Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [258]
‘What can I say to you?’ he said thoughtfully; ‘perhaps you’re still suffering from strained nerves, in which case it is the doctor and not I who will decide what’s wrong with you. We must send for him to-morrow. But if it isn’t – –’ He stopped short, pondering.
‘What if it isn’t? Tell me!’ she persisted impatiently.
He walked on, still absorbed in his thoughts.
‘Please!’ she said, shaking him by the arm.
‘Perhaps it’s an over-active imagination, you’re much too animated; or again, perhaps you’ve reached the age when – –’ He finished in an undertone, speaking almost to himself.
‘Please speak up, Andrey. I can’t bear it when you mutter to yourself!’ she complained. ‘I have told him a lot of nonsense, and he hangs his head and mutters something under his breath! I honestly feel nervous here with you in the dark….’
‘I don’t know what to say – you feel depressed, you’re worried by some sort of questions – I don’t know what to make of it. We’ll discuss it again later: you may be needing sea-bathing cure again….’
‘You said to yourself – perhaps you’ve reached the age – what did you mean?’ she asked.
‘You see, I meant – –’ he said slowly, expressing himself hesitantly, distrusting his own thoughts and, as it were, ashamed of his words. ‘You see – there are moments – I mean, if it isn’t a sign of a nervous breakdown, if there is absolutely nothing the matter with you, then perhaps you’ve reached the age of maturity when one stops growing – where there are no more riddles, and when it all becomes plain….’
‘You mean I’ve grown old, don’t you?’ she interrupted him quickly. ‘Don’t you dare suggest it!’ She shook a finger at him. ‘I am still young and strong,’ she added, drawing herself up.
He laughed. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said; ‘it seems to me you don’t ever intend to grow old! No, that’s not what I meant. In old age one’s powers fail and stop struggling with life. No, your sadness and depression – if it is what I think it is – is rather a sign of strength. A lively, inquiring, and dissatisfied mind sometimes attempts to penetrate beyond the boundaries of life and, finding, of course, no answer, is plunged into melancholy and – temporary dissatisfaction with life. It is the melancholy of the soul questioning life about its mysteries. Perhaps that is what’s the matter with you…. If that is so – it isn’t foolishness.’
She sighed, but it seemed more like a sigh of relief that her apprehensions were over and that she had not fallen in the estimation of her husband, but quite the contrary….
‘But I am happy, my mind is not idle, I am not day-dreaming, my life is full – what more do I want? Why all these questionings?’ she said. ‘It’s a disease, an obsession!’
‘Yes, perhaps it is an obsession for an ignorant, untrained, and weak mind. This melancholy and these questions have possibly driven many people mad; to some they appear as hideous apparitions, as a delirium of the mind.’
‘My happiness is brimming over, I so want to live and – suddenly all is gall and wormwood….’
‘Ah, that’s what one has to pay for the Promethean fire! It isn’t enough to suffer, you have to love this melancholy and respect your doubts and questionings: they represent the surfeit, the luxury of life, and mostly appear on the summits of happiness, when there are no coarse desires; people who are in need and sorrow are not bothered by them; thousands and thousands of people go through life without knowing anything about this fog of doubts and the anguish of questionings…. But to those who have met them at the right moment, they are not an affliction, but welcome guests.’
But it’s impossible to manage them: they make you feel miserable and indifferent – to almost everything,’ she added hesitantly.
‘Not for long, though,’ he said. ‘Afterwards they make life all the fresher. They bring us to the abyss from which we can