Oblomov (68 page)

‘You shouldn’t take so much trouble, really you shouldn’t,’ Oblomov said. ‘Give it a rest!’

‘Who’s going to take trouble, if not I?’ she said. ‘As soon as I’ve put two patches here, I’ll get the fish soup ready. What a naughty boy Vanya is, to be sure! Only last week I mended his coat, and now he’s torn it again! What are you laughing at?’ she turned to Vanya, who was sitting at the table in his shirt and
trousers held up by one brace. ‘If I don’t mend it before morning, you will not be able to run out of the gate. I expect the boys must have torn it. You’ve been fighting, haven’t you?’

‘No, Mummie, it got torn by itself,’ said Vanya.

‘By itself, did it? You ought to be sitting at home and doing your homework and not running about in the streets. Next time Mr Oblomov says that you’re not doing your French lessons properly, I’ll take your shoes off as well: you’ll have to do your homework then!’

‘I don’t like French.’

‘Why not?’ asked Oblomov.

‘Oh, they’ve a lot of bad words in French.’

Agafya Matveyevna flushed. Oblomov burst out laughing. It was not the first time that the subject of ‘bad words’ had been raised.

‘Be quiet, you naughty boy,’ she said. ‘Wipe your nose, can’t you?’

Vanya sniffed, but did not wipe his nose.

‘Wait till I get the money from the country – I’ll have two coats made for him,’ Oblomov interjected. ‘A blue tunic and a school uniform next year: he’ll be going to a secondary school next year.’

‘Oh,’ said Agafya Matveyevna, ‘his old one will do very well yet. I shall need the money for housekeeping. We’ll have to lay in a supply of salt beef and I’ll make some jam for you. I must go and see if Anisya has brought the sour cream.’

She got up.

‘What are we having for dinner to-day?’ asked Oblomov.

‘Fish soup, roast mutton, and curd dumplings.’

Oblomov said nothing.

Suddenly a carriage drew up, there was a knock at the gate followed by the barking and jumping of the dog. Oblomov went back to his room thinking someone had come to see the landlady: the butcher, the greengrocer, or some such person. Such a visit was usually accompanied by requests for money, a refusal by the landlady, threats by the shopkeepers, followed by entreaties and abuse, slamming of doors, banging of gates, and the desperate barking and jumping of the dog – an unpleasant scene altogether. But this time a carriage had driven up – what could it mean? Butchers and greengrocers did not drive about in carriages.

Suddenly the landlady rushed into his room in a panic.

‘A visitor for you!’ she said.

‘Who? Tarantyev or Alexeyev?’

‘No, no, the gentleman who came to dinner on your name-day.’

‘Stolz?’ Oblomov cried in alarm, looking round for a way of escape. ‘What will he say when he sees…. Tell him I’m not at home!’ he added hurriedly, retreating to the landlady’s room.

Anisya was just about to open the door for the visitor. Agafya Matveyevna had time to give her Oblomov’s order. Stolz believed her, though he could not help expressing his surprise at Oblomov’s not being in.

‘Very well, tell your master that I’ll be here in two hours and have dinner with him,’ he said, and went to the public park in the vicinity.

‘He’ll come to dinner!’ Anisya cried in alarm.

‘He’ll come to dinner!’ Agafya Matveyevna repeated to Oblomov in a panic.

‘You’ll have to prepare another dinner,’ Oblomov decided after a pause.

She gave him a look full of terror. All she had left was fifty copecks, and it was still ten days to the first of the month, when her brother gave her the money. She could get no more credit.

‘We shan’t have time,’ she observed timidly. ‘He’ll have to be satisfied with what we have.’

‘But he won’t eat it. He hates fish soup, he doesn’t even eat sturgeon soup. He never touches mutton, either.’

‘I could get some tongue from the sausage shop,’ she said as though with sudden inspiration. ‘It’s not far from here.’

‘That’s all right, do that. And get some vegetables, fresh kidney beans….!’

‘Kidney beans are eighty copecks a pound,’ she was about to say, but didn’t.

‘Very well, I will,’ she said, making up her mind definitely to get cabbage instead of the beans.

‘Get a pound of Swiss cheese,’ he commanded, having no idea of Agafya Matveyevna’s means. ‘And nothing more. I’ll apologize and say we had not expected him…. Oh yes, could you perhaps get some nice clear soup, too?’

She was about to leave the room.

‘And the wine?’ he suddenly remembered.

She answered with a new look of horror.

‘You must send out for some Lafitte,’ he concluded coolly.

6

S
TOLZ
arrived two hours later.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked.’ How changed you are! You look pale and bloated! Are you well?’

‘No, Andrey, not at all well,’ Oblomov said embracing him. ‘My left leg keeps going dead.’

‘Your room is in such an awful mess!’ Stolz said, looking round. ‘Why don’t you throw away this dressing-gown of yours? Look at it! It’s all in patches.’

‘Habit, Andrey. I’d be sorry to part from it.’

‘And the blankets, the curtains!’ Stolz began. ‘Is that also habit? Sorry to change these rags? Good Lord, man, can you really sleep in this bed? What
is
the matter with you?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Oblomov said, looking embarrassed. ‘As you know, I never was very particular about my rooms…. Come, let’s have dinner. Hey, Zakhar! Lay the table quick. Well, how are you? Are you staying here long? Where have you come from?’

‘Guess what I’m doing and where I’ve come from?’ Stolz asked. ‘Why, I don’t suppose you get any news from the outside world here, do you?’

Oblomov looked at him with interest, waiting to hear what he had to say.

‘How is Olga?’ he asked.

‘Oh, so you haven’t forgotten her, have you?’ said Stolz. ‘I did not think you would remember.’

‘No, Andrey, I couldn’t forget her, could I? That would have meant forgetting that I had been alive once, that I had been in paradise…. And now here I am!’ he sighed. ‘But where is she?’

‘She’s looking after her estate.’

‘With her aunt?’ asked Oblomov.

‘And with her husband.’

‘Is she married?’ Oblomov cried, staring at Stolz.

‘Why are you so alarmed? Memories?’ Stolz added softly, almost tenderly.

‘Good heavens, no!’ Oblomov cried, coming to himself. ‘I wasn’t alarmed, but surprised. I don’t know why it startled me. How long has she been married? Is she happy? Tell me, please. I feel as though you had lifted a load off my mind. Though you assured me that she had forgiven me, I – well, you know, I felt
uneasy! Something kept gnawing at me…. Dear Andrey, how grateful I am to you!’

He was so genuinely pleased, he was so jumping about on the sofa, unable to keep still, that Stolz could not help admiring him and was even touched.

‘What a good chap you are, Ilya,’ he said. ‘Your heart was worthy of her. I shall tell her everything.’

‘No, no, don’t tell her!’ Oblomov interrupted. ‘She’ll think me unfeeling if she hears that I was glad to learn of her marriage.’

‘But isn’t gladness also a feeling, and an unselfish one too? You’re only glad that she is happy.’

‘That’s true, that’s true!’ Oblomov interrupted. ‘I don’t know what I’m talking about. But who – who is the lucky man? I forgot to ask.’

‘Who?’ Stolz repeated. ‘How slow you are, Ilya!’

Oblomov suddenly looked motionless at his friend: for a moment his face went rigid and the colour left his cheeks.

‘It – it isn’t you, is it?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Frightened again? What of?’ Stolz said, laughing.

‘Don’t joke, Andrey, tell me the truth!’ Oblomov cried agitatedly.

‘Of course, I’m not joking. I’ve been married to Olga for over a year.’

Gradually the look of alarm disappeared from Oblomov’s face, giving place to an expression of peaceful thoughtfulness; he did not raise his eyes, but his thoughtfulness was a minute later changed to a deep and quiet joy, and when he slowly looked up at Stolz, his eyes were full of tender emotion and tears.

‘Dear Andrey!’ said Oblomov, embracing his friend. ‘Dear Olga – Sergeyevna,’ he added, restraining his enthusiasm. ‘God himself has blessed you! Oh dear, I’m so happy! Tell her – –’

‘I’ll tell her that I know of no other Oblomov!’ Stolz interrupted him, deeply moved.

‘No, tell her, remind her that we were brought together only for the sake of putting her on the right path and that I bless our meeting and bless her on her new path in life! What if it had been someone else?’ he added in terror. ‘But now,’ he concluded gaily, ‘I do not blush for the part I played, and I am not sorry for it. A heavy load has lifted from my soul; it’s all clear there and I am happy. Dear Lord, I thank you!’

He again almost jumped about on the sofa with excitement: one moment he laughed and another he cried.

‘Zakhar, champagne for dinner!’ he cried, forgetting that he had not a farthing.

‘I’ll tell Olga everything, everything,’ said Stolz. ‘I understand now why she can’t forget you. No, you were worthy of her: your heart is a well – deep!’

Zakhar thrust his head round the door.

‘Please, sir, one moment!’ he said, winking at his master.

‘What do you want?’ Oblomov asked impatiently. ‘Go away!’

‘I want some money, please!’ Zakhar whispered.

Oblomov suddenly fell silent.

‘Never mind,’ he whispered into the door. ‘Say you’d forgotten or that you hadn’t time! Go now! No, come back!’ he said aloud. ‘Have you heard the news, Zakhar? Congratulate Mr Stolz: he is married.’

‘Are you really, sir? I am glad, sir, to have lived to hear such joyful news. Accept my congratulations, Mr Stolz, sir! May you live happily for many years and have children in plenty. Dear me, this is great news indeed, sir!’

Zakhar bowed, smiled, grunted, and wheezed. Stolz took out a note and gave it him.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘take it and buy yourself a coat; you look like a beggar.’

‘Whom have you married, sir?’ asked Zakhar, trying to catch Stolz’s hand to kiss.

‘Olga Sergeyevna – remember?’ said Oblomov.

‘The llyinsky young lady! Lord, what a nice young lady she is, sir! You were right to scold me that time, sir, old dog that I am! It was all my stupid fault, sir: I thought it was you. It was I who told the Ilyinsky servants about it, and not Nikita! Aye, that was slander, that was! Oh, dear me, dear me – –’ he kept repeating, as he went out of the room.

‘Olga invites you to stay at her house in the country. Your love has cooled down, so there is no danger: you won’t be jealous. Let’s go.’

Oblomov sighed. ‘No, Andrey,’ he said; ‘it isn’t love or jealousy I’m afraid of, but I won’t go with you all the same.’

‘What are you afraid of then?’

‘I’m afraid of envying you: your happiness will be like a mirror in which I shall see my bitter and wasted life; for, you see, I won’t live differently any more – I can’t.’

‘My dear Ilya, how can you talk like this? You’ll have to live the same sort of life as those around you, whether you want to
or not. You’ll keep accounts, look after your estate, read, listen to music. You can’t imagine how much her voice has improved! Remember
Casta diva?
’

Oblomov waved his hand to stop Stolz reminding him of it.

‘Let’s go, then!’ Stolz insisted. ‘It’s her wish. She won’t leave you alone. I may get tired of asking you, but not she. There is so much energy in her, so much vitality that quite often I find it hard to keep up with her myself. The past will again begin to stir in your soul. You will recall the park, the lilac, and you’ll rouse yourself….’

‘No, Andrey, no; don’t remind me of it, don’t try to rouse me, for God’s sake,’ Oblomov interrupted him earnestly. ‘It doesn’t comfort me, it hurts me. Memories are either the finest poetry when they are memories of actual happiness or a burning pain when they are associated with wounds that have scarcely healed. Let’s talk of something else. Oh, yes, I forgot to thank you for all the trouble you are taking about my affairs and my estate. My friend, I cannot, I don’t feel equal to it; you must look for my gratitude in your own heart, in your happiness – in Olga…. Sergeyevna, but I – I – cannot! I’m sorry I am giving you all this trouble. But it will soon be spring and I will most certainly go to Oblomovka….’

‘But have you any idea what is happening in Oblomovka?’ said Stolz. ‘You won’t recognize it! I haven’t written to you because you don’t answer letters. The bridge is built, and the house is finished, roof and all. But you must see about the interior decorations according to your own taste – I can’t undertake that. The new manager is one of my own men and he is looking after everything. You’ve seen the accounts, haven’t you?’

Oblomov made no answer.

‘Haven’t you read them?’ Stolz asked. ‘Where are they?’

‘Wait, I’ll find them after dinner. I must ask Zakhar.’

‘Oh, Ilya, Ilya! I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry.’

‘We’ll find them after dinner. Let’s have dinner!’

Stolz frowned as he sat down to the table. He remembered Oblomov’s name-day party: the oysters, the pineapples, the double-snipe; now he saw a coarse table-cloth, cruet-bottles stopped with bits of paper instead of corks, forks with broken handles, two large pieces of black bread on their plates. Oblomov had fish soup and he had barley broth and boiled chicken, followed by tough tongue and mutton. Red wine was served.
Stolz poured himself out half a glass, had a sip, put the glass back on the table, and did not touch it again. Oblomov drank two glasses of currant vodka, one after the other, and greedily attacked the mutton.

‘The wine is no good at all,’ said Stolz.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Oblomov. ‘I’m afraid they were too busy to go over to the other side of the river for it. Won’t you have some currant vodka? It’s nice. Try it, Andrey.’

He poured himself out another glass and drank it. Stolz looked at him in surprise, but let it pass.

‘Agafya Matveyevna makes it herself. She’s a nice woman,’ said Oblomov, slightly drunk. ‘I must say I don’t know how I shall be able to live in the country without her: you won’t find such a housekeeper anywhere.’