Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [234]
The door was opened and the two candles brought in by the maid lighted up their corner.
She threw a timid but eager and questioning glance at him. He had crossed his arms and was looking at her with such gentle, frank eyes, enjoying her confusion. A great weight lifted from her heart. She sighed with relief and nearly cried. Forbearance towards herself and confidence in him all at once returned to her. She was happy like a child that has been forgiven, soothed, and fondled.
‘Is that all?’ he asked softly.
‘All!’ she said.
‘And his letter?’
She took the letter out of her case and gave it him. He went up to the candle, read it, and put it on the table. And his eyes turned on her again with an expression she had not seen in them for a long time. The old self-confident, slightly ironical, and infinitely kind friend who used to spoil her was standing before her. There was not a trace of suffering or doubt in his face. He took both her hands, kissed them, then pondered deeply. She, too, grew quiet and watched without blinking the movement of thought in his face.
Suddenly he got up.
‘Good heavens, if I had known that it was a question of Oblomov, I shouldn’t have suffered so!’ he said, looking so kindly and trustfully at her as though she had not had that terrible past.
She felt so light-hearted, so festive. All her worries had gone. She saw clearly that it was before him alone she had been ashamed, and that he did not think of punishing her and running away. What did she care for the opinion of the whole world!
He was again self-possessed and cheerful; but this was not enough for her. She saw that she had been acquitted; but, as the accused, she wanted to hear the verdict. He picked up his hat.
‘Where are you off to?’ she asked.
‘You are excited, and you must have a rest,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk to-morrow.’
‘Do you want me to lie awake all night?’ she interrupted, keeping him back by the hand and making him resume his seat. ‘You want to go without telling me what it – was, what I am now, and what – I am going to be. Have pity on me: who else will tell me? Who will punish me if I deserve it or – who will forgive me?’ she added, looking at him with such tender affection that he threw down his hat and nearly threw himself at her feet.
‘Angel – allow me to say – my angel!’ he said. ‘Don’t torment yourself for nothing: there is no need to punish or pardon you. In fact, I have nothing to add to your story. What doubts can you have? You want to know what it was? You want me to tell you its name? You’ve known it long ago. Where is Oblomov’s letter?’
He picked up the letter from the table.
‘Listen,’ he said, and he read: ‘“Your present I love you is not real love, but the love you will feel in future. It is merely your unconscious need of love which, for lack of proper food, sometimes finds expression with women in caressing a child, in love for another woman, or simply in tears or fits of hysteria…. You have made a mistake” (Stolz read, emphasizing the words) “the man before you is not the one you have been expecting and dreaming of. Wait – he will come, and then you will come to your senses and you will feel vexed and ashamed of your mistake”… You see how true it is,’ he said. ‘You were vexed and ashamed of – your mistake. There is nothing to add to this. He was right and you did not believe him – that is all your guilt amounts to. You should have parted at the time but he could not resist your beauty, and you were touched by his – dove-like tenderness!’ he added, not without a touch of irony.
‘I did not believe him. I thought one’s heart could not be mistaken.’
‘Yes, it can, and sometimes very disastrously! But with you it never went as far as the heart,’ he added. ‘It was imagination and vanity on one side, and weakness on the other. And you were afraid that there would be no more sunshine in your life, that that pale ray had lit up your life and would be followed by eternal night.’
‘What about my tears?’ she said. ‘Did they not come from my