Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [158]
‘What of?’
‘You are young and you don’t know all the dangers, Olga. Sometimes a man loses his mastery over himself. He is possessed by some evil power, his heart is plunged into darkness, his eyes flash lightnings. He is no longer capable of thinking clearly: respect for purity and innocence is carried away by a whirlwind; he does not know what he is doing; he is overcome by passion, he can no longer control himself – and it is then that an abyss opens up at his feet.’
He shuddered.
‘Well, what of it? Let it!’ she said, looking at him open-eyed.
He said nothing; there was nothing more he could say.
She gazed at him for some time as though trying to read his mind in the lines of his forehead; she recalled his every word and look and, running over the whole history of their love, she got as far as the dark evening in the garden and suddenly blushed.
‘You do talk a lot of nonsense, darling,’ she said hurriedly, looking away. ‘I never saw any lightnings in your eyes. You – you mostly look at me like – like my nanny Kuzminichna,’ she added, laughing.
‘You are joking, Olga, and I’m talking seriously and – and I haven’t said everything yet.’
‘What else?’ she asked. ‘What abyss are you talking about?’
He sighed.
‘I mean that – that we ought not to meet – alone.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it isn’t nice.’
She thought it over.
‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, ’they say it isn’t nice. But why?’
‘What will people say when they know, when the story spreads – –’
‘Who will say? I have no mother: she alone could have asked me why I saw you, and only in answer to her would I have cried and said that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, nor you either. She’d have believed me. Who else is there?’ she asked.
‘Your aunt,’ said Oblomov.
‘My aunt?’ Olga shook her head sadly. ‘She would never ask. If I went away for good she would not go to look for me or ask me any questions, and I should never go back to tell her where I had been and what I had done. Who else is there?’
‘Others – everybody. The other day Sonia looked at you and me and smiled, and all the ladies and gentlemen who were with her also smiled.’
He told her what an anxious time he had been through since then.
‘While she looked at me,’ he added, ‘I didn’t mind; but when she looked in the same way at you, a chill went through me.’
‘Well?’ she asked coldly.
‘Well, I’ve been worried to death ever since, racking my brains how to prevent it from becoming public. I was anxious not to frighten you. I’ve long wanted to talk it over with you.’
‘You need not have troubled,’ she replied. ‘I knew it without your telling me.’
‘You knew it?’ he asked in surprise.
‘Of course. Sonia talked to me, tried to find out everything, taunted me, and even told me how I should behave with you.’
‘And you never told me anything about it, Olga!’ he reproached her.
‘You never told me anything about your anxiety, either.’
‘What did you say to her?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. What could I say? I just blushed.’
‘Good Lord, so it has gone as far as that: you blush!’ he cried in horror. ‘How careless we are! What will come of it?’
She looked questioningly at him.
‘I don’t know,’ she said shortly.
Oblomov had thought that by sharing his trouble with Olga he would set his own mind at rest and draw strength from her words and looks, but finding she had no clear and decisive answer, he suddenly lost courage. His face expressed irresolution, his eyes wandered dejectedly. Inwardly he was already in a feverish ferment. He had almost forgotten Olga: in his mind’s eye he saw Sonia with her husband and the visitors; he heard their laughter and gossip. Olga, usually so resourceful, was silent, looked coldly at him and still more coldly said, ‘I don’t know.’ He did not trouble, or did not know how, to find out the secret meaning of that ‘I don’t know’. He, too,