Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [148]
‘Then why did you reproach me just now, if you now agree with me?’ Oblomov interrupted.
‘Because you invented these torments. I did not invent them, they simply came, and I am glad that they have gone, but you prepared them and enjoyed it all beforehand. You’re wicked! That is why I reproached you. Then – your letter shows feeling and thought – last night and this morning you lived not in your usual way, but as your friend and I wanted you to live – that’s in the second place; thirdly – –’
She walked up so close to him that the blood rushed to his heart and his head; he began to breathe hard, with excitement. She looked him straight in the eyes.
‘Thirdly, because in this letter is reflected as in a mirror your tenderness, your solicitude, your care for me, your fear for my happiness, your pure conscience – everything Mr Stolz pointed out to me in you, that made me love you and forget your laziness – your apathy. You revealed yourself in your letter without wishing to do so. You’re not an egoist, you didn’t write it because you wanted to part from me – you did not want that, but because you were afraid to deceive me. It was your honesty that spoke in it, otherwise your letter would have offended me and I should not have cried – from pride! You see, I know why I love you, and I am not afraid of a mistake: I am not mistaken in you!’
She looked radiant and magnificent as she said this. Her eyes shone with the triumph of love, with the consciousness of her power; her cheeks were flushed. And he – he was the cause of it! It was an impulse of his honest heart that had kindled this fire in her soul, inspired this outburst of feeling, this brilliance.
‘Olga, you’re better than any woman in the world, you’re one of the best!’ he said, ecstatically, and, beside himself, put out his arms and bent over her. ‘For God’s sake – one kiss as a pledge of ineffable happiness,’ he whispered as in a delirium.
She instantly drew back a step; the triumphant radiance, the colour left her face, and her gentle eyes blazed sternly.
‘Never! Never! Don’t come near me!’ she said in alarm, almost in horror, stretching out both arms and her parasol to keep him at a distance and standing motionless, as though rooted to the spot, without breathing, in a stern attitude, and looking sternly at him, her head half turned.
He sobered down suddenly: it was not the gentle Olga who stood before him, but an offended goddess of pride and anger with compressed lips and lightning in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry!’ he muttered in confusion, feeling utterly crushed.
She turned slowly and walked on, glancing fearfully over her shoulder to see what he was doing. But he was doing nothing: he was walking slowly like a dog that had been scolded and that was walking with its tail between its legs. She had quickened her pace, but seeing his face, suppressed a smile, and walked on more calmly, though still shuddering from time to time. The colour came and went in her cheeks. As she walked, her face cleared, her breathing became more even and quieter, and once more she proceeded on her way with measured steps. She saw how sacred her ‘never’ was to Oblomov, and her fit of anger subsided gradually and gave way to pity. She walked slower and slower. She wanted to soften her outburst and she was trying to find some excuse for speaking.
‘I’ve made a mess of everything! That was my real mistake. “Never!” Good God! The lilac has withered,’ he thought, looking at the flowers on the tree. ‘Yesterday has withered, too, and the letter has withered, and this moment, the best in my life, when a woman has told me for the first time, like a voice from heaven, what good there is in me, has also withered!’
He looked at Olga – she stood, waiting for him, with lowered eyes.
‘Please, give me the letter,’ she said softly.