Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [232]
‘How am I to understand that? Explain yourself for God’s sake!’ he cried, drawing his chair nearer to her, taken aback by her words and the genuine, unfeigned tone of voice in which they were uttered.
He tried to make out her face. She was silent. She was deeply anxious to reassure him, to take back the word ‘unhappy’, or explain it differently from the way he understood it – she did not know herself, but she vaguely felt that both of them were labouring under a misapprehension, that they were in a false position, and that both were wretched because of it, and that only he, or she with his assistance, could bring order and clarity into the past and the present. But to do that she had to cross the gulf that separated her from him and tell him what had happened to her: how she prayed for and was afraid of – his verdict!
‘I don’t understand anything myself,’ she said. ‘I am more confused and more in the dark than you!’
‘Listen; do you trust me?’ he asked, taking her by the hand.
‘Entirely, as my mother – you know that,’ she replied weakly.
‘In that case tell me what has happened to you since we parted. You’re a closed book to me now, but before I could read your thoughts from your face. It seems to me this is the only way for us to understand each other. Do you agree?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, I must do that – I must end it somehow,’ she said, feeling wretched at the inevitable confession. ‘Nemesis! Nemesis!’ she thought, bowing her head.
She cast down her eyes and was silent. And he felt terrified at these simple words and still more at her silence.
‘She is suffering! Oh, Lord, what could have happened to her?’ he thought, turning cold and feeling that his hands and feet were trembling. He imagined something very dreadful. She was still silent and obviously struggling with herself.
‘Well – Olga – –’ he prompted her.
She was silent, except for again making some nervous movement he could not make out in the dark; he only heard the rustle of her silk dress.
‘I am plucking up my courage,’ she said at last. ‘If only you knew how hard it was!’ she added afterwards, turning away and trying to get the better of her fears. What she wanted was that Stolz should find everything out not from her, but by some miracle. Fortunately, it had grown darker and her face was already in shadow: only her voice could give her away, and she could not bring herself to speak, as though she could not make up her mind on which note to begin.
‘Oh dear, how much I must be to blame, if I feel so ashamed, so miserable!’ she thought agonizingly.
And not so long ago she was so confidently planning her own life and another one’s and was so strong and intelligent! And now the time had come for her to tremble like a little girl! Shame for her past, poignant regret for the present and her false position, tortured her – it was unbearable!
‘Let me help you – you – have loved?’ Stolz brought himself to say with an effort – his own words hurt him so much.
She confirmed it by her silence. And once more he felt terrified.
‘Who was it?’ he asked, trying to speak firmly, though he felt that his lips quivered. ‘It isn’t a secret, is it?’
She felt even more dreadful. She wished she could give him another name, invent another story. For a moment she hesitated, but there was nothing for it: like a man who in a moment of extreme danger jumps off a steep bank or throws himself into the flames, she suddenly said:
‘Oblomov!’
He was dumbfounded. For two minutes neither of them spoke.
‘Oblomov!’ he repeated in astonishment. ‘It’s not true!’ he added emphatically, lowering his voice.
‘It is true!’ she said calmly.
‘Oblomov!’ he repeated. ‘It’s impossible!’ he added confidently again. ‘There’s something wrong here: you did not understand yourself, Oblomov, or love!’
She was silent.
‘That was not love; it was something else, I tell you!’ he repeated insistently.
‘Yes, I suppose you think I flirted with him, led him by the nose, made him unhappy, and – am now starting on you!’ she said in a restrained voice