Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [155]
On the following day Olga’s charming chatter and affectionate playfulness could not cheer him. In reply to her insistent questions, he had to plead a headache and submit patiently to having seventy-five-copecks’ worth of eau-de-Cologne poured on his head. Then, the day after that when they came back home late, Olga’s aunt looked somehow too wisely at them, especially at him, and then lowering her large, slightly puffy eyelids, thoughtfully sniffed her smelling-salts for a minute while her eyes seemed to be still looking at them. Oblomov felt unhappy, but he said nothing. He did not dare to confide his doubts to Olga, fearing to worry and alarm her, and, if the truth be told, he was also afraid for himself, afraid of disturbing their cloudless and unruffled world by so grave a question. For it was no longer a question whether or not it was a mistake on her part to have fallen in love with him, but whether the whole thing was not a mistake – those meetings of theirs in the woods alone and sometimes late in the evening.
‘I dared to ask for a kiss,’ he thought with horror, ‘and that is already a criminal offence against the moral code, and not a small one either! There are many stages before it: pressure of the hand, declaration, letter.… We’ve been through all that. But,’ he thought, raising his head, ‘my intentions are honourable, and I – –’
And suddenly the cloud vanished, and he saw before him Oblomovka, bright and festive, basking in the brilliant sunshine, with its green hills and silvery river; he was walking dreamily with Olga down a long avenue, his arm round her waist; or he was sitting in the summer-house with her, or on the verandah.… Everyone bowed his head before her in adoration – in a word, everything was just as he had described it to Stolz.
‘Yes, yes,’ he thought in alarm again, ‘but I ought to have started with that. The thrice repeated “I love you”, the sprig of lilac, the declaration of love – all that ought to be the pledge of lifelong happiness, and never be repeated again, if the woman be pure. But what am I doing? What am I?’ the question kept hammering in his head. ‘I am a seducer, a lady-killer! All that is left for me to do is to follow the example of that dirty old rake with salacious eyes and a red nose, and stick a rose stolen from a woman in my buttonhole and whisper to my friends about my conquest so that – so that – – Oh Lord, where have I landed myself! That’s where the abyss is! And Olga is not soaring high above it – she is at the bottom – why? why?’
He exhausted himself and cried like a child at the thought that the rainbow colours of his life had suddenly faded and that Olga was going to be sacrificed. His whole love was a crime, a blot on his conscience. Then his agitation subsided for a moment and he realized that there was a perfectly legal solution of his problem: to hold out his hand with a wedding ring to Olga.…
‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured, trembling with joy, ‘and her answer will be a look of shy consent.… She won’t utter a word; she will flush crimson and smile with all her heart, then her eyes will fill with tears.…’
Tears and a smile, a silently held out hand, followed by lively, playful joy, a happy urgency in all her movements, a long, long conversation, an exchange of whispered confidences, and a secret agreement to merge two lives into one! A love, unseen by anyone but themselves, would shine through every triviality, in every conversation about everyday affairs. And no one would dare to insult them with a look.…
His face suddenly became stern and