Oblomov (72 page)

‘How happy I am!’ Stolz said to himself, and dreamed in his own way, trying to guess what their future life would be like after the first years of their marriage.

In the distance a new image smiled at him, not of a selfish Olga, nor a passionately loving wife, nor a mother-nurse fading away in the end in a colourless existence no one wanted, but of something different, exalted, almost unheard of…. He dreamed of a mother who created and took part in the social and spiritual life of a whole generation of happy people…. He wondered fearfully if she would have enough will-power – and hastily helped her to subdue life, to acquire a reserve of courage for the battle of life – now, while they were still young and strong, while life spared them or its blows did not seem heavy and while grief was submerged in love. Their days had been darkened, but not for long. Business failures, the loss of a considerable amount of money – all that hardly affected them. It meant additional work and extra journeys, but was soon forgotten. The death of her aunt caused Olga bitter and genuine tears and cast a shadow on her life for about six months. The children’s illnesses were a source of constant anxiety and lively apprehension, but as soon as the apprehension was gone, happiness returned. What worried him most was Olga’s health: it took her a long time to recover from her confinements, and although she recovered, he still continued to feel anxious. He knew of no misfortune more terrible.

‘How happy I am!’ Olga, too, kept repeating softly, looking with pleasure upon her life, sinking into meditation at such moments – especially for some time past, three or four years after her marriage.

Man is a strange creature! The more complete her happiness was, the more pensive and even apprehensive she became. She began to watch herself carefully, and found that she was upset by the peacefulness of her life, by the way it seemed to stand still during the moments of happiness. She forced herself to shake off her pensive mood and quickened the pace of life, feverishly seeking noise, movement, cares, asking her husband to take her to town, trying going into society, but not for long. The bustle of society affected her but slightly, and she hurried back to her little home to get rid of some painful, unusual impression, and once more devoted herself entirely to the small cares of her household, staying in the nursery for hours, carrying out her duties of a mother and nurse, or spent hours reading with Andrey and talking with him about ‘serious and dull’ things, or read poetry and discussed a journey to Italy. She was afraid to sink into an apathy like Oblomov’s. But however hard she tried to rid herself of those moments of periodic numbness and slumber of the soul, she was every now and then waylaid first by the dream of happiness, when she was once more surrounded by the blue night and bound in a drowsy spell, which was followed by an interval of brooding, like a rest from life, and then by – confusion, fear, longing, a sort of dull melancholy, and her restless head was filled with vague, hazy questions. Olga listened to them intently, trying in vain to find out what was wrong with her and unable to discover what her soul was seeking and demanding from time to time, and yet it was certainly seeking and longing for something and even – dreadful to say – seemed to miss something, as though a happy life were not enough, as though she had grown tired of it and were demanding some new experiences, peering farther and farther into the future.

‘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 asked.

Her heart missed a beat, as it did every time he began asking her questions that affected her closely.

‘Not yet,’ she answered with feigned cheerfulness. ‘Why?’

‘You’re not feeling ill?’ he asked again.

‘No. What makes you think so?’

‘Well, then, you must be bored!’

She pressed his shoulder tightly with both her hands.

‘No, no!’ she declared in an exaggeratedly cheerful voice, which certainly sounded rather bored.

He led her out of the avenue and turned her face to the moonlight.

‘Look at me!’ he said, gazing intently into her eyes. ‘One might think that you were – unhappy! Your eyes are so strange to-day, and not only to-day – – What is the matter with you, Olga?’

He put his arm round her waist and took her back into the avenue.

‘You know,’ she said, trying to laugh, ‘I’m famished!’

‘Don’t tell stories! I don’t like it!’ he added, with feigned severity.

‘Unhappy!’ she repeated, reproachfully, stopping him in the avenue. ‘Yes, I am unhappy because – I am too happy!’ she concluded in such a soft and tender voice that he kissed her.

She grew bolder. The assumption, though made light-heartedly and in jest, that she was unhappy, unexpectedly made her wish to speak frankly.

‘I am not bored – I couldn’t be, you know that perfectly well yourself – and I’m not ill, but – I can’t help feeling sad – sometimes. There, you insufferable man, if you must know! Yes, I feel sad, and I don’t know why!’

She put her head on his shoulder.

‘I see! But why on earth?’ he asked softly, bending over her.

‘Don’t know,’ she repeated.

‘But there must be a reason, if not in me, or in your surroundings,
then in yourself. Sometimes such sadness is merely the first symptom of an illness… are you well?’

‘Yes, perhaps it is something like that,’ she said earnestly, ‘though I don’t feel ill at all. You see how I eat, sleep, work, and go for walks. Then suddenly something comes over me – a sort of depression. I can’t help feeling that something is lacking in my life. But no, don’t listen to me! It’s all nonsense!’

‘Please go on,’ he insisted. ‘You say you feel there’s something lacking in your life – what else?’

‘Sometimes I seem to be afraid that things will change or come to an end – I don’t know myself,’ she went on. ‘Or I’m worried by the silly thought – what else is going to happen? What is happiness? What is the meaning of life?’ she said, speaking more and more softly, ashamed of these questions. ‘All these joys, sorrows, nature,’ she whispered, ‘it all seems to make me long to go somewhere, and I become dissatisfied with everything. Oh dear, I’m so ashamed of all this foolishness – this day-dreaming…. Don’t take any notice, don’t look,’ she asked in an imploring voice, snuggling up to him. ‘This melancholy fit of mine soon passes, and I feel gay and light-hearted again, as I do now!’

She pressed close to him timidly and tenderly, feeling really ashamed and as though asking forgiveness for her ‘foolishness’.

Her husband questioned her a long time and it took a long time to tell him, as a patient does a doctor, the symptoms of her sadness, to put into words all the vague questions that worried her, to describe the confusion in her mind, and then – as soon as the mirage disappeared – everything she could remember and observe.

Stolz walked along the avenue in silence, his head bowed, pondering, anxious and perplexed by his wife’s vague confession.

She peered into his eyes, but saw nothing, and when they reached the end of the avenue for the third time, she would not let him turn round, but herself now took him out into the moonlight and gazed questioningly into his eyes.

‘What are you thinking of?’ she asked shyly. ‘You’re laughing at my foolishness, aren’t you? It is very silly, this sadness of mine, isn’t it?’

He made no answer.

‘Why are you silent?’ she asked impatiently.

‘You’ve been silent for a long time, although you knew, of course, that I’ve been watching you for some time, so let me be silent and think it over. You’ve set me no easy task.’

‘Well, you’ll be thinking now and I’ll be worrying myself to death trying to guess what conclusion you’ve reached alone by yourself. I shouldn’t have told you about it!’ she added. ‘You’d better say something….’

‘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.’