Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [124]
Then gradually realization came to her: the ray of thought and surmise spread to every feature of her face and, suddenly, her whole face lit up with the consciousness of the truth.… Just like the sun which, emerging from behind a cloud, sometimes first lights up one bush, then another, then the roof of a house and, suddenly, floods a whole landscape with light. She knew what Oblomov’s thought was.
‘No, no,’ Oblomov kept repeating. ‘I could never say it. It’s no use your asking.’
‘I’m not asking you,’ she replied indifferently.
‘Aren’t you? But just now – –’
‘Let’s go home,’ she said seriously, without listening to him. ‘Auntie is waiting.’
She walked in front of him and, leaving him with her aunt, went straight to her room.
8
THE whole of that day was a day of gradual disillusionment to Oblomov. He spent it with Olga’s aunt, a very intelligent, estimable, and well-dressed woman; she always wore a new, well-made silk dress with an elegant lace collar; her cap, too, was tastefully made and the ribbons matched her face coquettishly, her complexion was fresh, although she was nearly fifty. A golden lorgnette hung on a chain round her neck. Her postures and gestures were full of dignity; she draped herself very skilfully in an expensive shawl, leaned her elbow very becomingly on an embroidered cushion, and reclined majestically on the sofa. You would never find her at work: bending down, sewing, occupying herself with trifles did not suit her face or her imposing figure. She even gave orders to her servants in a curt, dry, casual tone of voice. She sometimes read but never wrote; she spoke well, though mostly in French. However, noticing at once that Oblomov was not very fluent in French, she spoke to him in Russian after his first visit. She never indulged in reveries or tried to be clever in her conversation; she seemed to have drawn a line in her mind beyond which she never went. It was quite obvious that feelings, every kind of relationship, including love, entered into her life on equal terms with everything else, while in the case of other women love quite manifestly takes part, if not in deeds, then in words, in all the problems of life, and everything else is allowed in only in so far as love leaves room for it. The thing this woman esteemed most was the art of living, of being able to control oneself, of keeping a balance between thought and intention, intention and realization. You could never take her unawares, by surprise, but she was like a watchful enemy whose expectant gaze would always be fixed on you, however hard you tried to lie in wait for him. High society was her element, and therefore tact and caution prompted her every thought, word, and movement. She never opened her heart or confided her inmost secrets to anyone. You never saw her whispering to some old lady over a cup of coffee. It was only with Baron von Landwagen that she often remained alone. The baron sometimes stayed with her till midnight, but Olga was almost always there as well; most of the time they were silent anyway, but, somehow, significantly and intelligently silent, just as if they knew something that no one else did, but that was all. They evidently liked to be in each other’s company – that was the only conclusion one could draw; she treated him exactly as she did everyone else – graciously and kindly, but also calmly and with absolute equanimity. Evil tongues made the best they could of it and hinted at some old friendship and a visit abroad together; but there was nothing in her attitude to him that betrayed any trace of some special, hidden sympathy, for that would surely have come out sooner or later. He was, incidentally, trustee of Olga’s small estate, which had been mortgaged as a result of some contract as security and never redeemed. The baron was engaged in a lawsuit about it, that is, he made some government clerk write papers, read them through his lorgnette, signed them, and sent the same official to the