Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [233]
‘Dear Olga, please don’t be angry. Don’t speak like that: it isn’t like you. You know I don’t think anything of the kind. But I’m afraid the whole thing is beyond me. I can’t understand how Oblomov – –’
‘But he is worthy of your friendship, isn’t he? You can’t speak highly enough of him. Why, then, shouldn’t he be worthy of love?’ she declared in self-defence.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘that love is less exacting than friendship. It is often blind, it cares nothing for merit – that is so. But something special is needed for love, sometimes just a trifle, something you cannot define or name and that my incomparable but clumsy Ilya has not got. That is why I am surprised. Listen,’ he went on, speaking with great animation. ‘We shall never get to the bottom of it – we shall never understand each other. Don’t be ashamed of details, don’t spare yourself for half an hour, tell me everything, and I’ll tell you what it was, and perhaps also what it’s going to be. I can’t help feeling that there is something – wrong somewhere. Oh, if only it were true,’ he added with enthusiasm. ‘If it were Oblomov and no one else! Oblomov! Why, that means that you don’t belong to the past, to love, that you are free…. Tell me, please, tell me quickly!’ he concluded in a calm, almost cheerful voice.
‘Yes, oh yes!’ she replied trustfully, glad that some of her chains had been taken off. ‘All alone, I am going mad. If only you knew how wretched I was! I don’t know whether I am to blame or not, whether I ought to be ashamed of my past or be sorry for it, whether to hope for the future or to despair. You have been talking of your sufferings, but you never suspected mine. Hear me out, then, but not with your intellect – I’m afraid of your intellect – better with your heart; perhaps it will realize that I have no mother, that I was completely at sea,’ she added softly in a toneless voice. ‘No,’ she hastily corrected herself a moment later, ‘do not spare me. If it was love, you’d better – go.’ She paused for a minute. ‘But come back later, when you don’t feel anything but friendship for me again. But if it was frivolous coquetry, then punish me, run away from me as far as you can and forget me! Listen.’
In reply, he pressed both her hands warmly.
Olga’s confession began, long and detailed. Distinctly, word for word, she transferred from her mind into his all that had so long been gnawing at it, that had made her blush, that had once made her happy and moved her deeply until she suddenly fell into a slough of doubt and sorrow. She told of their walks, of the park, of her hopes, of Oblomov’s renascence and of his fall, of the spray of lilac, even of the kiss. She only passed over in silence the sultry evening in the garden – probably because she still could not decide what had come over her then. At first only her embarrassed whisper could be heard, but as she went on with her story, her voice became clearer and more unconstrained; from a whisper it rose to an undertone, and then to full, deep notes. She finished calmly, just as though she were telling somebody else’s story. She felt as though a curtain were being raised and the past, into which she had till that moment been afraid to look, slowly unfolded before her. Her eyes were opened to many things and she would have looked boldly at her companion if it had not been dark.
She finished and waited for the verdict. But dead silence was his answer. What did he have to say to it? She could not hear a word, not a movement, not a breath even, as though there were no one in the room with her. This muteness made her feel doubtful again. The silence continued. What did it mean? What verdict was being prepared for her by the most perspicacious and most lenient judge in the whole world? All the rest would condemn her without mercy, he alone could be her counsel, it was he she would have chosen – he would have understood it all, weighed it, and settled it in her favour better than she herself could have done. But he was silent: had she lost