Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [118]
‘The impudent wretch!’ she thought. ‘He wants to go abroad, does he?’
‘I don’t know,’ Oblomov murmured, without looking at her, ‘I – I feel awful – awkward – something’s choking me.’
She said nothing, picked a spray of lilac and sniffed it, burying her face in it.
‘Smell it,’ she said, covering his face with it, too. ‘Doesn’t it smell lovely?’
‘And here are some lilies of the valley,’ he said, bending down to the grass. ‘Wait, I’ll pick you some. They smell better: of fields and woods; there is more of nature about them. Lilac always grows close to houses, the branches thrust themselves in at the windows, the smell is so cloying. Look, the lilies of the valley are still wet with dew!’
He gave her a few lilies of the valley.
‘And do you like mignonette?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not; the smell is too strong. I don’t like mignonette or roses. I don’t care for flowers; they’re all right in the fields, but they’re such a trouble indoors – they make such a mess when they drop…’
‘You like it to be tidy indoors, don’t you?’ she asked, looking slyly at him. ‘You don’t like a mess, do you?’
‘No, I don’t,’ he murmured, ‘but my servant is such a –– Oh, you’re wicked!’ he added under his breath.
‘Are you going straight to Paris?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Stolz has been expecting me for some time.’
‘Take a letter from me: I’ll write one to him,’ she said.
‘Let me have it to-day: I’ll be going back to town to-morrow.’
‘To-morrow?’ she asked. ‘Why so soon? There’s no one driving you out of here, is there?’
‘Well, I’m afraid there is.…’
Who?’
‘Shame…’ he whispered.
‘Shame!’ she repeated mechanically. ‘Now I’ll tell him,’ she added to herself, ‘Mr Oblomov, I never expected – –’
‘Yes, Olga Sergeyevna,’ he brought himself to say at last, ‘I believe you’re surprised – you’re angry – –’
‘Now – now is the right moment to say it,’ she thought, her heart beating fast. ‘Oh dear, I can’t, I can’t!’
He tried to look into her face, to find out what she thought, but she was smelling the lilac and the lilies of the valley and did not know herself what she was thinking – what she ought to say or do.
‘Oh,’ she thought, ‘Sonia would have thought of something at once, but I’m so silly – I never can do anything – it’s awful!’
‘I had quite forgotten,’ she said.
‘Please believe me, the whole thing – I mean, I don’t know what made me say it – I couldn’t help it,’ he began, gradually growing bolder. ‘I’d have said it if a thunderbolt had struck me or a stone had crashed on top of me. Nothing in the world could have stopped me. Please, please don’t think that I wanted – I’d have given anything a moment later to take back the rash word.…’
She walked with her head bowed, sniffing the flowers.
‘Please forget it,’ he went on, ‘forget it, particularly as it wasn’t true.…’
‘Not true?’ she suddenly repeated, drawing herself up and dropping the flowers.
Her eyes opened wide and flashed with surprise.
‘How do you mean – not true?’ she repeated.
‘I mean – well – for God’s sake don’t be angry with me and forget it. Please, believe me, I was just carried away for a moment – because of the music.’
‘Only because of the music?’
She turned pale and her eyes grew dim.
‘Well,’ she thought, ‘everything’s all right now. He took back his rash words and there’s no need for me to be angry any more! That’s excellent – now I needn’t worry any more.… We can talk and joke as before.’
She broke off a twig from a tree absent-mindedly, bit off a leaf, and then at once threw down the twig and the leaf on the path.
‘You’re not angry with me, are you? You have forgotten, haven’t you?’ Oblomov said, bending forward to her.
‘What was that? What did you ask?’ she said nervously, almost with vexation, turning away from him. ‘I’ve forgotten everything – I’ve such a bad memory!’
He fell silent and did not know what to do. He saw her sudden vexation but did not see the cause of it.
‘Goodness,’ she thought, ‘now everything is all right again. It’s just as if that scene had never