Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [144]
‘What a row is going on here,’ he thought, watching intently all this bustle and listening to the faint noises of nature. ‘And outside everything is so still, so quiet.’
But there was no sound of footsteps. At last – yes! ‘Oh,’ Oblomov sighed, quietly parting the branches, ‘it is she – she… But what’s this? She’s crying! Good heavens!’
Olga walked slowly along, wiping her tears with a handkerchief; but no sooner had she wiped them, than fresh tears came. She was ashamed of them, she tried to swallow them, to hide them from the very trees, but she could not. Oblomov had never seen Olga cry; he did not expect it, and her tears seemed to burn him, but in a way that made him feel warm, not hot. He walked quickly after her.
‘Olga, Olga!’ he called tenderly, as he followed her.
She gave a start, looked round, gazed at him in surprise, then turned away and walked on.
He walked beside her.
‘You’re crying?’ he said.
Her tears flowed faster than ever. She could no longer keep them back and, pressing her handkerchief to her face, she burst into sobs and sat down on the nearest seat.
‘What have I done!’ he whispered in dismay, taking her hand and trying to draw it away from her face.
‘Leave me, please!’ she said. ‘Go away. Why are you here? I know I ought not to cry. For what is there to cry about? You are right: yes, anything might happen!’
‘What can I do to make you stop crying?’ he asked, going down on his knees before her. ‘Tell me, command me. I am ready for anything.’
‘You’ve made me cry, but it’s not in your power to stop my tears. You’re not so strong as all that! Let me go, sir!’ she said, fanning her face with her handkerchief.
He looked at her and cursed himself inwardly.
‘The stupid letter!’ he said penitently.
She opened her work-basket, took out the letter and gave it him.
‘Take it,’ she said, ‘and carry it away with you so that I don’t cry any longer looking at it.’
He put it in his pocket silently and sat beside her, hanging his head.
‘At any rate you will do justice to my intention, Olga, won’t you?’ he said softly. ‘It proves how dear your happiness is to me.’
‘Yes, it does,’ she said, sighing. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Oblomov, you must have begrudged me my peaceful happiness and you hastened to destroy it.’
‘Destroy it! So you haven’t read my letter? I’ll repeat it to you…’
‘I haven’t read it to the end because I could not see it for tears: I’m still so silly. But I guessed the rest. Please, don’t repeat it, for you will only make me cry again.’
Her tears began to flow again.
‘But,’ he began, ‘am I not giving you up because of your future happiness? Am I not sacrificing myself? Do you think I am doing this cold-bloodedly? Am I not weeping inwardly? Why do you think I am doing it?’
‘Why?’ she repeated, turning to him and leaving off crying suddenly. ‘For the same reason that you hid in the bushes to see whether I would cry and how I would cry – that’s why! Had you sincerely meant what you have written, had you been convinced that we ought to part, you would have gone abroad without seeing me.’
‘What an idea!…’he said reproachfully, and fell silent.
He was struck by her suggestion because he suddenly realized that it was true.
‘Yes,’ she confirmed, ‘yesterday you wanted me to say “I love you,” to-day you wanted to see me cry, and to-morrow you may want to see me die.’
‘Olga, how can you say a thing like that! Surely, you must know that I’d gladly give half my life now to hear you laugh and not to see your tears.’
‘Yes, perhaps now when you have already