremor? She, too, had walked along a lonely and inconspicuous path, and at the crossroads had met him, who gave her his hand and led her out, not into the dazzling sunlight, but, as it were, to a broad, overflowing river, to wide fields, and friendly, smiling hills. The brilliant light did not force her to screw up her eyes, her heart did not stand still, her imagination did not catch fire. Her eyes rest with quiet joy on the broad stream of life, on its vast fields and green hills. A shiver did not run down her spine, her eyes did not gleam with pride: it was only when she transferred her gaze from the fields and hills to the man who gave her his hand that she felt a tear slowly rolling down her cheek…

She still sat as though asleep – so quiet was the dream of her happiness: she did not stir, she hardly breathed. Sunk in a trance, her mental gaze was fixed on a blue still night, warm and fragrant and pervaded by a gently shimmering radiance. The phantom vision of happiness spread out its broad wings and sailed slowly, like a cloud in the sky, over her head…

In that dream she did not see herself wrapped in gauze and lace for a couple of hours and in everyday rags for the rest of her life. She did not dream of a festive board, of lights, or of merry shouts; she dreamed of happiness, but such ordinary and unadorned happiness that once more, without a tremor of pride, but with deep emotion, she whispered: «I am his fiancée».