Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [183]
‘From the Ilyinsky young lady,’ Zakhar said.
‘How do you know?’ Oblomov asked angrily. ‘Nonsense!’
‘You always used to get such letters from her in summer,’ Zakhar persisted.
‘Is she well?’ Oblomov thought, opening the letter. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t want to wait for Wednesday’ (wrote Olga) ‘I miss you so much after so long a time that I will expect you tomorrow for certain at three o’clock in the Summer Gardens.’
That was all.
Again he became deeply perturbed; again he grew restless with anxiety at the thought of how he was going to talk to Olga and of how he would look at her.
‘I can’t do it – I don’t know how to,’ he said. ‘I wish I could ask Stolz – –’
But he set his mind at rest with the thought that Olga would most probably come with her aunt or with Maria Semyonovna, who was so fond of her and could not admire her enough. He hoped that in their presence he would be able to disguise his embarrassment, and he prepared himself to be talkative and gallant. ‘And at dinner time, too,’ he thought as he set out, none too eagerly, for the Summer Gardens. ‘What an hour to choose!’ As soon as he entered the long avenue, he saw a veiled woman get up from a seat and walk towards him. He did not think it was Olga: alone! Impossible! She would never do a thing like that and, besides, would have no excuse for leaving home unchaperoned. However – it seemed to be her way of walking: her feet moved so lightly and rapidly that they did not seem to walk but to glide; her head and neck, too, were bent forward as though she were looking for something on the ground at her feet. Another man would have recognized her by her hat or dress, but he could never tell what dress or hat Olga was wearing even after spending a whole morning with her. There was hardly anybody in the garden; an elderly gentleman was walking very briskly, apparently taking his constitutional, and two – not ladies, but women, and a nurse with two children who looked blue with the cold. The leaves had fallen and one could see right through the bare branches; the crows on the trees cawed so unpleasantly. It was a bright and clear day, though, and warm, if one were wrapped up properly. The veiled woman was coming nearer and nearer….
‘It is she!’ said Oblomov, stopping in alarm and unable to believe his eyes.
‘Is it you?’ he asked, taking her hand. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she said without answering his question. ‘I thought you wouldn’t come, and I was beginning to be afraid.’
‘How did you get here? How did you manage it?’ he asked, thrown into confusion.
‘Please, don’t! What does it matter? Why all these questions? It’s so silly! I wanted to see you and I came – that’s all!’
She pressed his hand warmly and looked at him gaily and light-heartedly, so openly and obviously enjoying the moment stolen from fate that he envied her for not sharing her playful mood. However troubled he was, he could not help forgetting himself for a moment when he saw her face showing no trace of the concentrated thought that could be discerned in the play of her eyebrows and in the crease on her forehead; this time she appeared to be without that wonderful maturity that so often disturbed him in her features. At that moment her face expressed such childlike confidence in their future happiness and in him…. She was very charming.
‘Oh, I’m so glad! I’m so glad!’ she went on repeating, smiling and looking at him. ‘I didn’t think I’d see you to-day. I felt so terribly depressed yesterday – I don’t know why, and I wrote to you. Are you glad?’
She looked at his face.
‘Why are you so sullen to-day? Won’t you tell me? Aren’t you glad? I thought you’d be mad with joy, and you seem to be asleep. Wake up, sir, Olga is with you!’
She pushed him away a little reproachfully.
‘Aren’t you well? What is the matter with you?’ she persisted.
‘No, I’m well and happy,’ he hastened to say, to make quite sure that she was not driven to wring the innermost secrets of his heart from him. ‘I’m