Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [256]
‘What is it?’ she thought, horrified. ‘Is there something else I need and ought to desire? Where am I to go? Nowhere. This is the end of the road…. But is it? Have I completed the circle of life? Is this all – all?’ she asked herself, leaving something unsaid – and – looking round anxiously to make sure that no one had overheard this whisper of her soul…. Her eyes questioned the sky, the sea, the woods – there was no answer anywhere; there was nothing there but emptiness and darkness.
Nature said the same thing over and over again; she saw in it an uninterrupted and monotonous flow of life, without beginning or end. She knew whom to consult about her worries, and she might have found an answer; but what kind of answer? What if it was merely the dissatisfied muttering of a sterile mind or, worse still, the craving of an unwomanly heart that has not been created for sympathy alone? Heavens, she – his idol – was heartless and possessed a hard and never-contented mind! What would she become? Not a blue-stocking, surely? How she would fall in his estimation when he discovered these new, unwonted sufferings, which were, of course, known to him. She hid from him or pretended to be ill, and then her eyes, in spite of herself, lost their velvety softness and looked hot and dry, a heavy cloud lay on her face, and, try as she might, she could not force herself to smile or talk, and listened indifferently to the most exciting news of the political world and the most interesting explanation of some new scientific discovery or new creative work of art. And yet she did not want to cry, she felt no sudden excitement as when her nerves were on edge and her virginal powers were awakening and finding expression. No, that was not it!
‘What is it, then?’ she asked herself in despair, when she suddenly felt bored and indifferent to everything on a beautiful, quiet evening or sitting beside the cradle, or amidst her husband’s endearments and speeches…. She suddenly stood stock-still and grew silent, then busied herself with a feigned liveliness to conceal her strange ailment, or said she had a headache and went to bed. But it was not easy for her to hide herself from Stolz’s keen eyes: she knew it and prepared herself inwardly for the conversation that was to come with the same anxiety as she had once prepared herself for confessing her past. It came at last.
One evening they were taking a walk in the poplar avenue. She almost hung on his shoulder, hardly uttering a word. She was suffering from one of her mysterious attacks and replied curtly to whatever he said.
‘The nurse says that little Olga was coughing in the night. Don’t you think we ought to send for the doctor to-morrow?’ he asked.
‘I’ve given her a warm drink and will not let her go for a walk to-morrow, and then we shall see!’ she replied monotonously.
They walked to the end of the avenue in silence.
‘Why haven’t you answered your friend Sonia’s letter?’ he asked. ‘I kept waiting and nearly missed the post. It’s her third letter you’ve left unanswered.’
‘Yes, I want to forget her as quickly as possible,’ she said, and fell silent.
‘I gave Bichurin your regards,’ Andrey began again. ‘He’s in love with you, you know, so I thought it might comfort him a little for his wheat not arriving in time.’
She smiled dryly.
‘Yes, you’ve told me,’ she said indifferently.
‘What is it? Are you sleepy?’ he