Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [119]
‘I’m going home,’ she said suddenly, quickening her steps and turning into another avenue.
There was a lump in her throat. She was afraid she might cry.
‘Not that way,’ Oblomov said. ‘It’s nearer, here!’
‘You ass,’ he said to himself gloomily. ‘What did you want to explain for? Now you’ve offended her more than ever. You should not have reminded her: it would have passed off by itself and been forgotten. Now you’ll jolly well have to ask her to forgive you.’
‘I expect,’ she thought to herself, ‘I’m feeling so vexed because I’ve had no time to say to him, “Mr Oblomov, I never expected you to presume.…” But he forestalled me. “It wasn’t true!” How do you like that! So he was lying to me! How did he dare?’
‘Have you really forgotten?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes, I’ve forgotten everything!’ she said hurriedly, anxious to get home.
‘Give me your hand to show you’re not angry.’
Without looking at him, she gave him the tips of her fingers, and no sooner did he touch them than she snatched them away.
‘No, you are angry!’ he said with a sigh. ‘How can I convince you that I was just carried away for a moment, that I should never have forgotten myself to such an extent? Of course, I shan’t listen to your singing again!’
‘Don’t try to convince me,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t need your assurances. I shouldn’t dream of singing to you anyhow!’
‘All right, I shan’t say another word,’ he said. ‘Only for heaven’s sake don’t go away like this, or there will be such a heavy load on my heart.…’
She walked more slowly and listened intently to his words.
‘If it’s true that you would have burst into tears if I hadn’t cried out in admiration of your singing, then – I mean – if you go away now without a smile and without holding out your hand to me like a friend and – have pity on me, Olga Sergeyevna! I shall be ill – my knees tremble – I can hardly stand.…’
‘Why?’ she asked suddenly, glancing at him.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know myself,’ he said. ‘I feel no longer ashamed: I am not ashamed of my words – I think they were – –’
Again his heart missed a beat, again there seemed to be a lump there; again her kind and curious gaze began to burn him. She had turned to him so gracefully, and was awaiting his answer so anxiously.
‘They were – what?’ she asked impatiently.
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid to say it: you’ll be angry again.’
‘Say it!’ she said imperiously.
He was silent.
‘Well?’
‘I again feel like crying as I look at you.… You see I’m not vain, I’m not ashamed of my feelings.’
‘Why do you feel like crying?’ she asked, flushing again.
‘I keep hearing your voice – I feel again – –’
‘What?’ she said, breathing freely again: she was waiting tensely.
They came up to the front steps of her house.
‘I feel – –’ Oblomov was in a hurry to finish, but stopped short.
She was mounting the steps slowly, as though with an effort.
‘The same music – the same – excitement – the same feel –… I’m sorry – I’m sorry – I can’t control my – –’
‘Sir,’ she began severely, but suddenly her face lit up with a smile, ‘I’m not angry and I forgive you,’ she added gently, ‘only in future – –’
Without turning round, she stretched out a hand to him; he seized it and kissed her palm; she softly pressed it against his lips and instantly disappeared behind the glass door, while he remained rooted to the spot.
7
FOR A LONG TIME he gazed after her open-mouthed and with wide-open eyes, and then stared blankly at the bushes.… Some people he did not know passed by. A bird flew past. A peasant woman asked him in passing if he would like some strawberries – but the stupor continued. Then he walked very slowly down the same avenue and, half-way, came across the lilies of the valley Olga had dropped and the sprig of lilac she had torn off and thrown down in vexation. ‘Why had she done it?’ he wondered, calling it back to mind. ‘You fool! You fool!’ he cried suddenly aloud, picking up the