Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [136]
‘Why aren’t we taught that?’ she said with thoughtful vexation, as she listened eagerly to some desultory talk of a subject that was not considered necessary to women. One day she began worrying Oblomov with questions about double stars: he was unwise enough to refer to Herschel, and was at once sent to town for a book which he had to read and then tell her about till she was satisfied. Another time, in a conversation with the baron, he again unwisely said something about schools of painting – and again he had a whole week’s work: reading books and telling Olga about what he had read; then they went to the Hermitage, and there he had once more to illustrate to her what he had read. If he said anything at random, she would see through it at once and start pestering him. Then he spent a week going to different shops in search of engravings of the best pictures. Poor Oblomov had to look up again what he had once learnt, or rush to bookshops for new works, and sometimes spent a sleepless night rummaging among books and reading something up so as to be able to reply with a casual air to a question she had asked him the day before. She put her questions not with feminine want of thought and not because the idea came suddenly into her head, but insistently and impatiently, and if Oblomov did not answer, she punished him by a long, searching glance. How he used to tremble under that glance!
‘Why don’t you say something?’ she said. ‘Why are you silent? One might think you were bored.’
‘Oh,’ he said, as though coming to after a fainting fit, ‘how I love you!’
‘Really? If you hadn’t said so, I should never have thought so.’
‘But don’t you feel what is going on inside me?’ he began.
‘You know, I find it difficult to speak. Here – give me your hand – here something doesn’t let me, first as if something heavy – some heavy stone – lay there, as though I were in deep sorrow, and yet – strange to say – the same kind of process occurs in one’s organism both in joy and in sorrow: one finds it hard, almost painful, to breathe and one feels like crying! If I cried, I’d feel just as if I had been unhappy: tears would make me feel easier.…’
She looked at him silently, as though checking the truth of his words, comparing it with what was written on his face, and smiled: she was satisfied with the result. Her face was full of the breath of happiness, peaceful happiness which nothing apparently could disturb. It was clear that her heart was not heavy, but tranquil as everything in nature on that peaceful morning.
‘What is the matter with me?’ Oblomov asked hesitantly, as though speaking to himself.
‘Shall I tell you?’
‘Yes, do.’
‘You’re in love.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied, snatching her hand away from her embroidery and not kissing it, but just pressing her fingers to his lips and apparently intending to keep them there for ever.
She tried to take her hand away gently, but he held it firmly.
‘Let me go,’ she said. ‘There, that’s enough.’
‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you in love?’
‘In love – no, I don’t like that expression: I love you!’ she said and gazed at him for some time as though making sure that she really loved him.
‘L-love!’ Oblomov said. ‘But one may love one’s mother, father, nurse, and even one’s dog: all this is covered by the general, collective term “I love” as by an old – –’
‘– dressing-gown?’ she asked ironically. ‘By the way, where is your dressing-gown?’
‘What dressing-gown? I never had one.’
She looked at him with a reproachful smile.
‘There you go again, Olga,’ he said. ‘My dressing-gown! I am waiting, I am all of a quiver to hear you tell me about the deepest experience of your life and what name you will give it and you – good Lord, Olga! Yes, I am in love with you and I assert that without it there is no true love: one does not fall in love with one’s father, mother, or nurse, but loves them.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said reflectively, as though