Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [152]
‘I am afraid!’ Olga said suddenly with a start as they groped their way down a narrow avenue between two black, impenetrable walls of trees.
‘What of?’ he asked. ‘Don’t be afraid, darling; I am with you.’
‘I am afraid of you too!’ she said in a whisper. ‘Oh, but it is such a delightful fear! It makes my heart miss a beat. Give me your hand, feel how it beats!’
She trembled and looked round. ‘See? See?’ she whispered with a start, clutching at his shoulders with both hands. ‘Don’t you see someone flitting about in the darkness?’
She pressed closer to him.
‘There’s no one there,’ he said, but a cold shiver ran down his spine.
‘Darling,’ she whispered, ‘close my eyes quickly with something – tightly, please. Now I’m all right… it’s my nerves,’ she added agitatedly. ‘Look, there it is again! Who is it? Let us sit down.…’
He felt his way to a seat and got her to sit down on it.
‘Let us go back, Olga,’ he entreated her. ‘You’re not well.’
She put her head on his shoulder.
‘No,’ she said, ‘the air is fresher here. I feel so tight here – near the heart.’
She breathed hotly against his cheek. He touched her head – it was hot too. She breathed irregularly and often heaved a sigh.
‘Don’t you think we’d better go into the house?’ Oblomov repeated anxiously. ‘You ought to lie down.’
‘No, no; please, leave me alone; don’t disturb me,’ she said languidly, almost inaudibly. ‘Something’s on fire here – here…’ she pointed to her chest.
‘Do let us go back, please,’ Oblomov hurried her.
‘No, wait. This will pass.…’
She squeezed his hand and now and then looked close into his eyes and was silent a long time. Presently she began to cry, quietly at first, then broke into sobs. He did not know what to do.
‘For heaven’s sake, Olga, let us hurry indoors,’ he said in alarm.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, whispering. ‘Don’t disturb me. Let me have a good cry – my tears will make me feel better – it’s just my nerves.…’
He listened in the darkness to her heavy breathing, felt her warm tears on his hand, the convulsive pressure of her fingers. He did not stir or breathe. Her head lay on his shoulder and her breath burnt his cheek. He, too, was trembling, but he dared not touch her cheek with his lips. After some time she grew more composed and her breathing became more regular. She did not utter a sound. He wondered if she were asleep and was afraid to stir.
‘Olga!’ he called her in a whisper.
‘What?’ she replied also in a whisper, and sighed aloud. ‘Now,’ she said languidly, ‘it’s passed. I’m better. I can breathe freely.’
‘Let us go,’ he said.
‘Let’s,’ she repeated reluctantly. ‘My darling!’ she whispered langourously squeezing his hand and, leaning against his shoulder, she walked home with unsteady steps.
He looked at her in the drawing-room. She seemed weak and was smiling a strange, unconscious smile as though she were in a trance. He made her sit down on the sofa, knelt before her and, deeply touched, kissed her hand a few times. She looked at him with the same smile, not attempting to take her hands away, and, as he turned to go, followed him to the door with her eyes.
In the doorway he turned round: she was still gazing at him, and there was the same look of exhaustion in her face and the same ardent smile as though she were not able to control it.… He went away wondering. He had seen that smile somewhere: he remembered a picture of a woman with such a smile – only it was not Cordelia.…
The next day he sent to inquire how Olga was. She was quite well, was the reply she sent back, and would he please come to dinner, and in the evening they were all going for a three-mile drive to see the fireworks. He could not believe it and went to see for himself. Olga was as fresh as a daisy: her eyes were bright and cheerful, her cheeks rosy,