“Why so?” he reflected. “Probably because I have put into what I have just written the whole sorrow of my heart.”
Next, he dispatched the letter by the hand of Zakhar, and, leaving the house, turned into the park, and seated himself on the grass. Among the turf-shoots ants were scurrying hither and thither, and jostling one another, and parting again. From above, the scene looked like the commotion in a human market-place—it showed the same bustle, the same congestion, the same swarm of population. Here and there, too, a bumble bee buzzed over a flower, and then crept into its chalice, while a knot of flies had glued themselves to a drop of sap on the trunk of a lime-tree, in the foliage a bird was repeating an ever-insistent note (as though calling to its mate), and a couple of butterflies were tumbling through the air in a giddy, fluttering, intricate movement which resembled a waltz. Everywhere from the herbage strong scents could be detected arising; everywhere there could be beard a ceaseless chirping and twittering.
Suddenly he saw Olga approaching. Walking very quietly, she was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief as she did so. He had not expected those tears. Somehow they seemed to sear his heart. He rose and ran to meet her.
“Olga, Olga!” were his first tender words.
She started, looked at him with an air of astonishment, and turned away. He followed her.
“You are weeping?” he said.
“Yes, and’ is you have made me do so,” she replied, while her form shook with sobs. “But it is beyond your power to comfort me.”
“That miserable letter!” he ejaculated, suddenly becoming full of remorse.
For answer she opened a basket which she was carrying, took from it the letter, and handed it to him.
“Take it away,” she said. “The sight of it will only make me weep more bitterly.”
He stuffed it silently into his pocket, and, with head bent, seated himself beside her.
“Give me credit for good intentions,” he urged. “In any case the letter was evidence only of my care for your happiness—of the fact that I was thinking of it in advance, and was ready to sacrifice myself on its account. Do you think that I wrote the message callously—that inwardly I was not shedding tears the whole time? Why should I have acted as I did?”
“Why, indeed?” she interrupted. “For the reason that you wished to surprise me here, and to see whether I was weeping, and how bitterly. Had you really meant the letter as you say, you would be making preparations to go abroad instead of meeting me as you are now doing. Last night you wanted my ‘I love you’; to-day you want to see my tears; and to-morrow, I daresay, you will be wishing that I were dead!”
“How can you wrong me like that? Believe me, I would give half my life to see smiles on your face instead of tears.”
“Yes—now that you have seen a woman weeping on your account. But no; you have no heart. You say that you had no desire to make me weep. Had that been so, you would not have acted as you have done.”
“Then what ought I to do?” he asked tenderly. “Will you let me beg your pardon?”
“No; only children beg pardon, or persons who have jostled some one in a crowd. Moreover, even when granted, such pardon is worth nothing.”
“But what if the letter should be true, and your affection for me all a mistake?” he suggested.
“You are afraid, then?—you are afraid of falling into a well?—you are afraid lest some day I should hurt you by ceasing to be fond of you?”
“Would I could sink into the ground!” he reflected. The pain was increasing in proportion as he divined Olga’s thoughts.
“On the other hand,” she went on, “suppose you were to weary of love, even as you have wearied of books, of work, and of the world in general? Suppose that, fearing no rival, you were to go to sleep by my side (as you do on your sofa at home), and that my voice were to become powerless to wake you? Suppose that your present swelling of heart were to pass away, and your dressing-gown come to acquire more value in your eyes than myself? Often and often do such questions prevent my sleeping; yet I do not, on that account, trouble you with conjectures as to the future. Always I hope for better things, for, with me, happiness has cast out fear. Only for one thing have I long been sitting and waiting—namely, for happiness; until at length I had come to believe that I had found it.... Even if I have made a mistake, at least this”—and she laid her hand upon her heart—“does not convict me of guilt. God knows that I never desired such a fate! And I had been so happy!” She broke off abruptly.
“Then be happy again,” urged Oblomov.
“No. Rather, go you whither you have always been wishing to go,” she said softly.
“You are wiser than I am,” he murmured, twisting a sprig of acacia between his fingers.
“No, I am simpler and more daring than you. What are you afraid of? Do you really think that I should cease to love you?”
“With you by my side I fear nothing,” he replied. “With you by my side nothing terrible can fall to my lot.”
18 The disease of Oblomovka. See later.
PART III
I
Oblomov’s face beamed as he walked home. His blood was boiling, and a light was shining in his eyes. He entered his room—and at once, the radiance disappeared as his eyes, full of disgusted astonishment, became glued to one particular spot. That particular spot was the arm-chair, wherein was snugly ensconced Tarantiev.
“Why is it I never find you here?” the visitor asked sternly. “Why are you always gadding about? That old fool Zakhar has quite got out of hand. I asked him for a morsel of food and a glass of vodka, and he refused me both!”
“I have been for a walk in the park,” replied Oblomov coldly. For the moment he had forgotten the murky atmosphere wherein he had spent so much of his life. And now, in a twinkling, Tarantiev had brought him tumbling from the clouds! His immediate, thought was that the visitor might insist on remaining to dinner, and so prevent him from paying his visit to Olga and her aunt.
“Why not come and take a look at that flat?” went on Tarantiev.
“Because there is no need,” replied Oblomov, avoiding his interlocutor’s eye. “I have decided not to move.”
“Not to move?” exclaimed Tarantiev threateningly. “Not when I have hired the place for you, and you have signed the lease?”
This led Oblomov to remember that, on the very day of his removal from town to the country villa, he had signed, without previously perusing it, a document which his present visitor had submitted to him.
“Nevertheless,” he remarked, “I shall not want the flat. I am going abroad.”
“I am sure you are not,” retorted Tarantiev coolly. “What is more, the sooner you hand over to me a half-year’s rent, the better. Your new landlady does not care for such tricks to be played upon her. I have paid the money on your behalf, and