Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [206]
‘What I want is not protestations of love but a brief answer,’ she interrupted him almost dryly.
‘Don’t torture me, Olga!’ he implored her disconsolately.
‘Well, Ilya, am I right or not?’
‘Yes,’ he said, distinctly and resolutely, ‘you are right.’
‘In that case we had better part,’ she decided, ‘before anyone finds you here and sees how upset I am.’
But he still did not go.
‘Even if we had married, what would have come of it?’ she asked.
He made no answer.
‘You would sink deeper and deeper into sleep every day, wouldn’t you? And I? You see the sort of person I am, don’t you? I shall never grow old or tire of life. And with you I should be living from day to day, waiting for Christmas, then for Shrovetide, go visiting, dancing, and not thinking of anything. We’d go to bed and thank God that the day had passed so quickly, and in the morning we’d wake up wishing that to-day would be like yesterday. That would be our future, wouldn’t it? Is that life? I’d pine away and die – what for, Ilya? Would you be happy?’
He cast an agonizing look at the ceiling, wanted to move, to run away, but his legs would not obey him. He wanted to say something – his mouth was dry, his tongue would not move, his voice failed him. He held out his hand to her.
‘So – –’ he began in a faint voice, but broke off and finished his sentence with his eyes: ‘Good-bye!’
She, too, wanted to say something, but could not; she held out her hand to him, but the hand dropped before it touched him; she, too, wanted to say ‘good-bye’, but her voice failed her in the middle of the word and broke off on a false note; a spasm passed over her face, she put her hand and head on his shoulder and burst into sobs. It was as though her weapons had been snatched out of her hands. The woman of intelligence was gone and in her place was simply a woman who was powerless against grief.
‘Good-bye, good-bye,’ the words escaped her between her sobs.
He was silent, listening in horror to her weeping and not daring to interfere with it. He did not feel any pity either for her or for himself; he was wretched himself. She sank into an arm-chair and, pressing her handkerchief to her face, leaned against the table and wept bitterly. Her tears flowed not as an irresistible hot stream released by a sudden and temporary pain, as in the park in summer, but coldly and cheerlessly, like autumn rain pitilessly watering the meadows.
‘Olga,’ he said at last, ‘why do you torture yourself? You love me, you won’t be able to bear the parting! Take me as I am, love whatever is good in me.’
She shook her head without raising it.
‘No, no,’ she made an effort to speak, ‘don’t be afraid for me and for my grief. I know myself: I will cry it out and then I will cry no more. And now, don’t interrupt my tears – go away.… No, wait, please! God is punishing me! Oh, it hurts me – it hurts me awfully – here, near my heart….’
Her sobs were renewed.
‘And what if the pain doesn’t stop,’ he said, ‘and your health suffers? Such tears are deadly. Olga, my darling, don’t cry – forget it all….’
‘No, let me cry! I am not crying about the future, but about the past,’ she brought out with difficulty. ‘It has “faded away”, it has “gone”…. It isn’t I who am crying, but my memories! The summer – the park – do you remember? I’m sorry for our avenue, the lilac…. It has all grown into my heart: it hurts me to tear it out!’ She shook her head in despair and sobbed, repeating: ‘Oh, how it hurts – how it hurts!’
‘What if you should die?’ he suddenly cried in horror. ‘Think, Olga – –’
‘No,’ she interrupted, raising her head and trying to look at him through her tears; ‘I have only lately realized that I loved in you what I wanted you to have, what Stolz pointed out to me, what we both invented. I loved the Oblomov that might have been! You are gentle and honest – you are tender like – a dove; you hide your head under your wing – and you want nothing more; you are ready to spend all your life cooing under the roof…. Well, I am not like that; that isn’t enough for me;