Oblomov (46 page)

‘Imagine,’ he said, ‘that Sonia, who is not worth your little finger, suddenly refused to recognize you in the street.’

Olga smiled and she looked as serene as ever. Oblomov, on the other hand, was too vain to resist the temptation to obtain some sacrifice from Olga and revel in it.

‘Imagine that men did not lower their eyes with timid respect as they approached you, but looked at you with a bold and meaningful glance.’

He glanced at her: she was absorbed in pushing a pebble along the sand with her parasol.

‘You would enter a drawing-room and several bonnets would stir with indignation. One of the women would go and sit farther away from you – and your pride would be the same as ever and you would know perfectly well that you were higher and better than they – –’

‘Why are you telling me all these horrors?’ she said calmly. ‘I shall never go that way.’

‘Never?’ Oblomov asked dejectedly.

‘Never!’ she repeated.

‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘you would not have the strength to face shame. You might not be afraid of death: it is not the execution that is so terrible, but the preparations for it, the hourly tortures. You would not have been able to stand it. You would have pined away, wouldn’t you?’

He kept peering into her face to see what she felt.

She looked cheerful: the picture of horror did not upset her; a light smile was playing on her lips.

‘I don’t want to pine away or die,’ she said. ‘It’s all wrong; one can love all the more and yet not follow that road.…’

‘But why wouldn’t you follow it,’ he asked insistently, almost with vexation, ‘if you are not afraid?’

‘Because – people who follow it always end up eventually by – parting,’ she said, ‘and I – to part from you!.…’

She paused, put her hand on his shoulder, looked intently at him and, suddenly, flinging away her parasol, quickly and ardently threw her arms round his neck, kissed him, and, flushing crimson, pressed her face to his breast, adding softly:

‘Never!’

He uttered a joyful cry and sank on the grass at her feet.

PART THREE

1

O
BLOMOV
walked home feeling deliriously happy. His blood coursed exultantly in his veins and his eyes were shining. It seemed to him that even his hair was ablaze. It was thus that he entered his room – and suddenly the radiance disappeared, and his eyes became fixed with unpleasant surprise on one place: Tarantyev was sitting in his chair.

‘Why do you keep people waiting for hours?’ Tarantyev asked sternly, giving him his hirsute hand. ‘Where have you been gadding about? And that old devil of yours has got out of hand completely. I asked him for a bite to eat – there wasn’t anything; I asked for vodka, and he refused to give me any, either.’

‘I’ve been for a walk in the woods,’ Oblomov said casually, still unable to recover from the shock of Tarantyev’s visit, and at such a moment, too!

He had forgotten the gloomy surroundings in which he had lived for so many years and was no longer used to their stifling atmosphere. Tarantyev had in a twinkling brought him down, as it were, from heaven into a swamp. Oblomov kept asking himself painfully what Tarantyev had come for and how long he was going to stay. He suffered agonies at the thought that Tarantyev might stay to dinner and that he would be unable to go to the Ilyinskys’. He had to get rid of Tarantyev at any price – that was the only thing that mattered to him now. He waited gloomily and in silence for Tarantyev to speak.

‘Why don’t you go and have a look at your flat, old man?’ asked Tarantyev.

‘I don’t need it any more,’ said Oblomov. ‘I – I am not going to move there.’

‘Wha-at? Not move there?’ Tarantyev cried menacingly. ‘You’ve rented it and you’re not going to move? And what about the agreement?’

‘What agreement?’

‘You’ve forgotten, have you? You signed an agreement for a year. Come on, let us have eight hundred roubles, and then you
can go where you like. Four people were after that flat and they were all turned away. One of them would have taken it for three years.’

Oblomov only just remembered that on the very day of his moving to the country cottage Tarantyev brought him a paper which in his hurry he signed without reading. ‘Good Lord, what have I done?’ he thought.

‘But I don’t want the flat,’ said Oblomov. ‘I’m going abroad.’

‘Abroad!’ Tarantyev interrupted. ‘With that German? You’ll never do it, old man…. You’ll never go!’

‘Why not? I’ve already got my passport. I can show you if you like. Bought a trunk too.’

‘You won’t go!’ Tarantyev repeated indifferently. ‘You’d better let me have the rent for six months in advance.’

‘I have no money.’

‘You can get it, can’t you? Ivan Matveyevich, the landlady’s brother, will stand no nonsense. He’ll take out a summons at once: you won’t be able to wriggle out of it then. Besides, I’ve paid him with my own money, so you’d better pay me.’

‘Where did you get so much money?’ asked Oblomov.

‘It’s none of your business. I’ve been repaid an old debt. Come on, let’s have the money. That’s what I’ve come for.’

‘All right. I’ll call one day this week and get a new tenant for the flat. I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry now.’

He began buttoning his coat.

‘And what sort of a flat do you want?’ Tarantyev said. ‘You won’t find a better. You haven’t seen it, have you?’

‘I don’t want to see it,’ replied Oblomov. ‘What do I want to move there for? It’s too far – –’

‘From what?’ Tarantyev interrupted rudely.

But Oblomov did not say what it was far from.

‘From the centre,’ he added later.

‘What centre? What do you want it for? To lie about?’

‘No, I don’t lie about any more.’

‘Oh?’

‘I don’t. To-day – er – I – –’

‘What?’ Tarantyev interrupted.

‘I am not dining at home.’

‘Give me the money and then you can go to the devil!’

‘What money?’ Oblomov repeated impatiently. ‘I’ll call at the flat soon and talk it over with the landlady.’

‘What landlady? What does she know? She’s a woman! No, sir. You talk to her brother – then you’ll see!’

‘All right, I’ll call and talk to him.’

‘Will you? I don’t think! Give me the money and go where you like.’

‘I haven’t any money. I shall have to borrow.’

‘Well, in that case you’d better pay for my cab fare,’ Tarantyev persisted. ‘Three roubles.’

‘Where is your cabby? And why so much as three roubles?’

‘I’ve dismissed him. Why so much? Because he didn’t want to bring me here. Not over the sand, he said. And there’ll be another three roubles back!’

‘You can go by bus from here for half a rouble,’ said Oblomov. ‘Here you are.’

He gave him four roubles. Tarantyev put them in his pocket, and then asked:

‘What about dinner money?’

‘What dinner?’

‘I shall be late for dinner in town and I shall have to call at a pub on the way. Everything’s terribly expensive here: they’re sure to charge me five roubles at least!’

Oblomov took out another rouble and threw it to Tarantyev in silence. He did not sit down because he was anxious that his visitor should go as soon as possible; but Tarantyev did not go.

‘Tell them to give me something to eat,’ he said.

‘But aren’t you going to have your dinner at a pub?’ Oblomov observed.

‘Dinner – yes! But it’s only just gone one.’

Oblomov told Zakhar to give him something to eat.

‘There’s nothing in the house, sir,’ Zakhar said dryly, looking sullenly at Tarantyev. ‘Nothing has been prepared. And when, sir,’ he addressed Tarantyev, ‘are you going to return the master’s shirt and waistcoat?’

‘What shirt and waistcoat?’ Tarantyev asked. ‘I returned them long ago.’

‘When was that?’ asked Zakhar.

‘Why, my good man, I handed the things to you when you were moving, didn’t I? You shoved them into some bundle, and now you ask for them.’

Zakhar was dumbfounded.

‘Good Lord, sir,’ he cried, addressing Oblomov, ‘that’s a scandal, that is!’

‘Go on, tell me another,’ Tarantyev replied. ‘I suppose you sold them for drink and now you ask me for them.’

‘No, sir, I have never in my life sold my master’s things for drink,’ Zakhar wheezed. ‘Now you, sir – –’

‘Stop it, Zakhar!’ Oblomov interrupted him sternly.

‘Didn’t you take our broom and two of our cups?’ Zakhar asked again.

‘What broom?’ Tarantyev thundered. ‘Oh, you old rascal! Come on, you’d better give me a bite of something!’

‘Do you hear how he swears at me, sir?’ said Zakhar. ‘There is no food in the house – not even any bread, and Anisya has gone out,’ he declared firmly and went out of the room.

‘Where do you have dinner?’ asked Tarantyev. ‘I must say it’s funny all right – Oblomov goes for walks in the wood, doesn’t dine at home – – When are you going to move to your flat? It’ll be autumn soon. Come and have a look at it.’

‘All right, all right. I will soon….’

‘And don’t forget to bring the money!’

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Oblomov said impatiently.

‘Well, do you want anything doing to your flat? They’ve stained the floors and painted the ceilings, doors, and windows – everything. It has cost more than a hundred roubles, old man.’

‘Yes, yes, all right…. Oh,’ Oblomov suddenly remembered, ‘there’s one thing I was going to tell you. Could you, please, go to the courts for me – I have a deed of trust that has to be witnessed….’

‘I am not your solicitor, am I?’ Tarantyev said.

‘I’ll give you more for your dinner,’ said Oblomov.

‘The wear and tear of my boots will cost me more than you will give me.’

‘Take a cab, I’ll pay.’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t go to the courts,’ Tarantyev said gloomily.

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘I have enemies who bear me malice and are doing their best to ruin me.’

‘Oh, very well, I’ll go myself,’ said Oblomov, picking up his cap.

‘You see, when you move to the flat Ivan Matveyevich will do everything for you. He’s a fine fellow, I tell you, not at all like some German upstart! A real, hundred-per-cent Russian official, has sat for thirty years on the same chair, runs his office, has money too, but never takes a cab. His coat is no better than mine; would never hurt a fly, speaks in a very low voice, never goes roaming abroad like your – –’

‘Tarantyev,’ Oblomov shouted, banging his fist on the table, ‘don’t talk of something you don’t understand!’

Tarantyev opened his eyes wide at such unheard-of impudence on Oblomov’s part and even forgot to be offended at being put below Stolz.

‘So that’s what you are like now, old man,’ he muttered, taking up his hat. ‘What energy!’

He stroked his hat with his sleeve, then looked at it and at Oblomov’s hat that lay on the bookstand.

‘You don’t wear your hat,’ he said, taking Oblomov’s hat and trying it on. ‘I see you have a cap. Lend it to me for the summer, old man.’

Oblomov, without uttering a word, removed his hat from Tarantyev’s head and put it back on the bookcase. He then crossed his arms on his chest and waited for Tarantyev to go.

‘Oh, to hell with you!’ said Tarantyev, pushing his way clumsily through the door. ‘You’re a little – er – queer, old man. Wait till you’ve had a talk with Ivan Matveyevich, and see what happens if you don’t bring the money.’

2

H
E
went away, and Oblomov sat down in the arm-chair, feeling thoroughly upset. He could not shake off the unpleasant impression left by Tarantyev’s visit for a long time. At last he remembered his plans for the morning, and the hideous appearance of Tarantyev faded from his mind; a smile came back to his face. He stood before the looking-glass for some time, straightening his tie, smiling and looking to see if there was any trace of Olga’s ardent kiss on his cheek.

‘Two
nevers
,’ he said softly, with joyful excitement, ‘and what a difference between them! One has already faded and the other has blossomed out so gorgeously.’

Then he sank deeper and deeper into thought. He felt that the bright and cloudless festival of love had gone, that love was truly becoming a duty, that it was becoming intermingled with his whole life, forming an integral part of its ordinary functions and beginning to lose its rainbow colours. That morning, perhaps, he had caught sight of its last roseate ray, and in future it would no longer shine brightly, but warm his life invisibly; life would swallow it up, and it would be its powerful but hidden
mainspring. And henceforth its manifestations would be so simple, so ordinary. The poetic period was over and stern reality was beginning: the courts, journey to Oblomovka, building the house, mortgaging the estate, constructing the road, never-ending business troubles with the peasants, getting the work on the estate organized – harvesting, threshing, casting up accounts, the agent’s worried face, the noblemen’s elections, court sessions…. Only occasionally, at long intervals, would Olga’s eyes shine upon him, the strains of
Casta diva
reach him, and after snatching a hasty kiss, he would have to hurry off to the fields, to the town, and then again to the agent and the click of the abacus. The arrival of visitors would bring little comfort to him: they would talk about how much spirit they had distilled, how many yards of cloth they had delivered to the Government…. Oh dear, that wasn’t what he had promised himself, was it? Was that life? And yet people lived as though this was all that life meant. Andrey, too, liked it!

But marriage – the wedding, why, that was, anyway, the poetry of life, that was a fully opened-up flower. He imagined how he would lead Olga to the altar: she would be wearing orange blossom on her head and a long veil. There would be whispers of wonderment in the crowd. She would give him her hand shyly, her bosom heaving gently, her head bowed with her usual graceful pride, and would not know how to look at the crowd. Now a smile would light up her face, now tears would appear in her eyes, or the crease over her eyebrow would stir thoughtfully. At home, after the guests had gone, she would throw herself on his chest, as she had to-day, still wearing her gorgeous wedding-dress….