Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [261]
Stolz was profoundly happy in his full and exciting life, in which unfading spring was flowering, and he took care of it, tended and cherished it jealously, keenly, and energetically. He was horror-stricken only when he remembered that Olga had been within a hair’s-breadth of destruction; that they had merely stumbled on their right path in life, and their two lives, now merged into one, might have diverged; that ignorance of the ways of life might have led to a disastrous mistake, that Oblomov – – He shuddered. Good heavens, Olga in the sort of life Oblomov had been preparing for her! Olga leading a day-to-day existence, a country lady, nursing her children, a housewife, and – nothing more! All her questionings, doubts, the whole excitement of her life, would have been frittered away in household cares, preparations for feast-days, visitors, family reunions, birthdays, christenings, and her husband’s indolence and apathy! Marriage would have been a meaningless form, a means and not an end; it would have been merely a large and immutable framework for visits, entertainments of visitors, dinners and parties, empty chatter. How would she have endured such a life? At first she would have struggled, trying to find and solve the mystery of life, wept and suffered, and then she would have got used to it, grown fat and stupid, and spent her time eating and sleeping. No, it wouldn’t have been so with her: she would have wept, suffered, pined away, and died in the arms of her loving, kind, and helpless husband…. Poor Olga! And if the fire had not been extinguished and life had not come to an end, if her powers had held out and demanded freedom, if she had stretched forth her wings like a strong and keen-eyed eagle, checked for a moment by her weak arms, and flung herself on the high rock where she had seen an eagle who was stronger and more keen-eyed than she?… Poor Ilya!
‘Poor Ilya!’ Andrey cried one day as he recalled the past.
At the sound of that name Olga suddenly dropped her hands and her embroidery into her lap, threw back her head, and sank into thought. His exclamation had brought back memories.
‘How is he getting on?’ she asked after a pause. ‘Can’t we find out?’
Andrey shrugged. ‘One might think,’ he said, ‘that we were living at a time when there was no post, and when people who had gone their different ways regarded each other as lost and, indeed, lost all trace of each other.’
‘You might write again to some of your friends: we should at least find out something.’
‘We shouldn’t find out anything that we don’t know already: that he is alive and well and living in the same place – I know that without writing to my friends. As for how he is, how he is enduring his life, whether he is morally dead, or there still is a spark of life glowing in him – that no stranger could find out.’
‘Please don’t talk like that, Andrey: it frightens me and hurts me to hear you. I should like to know, and I’m afraid to find out.’
She was ready to cry.
‘We shall be in Petersburg in the spring, and we shall find out for ourselves.’
‘That isn’t enough. We must do all we can.’
‘Haven’t I done so? Haven’t I tried my best to persuade him, to do everything I could for him, arranged his affairs for him – if only he had shown the slightest sign of appreciation! He’s ready to do anything when you see him, but as soon as you’re out of sight it’s good-bye – he’s gone to sleep again! It’s like trying to deal with a dipsomaniac!’
‘But why do you let him out of your sight?’ Olga said impatiently. ‘He must be dealt with resolutely: put him in the carriage and take him away. Now that we are going to move to our estate, he’ll be near us. We’ll take him with us