Oblomov (61 page)

‘How deftly you move your needle past your nose, Agafya Matveyevna,’ said Oblomov. ‘You pick up the thread so quickly from underneath that I’m really afraid you might stitch your nose to your skirt.’

She smiled. ‘Let me first finish stitching this seam,’ she said, almost as though she were speaking to herself, ‘and then we’ll have supper.’

‘And what is there for supper?’

‘
Sauerkraut
and salmon,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any sturgeon to be had anywhere. I’ve been to all the shops, and my
brother asked for it, but there isn’t any. Of course, if a live sturgeon is caught – a merchant from the Coaching Arcade had ordered one – I am promised a piece of it. Then there is veal and fried buckwheat-meal.’

‘That’s excellent! How nice of you to have remembered! I only hope Anisya won’t forget.’

‘And what am I here for? Can you hear it sizzling?’ she replied, opening the kitchen door a little. ‘It’s being fried already!’

She finished sewing, bit off the thread, folded her work, and carried it to her bedroom.

And thus he drew nearer to her as to a warm fire, and once he drew very near, so that there was nearly a conflagration or, at any rate, a sudden blaze.

He was pacing his room and, turning to the landlady’s door, he saw that her elbows were quite amazingly active.

‘Always busy!’ he said, going in to her. ‘What is this?’

‘I’m grinding cinnamon,’ she replied, gazing into the mortar as though it were an abyss and clattering away mercilessly with the pestle.

‘And what if I won’t let you?’ he asked, taking hold of her elbows and preventing her from pounding.

‘Please, let me go! I must pound some sugar and pour out some wine for the pudding.’

He was still holding her by the elbows, and his face was close to the nape of her neck.

‘Tell me what if I – fell in love with you?’

She smiled.

‘Would you love me?’ he asked again.

‘Why not? God commanded us to love everyone.’

‘And what if I kissed you?’ he whispered, bending down so that his breath burnt her cheek.

‘It isn’t Easter week,’ she said with a smile.

‘Kiss me, please!’

‘If, God willing, we live till Easter, we’ll kiss each other then,’ she said, without being surprised, alarmed, or embarrassed, but standing straight and still like a horse when its collar is put on.

He kissed her lightly on the neck.

‘Please be careful, or I’ll spill the cinnamon and there won’t be any left for the pastry,’ she observed.

‘No matter,’ he replied.

‘Have you got another stain on your dressing-gown?’ she asked solicitously, taking hold of the skirt of the dressing-gown.

‘I believe it’s oil.’ She sniffed the stain. ‘Where did you get it? It didn’t drip from the icon lamp, did it?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know where I can have acquired it.’

‘You must have caught it in the door,’ Agafya Matveyevna suddenly guessed. ‘The hinges were greased yesterday – they all creaked. Take it off and let me have it at once, I’ll take it out and wash the place: there will be nothing showing to-morrow.’

‘Kind Agafya Matveyevna,’ said Oblomov, lazily throwing the dressing-gown off his shoulders. ‘Do you know what? Let’s go and live in the country: that’s the place for housekeeping! You’ve got everything there: mushrooms, fruit, jam, the poultry yard, the dairy – –’

‘But why go there?’ she concluded with a sigh. ‘I’ve been born here, I’ve lived here all my life, and here I ought to die.’

He gazed at her with mild excitement, but his eyes did not shine or fill with tears, his spirit did not long for the heights or aspire to perform deeds of heroism. All he wanted was to sit on the sofa without taking his eyes off her elbows.

2

S
T
J
OHN’S
D
AY
was a great festive occasion. Ivan Matveyevich did not go to the office on the day before, he rushed about the town, each time bringing home a bag or a basket. Agafya Matveyevna had lived solely on coffee for three days, and only Oblomov had had a three-course dinner, the rest of the household living on anything that was available at any given hour of the day. On the eve of the great day Anisya did not go to bed at all. Zakhar alone slept enough for the two of them, regarding all these preparations almost with contempt.

‘In Oblomovka,’ he said to the two chefs who had been invited from the count’s kitchen, ‘we had such dinners cooked every holiday. There were five different kinds of sweet and more sauces than you could count! And they would be eating all day and the next day, too, and we would eat the left-overs for five days. And just as we would finish, new visitors would arrive, and the whole thing started all over again – and here it’s only once a year!’

At dinner he served Oblomov first and refused point-blank to serve some gentleman with a large cross round his neck.

‘Our master is a gentleman born and bred,’ he said proudly, ‘and these guests are a common lot!’

Tarantyev, who sat at the end of the table, he would not serve at all, or just threw as much food on the plate as he fancied! All Ivan Matveyevich’s colleagues, about thirty of them, were present. An enormous trout, stuffed chickens, quail, ice-cream, and excellent wine – it was a feast worthy of the great annual occasion. At the end of it the guests embraced each other, praised up to the skies their host’s good taste, and then sat down to play cards. Ivan Matveyevich bowed and thanked them, declaring that for the great pleasure of giving a dinner to his dear guests he had not been sorry to sacrifice a third of his yearly salary. The guests left towards morning, some in carriages and some on foot, but all hardly capable of standing up straight, and everything in the house grew quiet again until St Elijah’s Day, Oblomov’s name-day.

On that day the only people Oblomov had invited to his name-day dinner were Ivan Gerasimovich and Alexeyev, the silent and mild-mannered man who had, at the beginning of this story, invited Oblomov to accompany him to the First of May festival. Oblomov was determined not to be outshone by Ivan Matveyevich, and he did his best to impress his guests by the delicacy and daintiness of the dishes unknown in that part of the town. Instead of a rich pie there were pasties stuffed with air; oysters were served before soup; there were chickens in curling-papers stuffed with truffles, choice cuts of meat, the finest vegetables, English soup. In the middle of the table there was an enormous pineapple, surrounded by peaches, apricots, and cherries. There were flowers in vases on the table.

No sooner had they started on the soup and Tarantyev had cursed the pasties and the cook for the stupid notion of having no stuffing in them, than the dog began jumping on the chain and barking desperately. A carriage drove into the yard and somone asked for Oblomov. They all gaped in astonishment.

‘Someone of my last year’s friends must have remembered my name-day,’ said Oblomov. ‘Tell them I am not at home – not at home!’ he said in a loud whisper to Zakhar.

They were having dinner in the summer-house in the garden. Zakhar rushed off to carry out his master’s order and ran into Stolz on the path.

‘Andrey Ivanych,’ he wheezed joyfully.

‘Andrey!’ Oblomov addressed him in a loud voice and ran to embrace him.

‘I’m just in time for dinner, I see,’ said Stolz. ‘May I join you? I’m famished. It took me hours to find you.’

‘Come along, come along, sit down!’ Oblomov said fussily, making him sit down next to him.

At Stolz’s appearance, Tarantyev was the first to jump quickly over the fence into the kitchen garden; he was followed by Ivan Matveyevich, who hid behind the summer-house and then disappeared into his attic. The landlady also got up from her seat.

‘I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you,’ said Stolz, jumping up.

‘Where are you off to? What for?’ Oblomov shouted. ‘Ivan Matveyevich! Mikhey Andreyich!’

He made the landlady sit down again, but he could not recall the landlady’s brother or Tarantyev.

‘Where have you sprung from? Are you staying here long?’ Oblomov began firing questions at him.

Stolz had come for a fortnight on business and was then going to the country, to Kiev and all sorts of other places. He spoke little at table, but ate a lot; he evidently was really hungry. The others, it goes without saying, ate in silence. After dinner, when everything had been cleared away, Oblomov asked for champagne and soda-water to be left in the summer-house and remained alone with Stolz. They did not speak for a time. Stolz looked at Oblomov long and intently.

‘Well, Ilya?’ he said at last, but in so stern and questioning a voice that Oblomov dropped his eyes and made no answer.

‘So that it’s “never”?’

‘What is “never”?’ asked Oblomov, as though he did not understand.

‘Have you forgotten? “Now or never!”’

‘I’m not the same now – as I was then, Andrey,’ he said at last. ‘My affairs are in order, thank Heaven. I am not lying about idly, my plan is almost finished, I subscribe to the journals, I’ve read almost all the books you left….’

‘But why didn’t you go abroad?’ asked Stolz.

‘I was prevented from going abroad by – –’ he stopped short.

‘Olga?’ said Stolz, looking significantly at him.

Oblomov flushed.

‘What? Have you heard? Where is she now?’ he asked quickly, glancing at Stolz.

Stolz went on looking at him without replying, and he seemed to look deep into his soul.

‘I heard she’d gone abroad with her aunt,’ said Oblomov, ‘soon after – –’

‘– she had realized her mistake,’ Stolz finished the sentence for him.

‘Why, do you know?’ Oblomov said, overcome with confusion.

‘Everything,’ said Stolz, ‘even about the spray of lilac. And aren’t you ashamed, Ilya? Don’t you feel sorry? Aren’t you consumed with remorse and regret?’

‘Don’t speak of it – don’t remind me of it!’ Oblomov interrupted him hurriedly. ‘I fell dangerously ill when I saw what a gulf lay between her and me, when I realized that I was not worthy of her…. Oh, Andrey, if you love me, don’t torture me, don’t remind me of her. I pointed out her mistake to her long ago, but she refused to believe me – you see, I really am not very much to blame.’

‘I am not blaming you, Ilya,’ Stolz went on in a gentle and friendly tone of voice. ‘I have read your letter. I am to blame most of all, then she, and you least of all.’

‘How is she now?’ Oblomov asked timidly.

‘She? Why, she is overcome with grief, sheds floods of tears, and curses you.…’

Alarm, sympathy, horror, remorse appeared on Oblomov’s face with every word Stolz uttered.

‘What are you saying, Andrey?’ he said, getting up from his seat. ‘Let us go to her at once, for God’s sake! I’ll go down on my knees and beg her to forgive me….’

‘Sit still!’ Stolz interrupted, laughing. ‘She’s in high spirits. Why, I believe she’s really happy! She asked me to give you her regards. She wanted to write to you, but I advised her not to. I told her it might upset you.’

‘Well, thank God,’ Oblomov said, almost with tears. ‘I’m so glad, Andrey! Let me embrace you and let’s drink her health.’

They each drank a glass of champagne.

‘But where is she now?’

‘In Switzerland. In the autumn she and her aunt will go to her estate. That’s why I am here now: I must get it all settled in the courts. The baron did not finish the business: he took it into his head to propose to Olga.’

‘Did he? So it’s true, is it?’ said Oblomov. ‘Well, and what did she do?’

‘She refused him, naturally. He was hurt and left, and now I have to finish the business! It will be all settled next week. Well, and what about you? Why have you buried yourself in this God-forsaken hole?’

‘It’s peaceful here, Andrey. So quiet, no one interferes with you – –’

‘In what?’

‘In my work.…’

‘Why, this is Oblomovka all over again, only much worse,’ said Stolz, looking round. ‘Let’s go to the country, Ilya.’

‘To the country – well, why not? They’ll be soon beginning to build my new house there. Only don’t rush me, Andrey. Let me think it over first.’

‘Again think it over! I know the way you think things over: just as you thought it over about going abroad two years ago. Let’s go next week.’

‘Next week? Why so suddenly?’ Oblomov defended himself. ‘You’re ready for the journey, but I have to make ready. All my things are here. I can’t leave them all, can I? I have nothing for the journey.’

‘But you want nothing. What do you want? Tell me!’

Oblomov made no answer.

‘I’m not feeling too well, Andrey,’ he said. ‘I am short of breath, I’ve been having styes again, first on one eye and then on the other, and my legs, too, are beginning to swell. And sometimes when I am fast asleep at night someone seems to strike me suddenly on the head or across the back, so that I jump up….’

‘Listen, Ilya, I tell you seriously, you must change your way of life if you don’t want to get dropsy or have a stroke. You can have no more hopes for a better future: if an angel like Olga could not carry you on her wings out of the bog in which you are stuck, I can do nothing. But to choose a small field of activity, put your small estate in order, settle the affairs of your peasants, build, plant – all this you can and must do…. I won’t leave you alone. Now it is not only your wishes I am carrying out, but also Olga’s will: she is anxious – do you hear? – that you should not die altogether, that you should not bury yourself alive, and I promised her to dig you out of your grave.’

‘She has not forgotten me yet!’ Oblomov cried with emotion. ‘Do I deserve it?’

‘No, she hasn’t forgotten you and, if you ask me, she never will: she is not that kind of a woman. She expects you to pay her a visit on her estate.’

‘Not now, for goodness’ sake, not now, Andrey! Let me forget. Oh, here there’s still – –’

He pointed to his heart.

‘What is there still? Not love, surely?’ Stolz asked.

‘No, shame and grief!’ Oblomov replied with a sigh.

‘All right, in that case let’s go to your estate. You must get on with your building now. It’s summer and precious time is being wasted.’