Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [160]
She was silent and turned her face away.
‘Olga, give me your hand,’ he went on.
She did not give it. He took it and put it to his lips. She did not withdraw it. Her hand was warm, soft, and just a tiny bit moist. He tried to look into her face, but she turned away more and more.
‘Silence?’ he asked anxiously, kissing her hand.
‘Is a sign of consent,’ she finished the sentence for him softly, still not looking at him.
‘What are you feeling now?’ he asked, recalling his dream about the shy consent and the tears. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘The same as you,’ she replied, continuing to look somewhere in the direction of the forest, only the heaving of her bosom showed that she was restraining herself.
‘Has she tears in her eyes?’ Oblomov wondered, but she was obstinately looking down.
‘Are you calm?’ he said, trying to draw her closer. ‘Are you indifferent?’
‘Not indifferent, but calm.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I foresaw it long ago and I’ve got used to the thought.’
‘Long ago!’ he repeated in surprise.
‘Yes, from the moment I gave you the spray of lilac, I called you in my mind – –’ She broke off.
‘From that moment!’
He put out his arms wide to embrace her.
‘The abyss is opening up, lightnings are flashing – take care!’ she said slyly, cleverly avoiding his embrace and pushing away his hand with her parasol.
He recalled her stern ‘Never!’ and desisted.
‘But you have never told me or showed me in any way – –’ he said.
‘We do not marry, but are given or taken in marriage.’
‘From that moment – not really?’ he said reflectively.
‘Do you think that I would have been here alone with you if I had not known you?’ she said proudly. ‘Would I have sat in the summer-house with you in the evenings? Would I have listened to you and trusted you?’
‘Then it’s – –’ he began, changing colour and letting go her hand.
A strange thought occurred to him. She was looking at him with serene pride and waited unwaveringly; and what he wanted at that moment was not pride and determination, but tears, passion, intoxicating happiness, if only for a moment – and then let life go on unruffled and calm for ever! And suddenly no violent tears of unexpected happiness and no shy consent! How was he to understand it? And the serpent of doubt awoke and stirred uneasily in his heart. Did she love him or was she merely anxious to marry him?
‘But there is another road to happiness,’ he said.
‘Which?’ she asked.
‘Sometimes love does not wait and endure and calculate.… A woman is all on fire, she trembles all over, she experiences at once such agonies and such joys that – –’
‘I don’t know what kind of road you mean.’
‘A road upon which a woman sacrifices everything: her peace of mind, public opinion, respect, and finds her reward in love which takes the place of everything for her.’
‘Need we walk along such a road?’
‘No.’
‘Would you have liked to look for happiness at the cost of my peace of mind and self-respect?’
‘Oh no, no! I swear to God I never would,’ he said warmly.
‘Then why did you speak of it?’
‘I – I don’t know – –’
‘But I do know: you were anxious to find out whether I would have sacrificed my peace of mind to you and gone with you along that road? Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, I think you must be right. Well?’
‘Never,’ she said firmly. ‘Not for anything in the world.’
He thought it over and then sighed.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is a terrible road, and a woman must love very much to go after a man on it – to face ruin and go on loving.’
He looked at her face questioningly: he saw nothing there: her face was calm and only the crease over her eyebrow stirred a little.
‘Imagine,’ he said, ‘that Sonia, who is not worth your little finger, suddenly refused to recognize you in the street.’
Olga smiled and she looked as serene as ever. Oblomov, on the other hand, was too vain to resist the temptation to obtain some sacrifice from Olga and revel in it.
‘Imagine that men did not lower their eyes with