Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [253]
For a long time she would not let him guess what she really was either out of pride or shyness, and it was only after an agonizing struggle abroad that he saw with amazement into what a model of simplicity, strength, and naturalness this promising child he had almost forgotten had grown. It was then that the whole depth of her soul, which he might have filled but never succeeded in filling, was revealed to him.
At first he had long to struggle with the vivacity of her nature, to check the fever of youth, keep her impulses within definite bounds, and impart an even flow to their life, and that, too, only for a time. For as soon as he closed his eyes trustfully, an alarm was raised again, life was in full swing, some new question sprang from her restless mind and anxious heart: he had to calm her excited imagination, to soothe or rouse her pride. If she pondered over something, he hastened to give her the key to it. Belief in chance, mists and hallucinations disappeared from her life. A bright clear vista opened up before her and she could see in it, as in limpid water, every pebble, every crevice, and then the clean sandy bottom.
‘I am happy,’ she whispered, casting a glance of gratitude over her past life and, trying to see into the future, she recalled the girlish dream of happiness she had once dreamed in Switzerland, the wistful, blue night, and she saw that that dream, like a shadow, was haunting her life. ‘Why should this have fallen to my lot?’ she thought humbly. She pondered, and was sometimes afraid lest her happiness should end.
Years passed, but they did not tire of living. Peace came at last, the emotional storms subsided; the ups and downs of life no longer puzzled them; they put up with them cheerfully and patiently, and yet life never flagged. Olga reached a true understanding of life. Two existences – Andrey’s and hers – merged into one; there could be no question of a riot of wild passions; all was peace and harmony between them. It would seem that they might have gone to sleep in this well-earned rest and be as blissfully happy as people who live in some backwater, who meet together three times a day, yawning over their familiar conversation, falling into a dull slumber, languishing from morning till night because everything had already been thought, said, and done over and over again and there was nothing more to be said or done and because ‘such is life’. Outwardly their life was the same as other people’s. They got up early, though not at dawn; they liked to spend a long time over their breakfast, and sometimes seemed to be lazily silent; then they each went to their rooms or worked together, dined, drove to the fields, had music – like everybody else, as Oblomov had dreamed. But there was no drowsiness