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 I require to be repaid.”
“Where did you contrive to get the money from?”
“That has nothing to do with you. As a matter of fact, I had an old debt
repaid me.”
“A better flat you could not find in all the city.”
“Nevertheless I do not want it. It lies too far from--from----”
“From where? From the centre of the city?”
Oblomov forbore to specify what he meant, but merely remarked that he
should not be dining at home that evening.
“Then hand me over the rent, and the devil take you!” exclaimed
Tarantiev.
“I possess no money at all. As it is, I shall have to borrow some.”
“Well, repay me at least my cab fare,” insisted the visitor. “It was
only three roubles.”
“Where is the cabman? Why has he charged you so much?”
“I dismissed him long ago. I may add that the fare home is another three
roubles.”
“By the coach you could travel for half a rouble.” However, Oblomov
tendered Tarantiev four roubles, which the man at once pocketed.
“Also, I have expended some seven roubles on your account,” went on
Tarantiev. “Besides, you might as well advance me something towards the
price of a dinner. Roadside inns are dear. As a rule they fleece one of
five roubles.”
Silently Oblomov handed him another rouble, in the hope that the man
would now depart; but Tarantiev was not to be so easily shaken off.
“And also you might order Zakhar to bring me a snack _now_,” he said.
“But I thought you intended to dine at an inn?”
“Yes, to _dine_, but at the moment the time is two o’clock, and no
more.”
Oblomov issued the necessary orders. On receiving them, Zakhar looked
darkly at Tarantiev.
“We have no food ready,” he said’. “Also, where are my master’s shirt
and jacket?”
“Shirt and jacket? Why, I gave them back to you long ago. I stuffed them
into your own hands, and you bundled them away into a corner. Yet you
come asking me where they are!”
“Also, what about a floorbrush and two cups which you carried off?”
persisted Zakhar.
“Floorbrush? What floorbrush?” retorted Tarantiev. “Go and get me
something to eat, you old fool!”
“We have not a single morsel in the house,” said Zakhar; “and also there
is nobody to cook it.” With which he withdrew.
‘Tarantiev looked about him, and, perceiving Oblomov to be possessed
both of a hat and a cap, attempted unsuccessfully to borrow the former
for the remainder of the summer, and then took his leave.
When he had gone Oblomov sat plunged in thought. He recognized that his
bright, cloudless holiday of love was over, and that workaday love had
now become the order of the day, and that already it was so completely
entering into his life’s ordinary tendencies that things were beginning
to lose their rainbow colours.
“Indeed,” he reflected, “this morning may have seen the extinction of
the last roseate ray of love’s festival--so that henceforth my life
is to be warmed rather than lighted. Yes, life will swallow up love,
although secretly it will remain moved by its powerful springs, and its
manifestations be of an invariably simple, everyday nature. Yes, the
poem is fading, and stem prose is to follow--to follow with a drab
series of incidents which shall comprise a marriage ceremony, a journey
to Oblomovka, the building of a house, an application to the local
council, the laying out of roads, an endless transaction of business
with peasants, a number of improvements, harvests, and so forth, the
frequent spectacle of the bailiff’s anxious face, elections to the
council of nobles, and sundry sittings on the local bench.” Somewhere
he could see Olga beaming upon him, and singing _Casta Diva_, and then
giving him a hasty kiss before he went forth to work, or to the town,
or to interview the bailiff. Guests would call (a no very comforting
prospect!), and they would talk about the wine which each happened to be
brewing in his vats, and about the number of _arshins_ * of cloth which
each happened to have rendered to the Treasury. What would this amount
to? What was it he was promising for himself? Was it life? Whether
life or not, it would have to be lived as though it, and it alone,
constituted existence. At least it would be an existence that would find
favour with Schtoltz!
* Ells.
But the actual wedding ceremony--that, at all events, would represent
the poetry of life, its nascent, its just opening flower? He pictured
himself leading Olga to the altar. On her head there would’ be a wreath
of orange-blossoms, and to her gown a long train, and the crowd would
whisper in amazement. Shyly, and with gently heaving bosom and brow
bent forward in gracious pride, she would give him her hand in complete
unconsciousness that the eyes of all were fixed upon her. Then, a bright
smile would show itself on her face, the tears would begin to well,
and for a moment or two the furrow on her forehead would twitch with
thought. Then, when they had arrived home and the guests had all
departed, she, yes, she--clad still in her gorgeous raiment--would throw
herself upon his breast as she had done that morning!
Unable any longer to keep his fancies to himself, he went with them to
Olga. She listened to him with a smile; but when he jumped up with the
intention of informing also her aunt she frowned with such decision that
he halted in awe.
“Not a word to any one!” she said. “The right moment is not yet come.”
“What ought we to do first, then?”
“To go to the registrar, and to sign the record.”
“And then?”
“After marriage to go and live at Oblomovka, and to see what can be done
there.”
“We shall not be able to do that, for the house is in ruins, and a new
one must first be built.”
“Then where are we to live?”
“We must take a flat in town.”
“Then you had better go at once and see about it.”
“Alas!” was Oblomov’s reflection. “Olga wishes for ever to be on the
move. Apparently she cares nothing about dreaming over the poetical
phases of life, or losing herself in reveries. She is like Schtoltz. It
would seem as though the two had conspired to live life at top speed.”
II
Late that August rain set in, and, one day, Oblomov saw a vanload of
the Ilyinskis’ furniture come past his windows. To remain in his country
villa, now that the park was desolate and the shutters hung closed over
the Ilyinskis’ windows, seemed to him impossible. At length he removed
to the rooms which had been recommended him by Tarantiev, until such
time as he should be able to find for himself a new flat. He took hasty
meals at restaurants, and spent most of his evenings with Olga.
But the long autumn evenings in town were not like the long, bright days
amid fields and woods.
Here he could not visit Olga three times a day, nor send her notes by
Zakhar, seeing that she was five versts away. Thus the polled poem of
the late summer seemed somehow to have halted, or to be moving more
slowly, as though it contained less substance than of yore.
Sometimes they would keep silence for quite half an hour at a time,
while she busied herself with her needlework, and he busied himself in
a chaos of thoughts which ranged beyond the immediate present. Only
at intervals would he gaze at her and tremble with passion; only at
intervals would she throw him a fleeting glance, and smile as she
caught the rays of tender humility, of silent happiness, which his eyes
conveyed.
Yet on the sixth day, when Olga invited him to meet her at a certain
shop, and to escort her homeward on foot, he found his position begin to
grow a trille awkward.
“Oh, if you knew how difficult things are!” he said. She returned no
answer, but sighed.
On another occasion she said to him--“Until we have arranged everything
we cannot possibly tell my aunt. Nor must we see so much of one another.
You had better come to dinner only on Sundays and Wednesdays. Also, we
might meet at the theatre occasionally, if I first give you notice that
we are going to be there. Also, as soon as a fine day should occur I
mean to go for a walk in the Summer Gardens, * and you might come to
meet me. The scene will remind us of our park in the country.” She added
this last with a quiver of emotion.
* A public park in Petrograd
He kissed her hand in silence, and parted from her until Sunday. She
followed him with her eyes--then sat down to immerse herself in a wave
of sound at the piano. But something in her was weeping, and the notes
seemed to be weeping in sympathy. She tried to sing, but no song would
come.
A few days later, Oblomov was lolling on the sofa and playing with
one of his slippers--now picking it up from the door with his toe, now
dropping it again. To him entered Zakhar.
“What now?” asked Oblomov indifferently. Zakhar said nothing, but eyed
him with a sidelong glance.
“Well?” said Oblomov again.
“Have you yet found for yourself another flat?” Zakhar countered.
“No, not yet. Why should you want to know?”
“Because I suppose the wedding will be taking place soon after
Christmas.”
“The wedding? What wedding?” Oblomov suddenly leaped up.
“You know what wedding--your own,” replied Zakhar with assurance, as
though he were speaking of an event long since arranged for. “You are
going to be married, are you not?”
“I to be married? To whom?” And Oblomov glared at the valet.
“To Mademoiselle Ilyinski----” Almost before the man could finish his
words Oblomov had darted forward.
“Who put _that_ idea into your head?” he cried in a carefully suppressed
voice.
“The Lord bless us all and protect us!” Zakhar ejaculated, backing
towards the door. “Who told me about it? Why, the Ilyinskis’ servants,
this very summer.”
“Rubbish!” hissed Oblomov as he shook a warning finger at the old man.
“Remember--henceforth let me hear not a word about it!” He pointed to
the door, and Zakhar left the room--filling the flat with his sighs as
he did so.
Somehow Oblomov could not recover his composure, but remained gazing at
the spot which Zakhar had just vacated. Then he clasped his hands behind
his head, and reseated himself in the arm-chair.
“So the servants’ hall and the kitchen are talking!” was his insistent
reflection. “It has come to this, that Zakhar can actually dare to ask
me when the wedding is to be! Yes, and that though even Olga’s aunt has
not an inkling of the truth! What would she think of it if she knew? The
wedding, that most poetical moment in the life of a lover, that crown
of all his happiness--why, lacqueys and grooms are talking of it even
though nothing is yet decided upon! No answer has come from the estate,
my registry certificate is a blank, and a new flat still remains to be
found.”
With that he fell to analysing that poetical phase from which the colour
had faded with Zakhar’s mention of the same. Oblomov was beginning to
see the other face of the medal. He tossed and turned from side to side,
lay flat on his back, leaped up and took a stride or two, and ended by
sinking back into a reclining position.
“How come folk to know about it?” he reflected. “Olga has kept silence,
and I too have breathed not a word. So much for stolen meetings at dawn
and sunset, for passionate glances, for the wizardry of song! Ah, those
poems of love! Never do they end save in disaster. One should go beneath
the wedding canopy before one attempts to swim in an atmosphere of
roses. To think that before any preparations have been made--before even
an answer has come, from the estate, or I have obtained either money
or a flat--I should have to go to her aunt, and to say: ‘This is my
betrothed!’ At all costs must I put a stop to these rumours. Marriage!
What _is_ marriage?”
He smiled as he remembered his recent poetical idealization of the
ceremony--the long train to the gown, the orange-blossoms, the whispers
of the crowd. Somehow the colours had now changed; the crowd now
comprised also the uncouth, the slovenly Zakhar and the whole staff
of the Ilyinskis’ servants’ ball. Also, he could see a long line of
carriages and a sea of strange, coldly inquisitive faces. The scene was
replete with glimmering, deadly weariness.
Summoning Zakhar to his presence, he again asked him how he had dared to
spread such rumours.
“For do you know what marriage means?” he demanded of his valet.
“It means that a lot of idle lacqueys and women and children start
chattering in kitchens and shops and the market-place. A given
individual ceases to be known as Ilya Ilyitch or Peter Petrovitch, and
henceforth ranks only as the _zhenich._ * Yesterday no one would have
noticed him, but by to-morrow every one will be staring at him as though
he were a notorious rascal. Neither at the theatre nor in the street
will folk let him pass without whispering, ‘Here comes the _zhenich_!
And every day other folk will call upon him with their faces reduced
to an even greater state of imbecility than distinguishes yours at
this moment--all in order that they may, vie with one another in saying
imbecile things. That is how such an affair begins. And early each
morning the zhenich must go to see his betrothed in lemon-coloured
gloves--never at any time may he look untidy or weary; and always he
must eat and drink what is customary under the circumstances, in order
that his sustenance may appear to comprise principally bouquets and air.
_That_ is the programme which is supposed to continue fully for three
or four months! How could _I go_ through such an ordeal? Meanwhile you,
Zakhar, would have had to run backwards and forwards between my place
and my betrothed’s, as well as to keep making a round of the tailors’,
the bootmakers’, and the cabinetmakers’ establishments, owing to the
fact that I myself could not have been in every spot at once. And soon
the whole town would have come to hear of it. ‘Have you yet heard the
news?’ ‘Oblomov is going to be married!’ ‘Really? To whom? And what is
she like? And when is the ceremony to be?’ Talk, talk, talk! Besides,
how could I have afforded the necessary expenses? You know how much
money I possess. Have I yet found another flat? And am I not owing a
thousand roubles for this one? And would not the hire of fresh quarters
have cost me three thousand roubles more, considering the extra rooms
which would have been required? And would there not have been the cost
of a carriage, and of a cook, and so forth? How could I possibly have
paid for it all?”
* Bridegroom to-be.
Oblomov checked himself abruptly. He felt horrified to think of the
threatening, the uncomfortable, vision which his imagination had
conjured up. The roses, the orange-blossoms, the glitter and show, the
whispers of the crowd--all these had faded into the background. His fond
dreams, his peace of mind alike were gone. He could not eat or sleep,
and everything had assumed an air of gloom and despondency. In seeking
to overawe Zakhar, he had ended by frightening also himself, for he had
stumbled upon the practical view of marriage, and come to perceive that,
despite nuptial poetry, marriage constitutes an official, a very real
step towards a serious assumption of new and insistent obligations.
Unable, therefore, to make up his mind as to what he should say to Olga
when he next met her, he decided to defer his visit until the following
Wednesday. Having arrived at this decision, he felt easier.
Two days later, Zakhar entered the room with a letter from Olga.
“I cannot wait until Wednesday,” she wrote. “I feel so lost through these
long absences from your side that I shall look to see you in the Summer
Gardens at three o’clock to-morrow.”
“I cannot go,” he thought to himself. The next moment he comforted
himself with the reflection that very likely, her aunt, or some other
lady, would be with her; in which case he would have a chance of
concealing his nervousness.
Scarcely had he reached the Gardens when he saw her approaching. She was
veiled, and at first he did not recognize her.
“How glad I am that you have come!” she exclaimed. “I was afraid you
would not do so.”
She pressed his hand, and looked at him with an air so frank, so full of
joy at having stolen this moment from Fate, that he felt envious of
her, and regretful that he could not share in her lighthearted mood.
Her whole face bespoke a childish confidence in the future, in her
happiness, and in him. Truly she was very charming!
“But why do you look so gloomy?” suddenly she exclaimed. “Why do you
say nothing? I had thought you would be overjoyed to see me whereas I
find you gone to sleep again! Wake up, sir!”
“I am both well and happy,” he hastened to say--fearful lest things
should attain the point of her guessing what was really in his mind.
“But I am disturbed that you should have come alone.”
“Rather, it is for _me_ to be disturbed about that,” she retorted. “Do
you think I ought to have brought my aunt with me?”
“Yes, Olga.”
“Then, if I had known that, I would have invited her to come,” offendedly
she said as she withdrew her hand from his. “Until now I had imagined
that your greatest happiness in life was to be with me, and with me
alone. Let us go for a row in a boat.”
With that she set off towards the river, dragging his unwilling form
behind her.
“Are you coming to our house to-morrow?” she inquired when they were
safely settled in their seats.
“My God!” he reflected. “Already she has divined my thoughts, and knows
that I do not want to come!”
“Yes, yes,” he answered aloud.
“In the morning, and for the whole day?”
“Yes.”
She splashed his face playfully with water.
“How bright and cheerful everything looks!” she remarked as she gazed
about her. “Let us come again to-morrow. This time I shall come straight
from home.”
“Then you have not come straight from home to-day?”
“No, but from a shop, from a jeweller’s.”
Oblomov looked alarmed.
“Suppose your aunt were to find out?” he suggested.
“Oh, suppose the Neva were to become dried up, and that this boat
were to overturn, and that our house were suddenly to fall down, and
that--that you were suddenly to lose your love for me?” As she spoke she
splashed him again.
“Listen, Olga,” he said when they had landed on the bank. “At the risk
of vexing and offending you, I ought to tell you something.”
“What is it?” Her tone was impatient.
“That we ought not to be indulging in these secret meetings.”
“But we are betrothed to one another?”
“Yes, dearest Olga,” he replied, pressing her hands, “and therefore we
are bound to be all the more careful. I would rather be walking with you
along this avenue _publicly_ than _by stealth_--I would rather see the
eyes of passers-by drop respectfully before you than run the risk of
incurring a suspicion that you have so far forgotten your modesty and
your upbringing as to lose your head and fail in your duty.”
“But I have _not_ forgotten my modesty and my upbringing,” she
exclaimed, withdrawing her hands.
“No, I know that you have not,” he agreed. “I was merely thinking of
what people _might_ say--of how the world in general _might_ look upon
it all. Pray do not misunderstand me. What I desire is that to the world
you should seem to be as pure, as irreproachable, as in actual fact you
are. To me your conduct seems solely honourable and modest; but would
every one believe it to be so?”
“What you say is right,” she said after a pause. “Consequently, let us
tell my aunt to-morrow, and obtain her consent.”
Oblomov turned pale. “Why hurry so?” he asked. “I know that, two weeks
ago, I myself was urging haste; but at that time I had not thought of
the necessary preparations.”
“Then your heart is failing you? That I can see clearly.”
“No; I am merely cautious. Even now I see a carriage approaching us.
Are you _sure_ that the people in it are not acquaintances of yours? How
these things throw one into a fever of perspiration I Let us depart as
quickly as possible.” And with that he set off, almost at a run.
“Until to-morrow, then,” she said.
“No, until the day after to-morrow. That would be better. Or even until
Friday or Saturday.”
“No, no; you must come to-morrow. Do you hear? What have we not come
to! What a mountain of sorrow are you not threatening to bring upon my
head!”
She turned to go home.
III
On arriving at his rooms again, Oblomov never noticed that Zakhar
gave him a cold dinner, or that, after it, he rolled into bed and slept
heavily and insensibly; like a stone. Next day he received a letter in
which Olga said that she had spent the whole night weeping.
“She has been unable to sleep!” he thought to himself. “Poor angel! Why
does she care for me so much? And why am _I_ so fond of _her_? Would we
had never met! It is all Schtoltz’s fault. He shed love over us as he
might have shed a disease. What sort of a life is this? Nothing but
anxiety and emotion! How can it ever lead to peaceful happiness and
rest?”
Sighing deeply, he threw himself upon the sofa--then rose again, and
went out into the street, as though seeking the normal existence
which pursues a daily, gradual course of contemplation of nature, and
constitutes a series of calm, scarcely perceptible phenomena of family
life. Of existence as a spacious, a turbulent, a billowing river,
as Schtoltz always conceived it to be, he could form no conception
whatever.
He wrote to Olga that he had taken a slight chill in the Summer
Gardens--wherefore he must stay at home for a couple of days; but that
he hoped soon to be better, and to see her on the following Sunday. In
reply she wrote that he must take the greatest care of himself; that
even on Sunday he must not come should he not be well enough; and that
a whole week’s separation would be bearable to her if thereby he were
enabled to avoid risking his health. This excuse for omitting the Sunday
visit Oblomov gladly seized upon; wherefore he sent back word that, as a
matter of fact, a few days’ additional convalescence _would_ be no more
than prudent.
Day succeeded day throughout the week. He read, he walked about the
streets, and, occasionally, he looked in upon his landlady for the
purpose of exchanging a couple of words and drinking some of her
excellent coffee. So comfortable did she make him that he even thought
of giving her a book to read; but when he did so she merely read the
headings of a chapter or two, and then returned him the volume, saying
that later she would get her little girl to read the work to her.
Meanwhile Olga received unexpected news. This was to the effect that a
lawsuit with regard to her property had ended in her favour, and that
within a month’s time she would be able, should she wish, to enter into
actual possession. But of this, and of her other plans for the future,
she decided not to tell Oblomov, but to spend the present hour in dreams
of the happiness that was to be hers and his when she had seen love
complete its revolution in his apathetic soul, and the slothfulness fall
from his shoulders.
That very day he was to come. Yet three o’clock arrived--four
o’clock--and no Oblomov. By half-past five the beauty and the freshness
of her features had begun to fade. Insensibly her form assumed a
drooping posture, and as she sat at the table her face was pale. Yet no
one noticed this. The rest of the guests consumed the dishes which she
had prepared for him alone, and carried on a desultory, indifferent
chatter of conversation. Until ten o’clock she vacillated between hope
and despair. Then, on the arrival of that hour, she withdrew to her
room. At first she showered upon his head all the resentment that was
seething within her. Not a word of mordant sarcasm in her vocabulary
would she not have devoted to his punishing, had he been present. But
after a while her mind passed from fierceness to a thought which chilled
it like ice.
“He is sick,” was that thought. “He is lonely and ill, and unable even
to write.” So much did the idea gain upon her that she passed a sleepless
night, and rose pale, quiet, and determined. The same morning--it was
Monday--the landlady informed Oblomov that a visitor desired to see him.
“To see _me?_ Surely not?” he exclaimed. “Where is _she?_”
“Outside. Shall I send her away?” Oblomov was about to assent when
Olga’s maid, Katia, entered the room. Oblomov changed countenance. “How
come you to be here?” he asked.
“My mistress is outside,” she replied, “and has sent me in to bid you go
to her.” There was no help for it, so he went out, and found Olga alone.
“Are you quite well?” she exclaimed. “What has been the matter with
you?” With that they entered his study.
“I am better now--the sore throat is almost gone,” he replied; and as he
spoke he touched the part mentioned, and coughed slightly.
“Then why did you not come last night?” She raked him with a glance so
keen that for the moment he found himself tongue-tied.
“And why have _you_ taken such a step as this?” he countered. “Surely
you know what you are doing?”
“Never mind,” she retorted impatiently. “I do not believe you have been
ill at all.”
“No--I have not,” he confessed.
“You have been deceiving me? Why so?”
“I will explain later. Important reasons have kept me away from you for
a fortnight.”
“What are they?”
“I--I am afraid of scandal, of people’s tongues.”
“And not of the fact that possibly I might pass sleepless nights--that
possibly I might be so anxious as to be unable to rest?”
“You cannot think what is passing within me,” he said, pointing to his
head, and then to his heart. “I am all on edge, all on fire.”
With that he told her what Zakhar had said to him, and ended with a
statement that, like herself, he could not sleep, and that in every
glance he saw a question, or a sneer, or a veiled hint at the relations
which might be existing between her and himself.
“Let us decide to tell my aunt this week,” she replied, “and at once
this chatter will cease. Had I not known you so well, I should scarcely
have been able to understand the fact that you can be afraid of
servants’ gossip, yet not of making me anxious. Really I cannot
understand you.”
“Listen,” presently she went on. “There is more in this than meets the
eye. Tell me all that is in your mind. What does it mean?”
He looked at her--then kissed her hand and sighed.
“What have you been doing during the past week or so?” she persisted
as she glanced round the room. “What a wretched place you have got!
The windows are small, and the curtains dirty. Where are your _other_
rooms?”
He hastened to show her them, in the hope that he might divert her
mind from the question of his late doings; but she only repeated the
question.
“I have been reading,” he replied, “and writing, and thinking of you.”
“Have you yet read _my_ books?” she inquired. “Where are they? I will
take them back with me.”
One of them happened to be lying on the table. She looked at the page at
which it was open, and saw that the page was covered with dust.
“You have not read them!” she exclaimed.
“No,” he confessed.
Once more she looked at the mess and disorder in the room, and then
inquired: “Then what _have_ you been doing? You have neither been
writing nor reading.”
“No; I have not had time to do so.. In this place, as soon as one rises,
the rooms need to be swept, and other interruptions occur afterwards.
Next, when dinner is over----”
“When dinner is over you need to go to sleep.”
So positive in its assurance was her tone that after a moment’s
hesitation he replied that her conjecture was correct.
“Why do you do that?”
“In order to pass the time. You are not here with me, Olga, and life is
wearisome and unbearable without you.”
Her gaze became so stern that he broke off abruptly.
“Listen, Ilya,” she said very gravely. “Do you remember saying in the
park that at length your life had been fired to flame, and that you
believed me to be the aim, the ideal, of your life?”
“How should I _not_ remember it, seeing that it has revolutionized my
whole existence? Cannot you _see_ how happy I am?”
“No, I do _not_ see it,” she replied coldly. “Not only have you deceived
me, but also you are letting yourself relapse into your former ways.”
“Deceived you? I swear to God that, were that so, I would leap into the
pit of Hell!”
“Yes--if the pit of Hell were just beneath your feet; but, were you to
put off doing so, even for a day or two, you would straightway change
your mind, and become nervous about the deed--more especially should
Zakhar and the rest begin gossiping on the subject! _That_ is not love.”
“Ah, you have no idea how these cares and distractions have injured my
health!” he exclaimed. “Ever since I have known you, nothing but anxiety
has been my lot. Yet deprivation of you would cause me to die or to go
out of my mind. Only through you can I breathe or feel or see. Is it,
then, wonderful that, when you are not with me, I fall ill? Without you
everything is wearisome and distasteful. I feel like a machine, I walk
and act without knowing ever what I am doing. Yes, I am like a machine
whereof only you are the fuel, the motive power....”
When she had gone he trod the floor as on air. “How clearly she sees
life!” he reflected. “How unerringly from that book of wisdom is she
able to divine her road!” Yes, his life and hers had been bound to come
together like two rivers, for she, and only she, was his true guide and
instructor.
Next day there arrived a letter from the lawyer on his estate. He read
it through--then let it slip from his fingers to the ground. The gist of
the document was that his property was greatly involved, and that, if
he wished matters to be set in order, he must hasten to take up his
residence on the spot.
“Then marriage is not to be thought of for at least another year,” he
reflected with dismay. “First of all I shall need to complete my
plans for the estate, and then to consult an architect, and then, and
then----”
He broke off with a sigh.
IV
Are you certain that nothing remains to you of your properly--that
there is no hope of anything?” asked Olga a few days later.
“Yes, I am certain,” he replied--then added with a touch of hesitation
in his tone: “But perhaps within a year or so----”
“Within a year or so you may be able to order your life and your
affairs? Reflect a moment.”
He sighed, for he was fighting a battle with himself, and the battle was
reflected in his face.
“Listen,” she went on. “Remember that you and I are no longer children,
and that we are not jesting, and that the matter may affect our whole
lives. Inquire sternly of your conscience, therefore, and tell me (for
I know you, as well as trust you) whether you can stand by me your
life long, and be to me all that I need? You know me as I know you:
consequently you understand what it is that I am trying to say.
Should you return me a bold, a considered ‘Yes,’ I will cancel a
certain decision of mine--I will give you my hand, and together we will
go abroad, or to your estate, or to the Veaborg Quarter.”
“Ah, if you knew how much I love you!” he began.
“I desire no protestations of love.--only a brief answer.”
“Do not torture me, Olga,” he cried with weariness in his tone.
“Then am I right in what I suppose?” she asked.
“Yes--you are right,” was the firm, but significant, reply.
There followed a long pause.
“Shall I tell you what you would have done had we married?” at length
she said. “Day by day you would have relapsed farther and farther into
your slough. And I? You see what I am--that I am not yet grown old, and
that I shall never cease to _live_. But you would have taken to waiting
for Christmas, and then for Shrovetide, and to attending evening
parties, and to dancing, and to thinking of nothing at all. You would
have retired to rest each night with a sigh of thankfulness that the day
had passed so quickly; and each morning you would have awakened with a
prayer that to-day might be exactly as yesterday. _That_ would have been
our future. Is it not so? Meanwhile I should have been fading away. Do
you _really_ think that in such a life you would have been happy?”
He tried to rise and leave the room, but his feet refused their office.
He tried to say something, but his throat seemed dry, and no sound would
come. All he could do was to stretch out his hand.
“Forgive me!” he murmured.
She too tried to speak, but could not. She too tried to extend her hand,
but it fell back. Finally, her face contracted painfully, and, sinking
forward upon his shoulder, she burst into a storm of sobbing. It was as
though all her weapons had slipped from her grasp, and once more she was
just a woman--a woman defenceless in her fight with sorrow.
“Good-bye, good-bye!” she said amid her spasms of weeping. He sat
listening painfully to her sobs, but felt as though he could say
nothing to check them. Sinking into a chair, and burying her face in her
handkerchief, she wept bitter, burning tears, with her head bowed upon
the table.
“Olga,” at length he said, “why, torture yourself in this way? You love
me, and could never survive a parting. Take me, therefore, as I am, and
love in me just so much as may be worthy of it.”
Without raising her head, she made a gesture of refusal.
“No, no,” she forced herself to gasp. “Nor need you fear for me and my
grief. I know myself. I am merely weeping my heart out, and shall then
weep no more. Do not hinder me, but go. God has punished me. Yet how it
hurts, how it hurts!”
Her sobs redoubled.
“But suppose the pain should _not_ pass?” he said. “Suppose it should
wreck your health? Tears like these are tears of poison. Olga, darling,
do not weep. Forget the past.”
“No, no; let me weep. I am weeping not so much for the future as for the
past.” She could scarcely utter the words. “It was all so bright--but
now it is gone! It is not I that am weeping; it is my memory--my memory
of the summer, of the park--that is pouring out its grief. Do you
remember those things? Yes, I am yearning for the avenue, and for the
lilac that you gave me... They had struck their roots into my heart,
and--and the plucking of them up is painful indeed!”
In her despair she bowed her head, and sobbed again--repeating: “Oh, how
it hurts! Oh, how it hurts!”
“But suppose you were to die of this?” he said in sudden alarm. “Olga,
Olga! Think a moment!”
“No, no,” she interrupted, raising her head, and striving to look at
him through her tears. “Not long ago I realized that I was loving in you
only what I wished you to contain--that it was only the future Oblomov
of my dreams that was so dear to me. Ilya, you are good and honourable
and tender; but you are all this only as is a dove which, with its head
hidden under its wing, wishes to see nothing better. All your life you
would have sat perched beneath the eaves. But I am different--I wish
for more than that; though what it is I wish for even I myself could
scarcely say. On the other hand, do you think that _you_ could have
taught me what that something is, that _you_ could have supplied me with
what I lack, that _you_ could have given me all that I----?”
Oblomov’s legs were tottering under him. Sinking into a chair, he
wiped his hands and forehead with his handkerchief. The words had been
harsh--they had stung him to the quick. Somehow, too, they had seared
him inwardly, while outwardly, they had chilled him as with a breath of
frost. No more could he do than smile the sort of pitiful, deprecating
smile which may be seen on the face of a beggar who is being rated for
his sorry clothing--the sort of smile which says: “I am poor and naked
and hungry. Beat me, therefore--beat me.”
Suddenly Olga realized the sting which her words had contained, and
threw herself impetuously upon him.
“Forgive me, my friend,” she said tenderly and with tears in her voice.
“I did not think what I was saying, for I am almost beside myself. Yes,
forget all that has happened, and let us be as formerly--let all remain
unchanged.”
“No,” he replied, as abruptly he rose to his feet and checked her
outburst with a decisive gesture. “All _cannot_ remain unchanged. Nor
need you regret that you have told me the truth. I have well deserved
it.”
She burst into a renewed fit of weeping.
“Go!” she said, twisting her tear-soaked handkerchief in her hands. “I
cannot bear this any longer. To _me_ at least the past is dear.”
She covered her face, and the sobs poured forth afresh.
“Why has everything thus come to rack and ruin?” she cried. “Who has put
a curse upon you, Ilya? Why have you done this? You are clever and
kind and good and noble; yet you can wreck our lives in this way! What
nameless evil has undone you?”
“It has a name,” he said almost inaudibly. She looked at him
questioningly with tear-filled eyes.
“That name,” he added, “is ‘The Disease of Oblomovka.’”
Turning with bowed head, he departed.
Whither he wandered, or what he did, he never afterwards knew. Late at
night he returned home. His landlady, hearing his knock, awoke Zakhar,
who undressed his master, and wrapped him in the old dressing-gown.
“How comes that to be here?” asked Oblomov, glancing at the garment.
“I was given it by the landlady to-day,” replied Zakhar. “She has just
cleaned and mended it.”
Sinking into an arm-chair, Oblomov remained there. All around was
growing dim and dreamlike. As he sat there with his head resting on
his hand he neither remarked the dimness nor heard the striking of
the hours. All his mind was plunged in a chaos of formless, indefinite
thoughts which, like the clouds in the sky, passed aimlessly,
disconnectedly athwart the surface of his brain. Of none of them could
he catch the actual substance. His heart felt crushed, and for the
moment the life in it was in abeyance. Mechanically he gazed in front of
him without even noticing that day was breaking, or that his landlady’s
dry cough was once more audible, or that the _dvornik_ was beginning to
cut firewood in the courtyard, or that the usual clatter in the house
had begun again. At length he went to bed, and fell into a leaden, an
uncomfortable sleep....
“To-day is Sunday,” whispered the kindly voice of the landlady, “and I
have baked you a pie. Will you not have some?”
He returned no answer, for he was in a high fever.