5

«NOW OR NEVER!» the stern words appeared before Oblomov as soon as he woke in the morning. He got up, walked up and down the room a few times, and glanced into the drawing-room; Stolz sat writing.

«Zakhar!» he called.

He heard no sound of Zakhar jumping off the stove. Zakhar did not come: Stolz had sent him to the post-office.

Oblomov went up to his dusty table, sat down, picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell, but there was no ink; he looked for paper, there was none, either. He sank into thought and began absent-mindedly writing in the dust with a finger, then he looked at what he had written – it was Oblomovitis. He quickly wiped it off with his sleeve. He had dreamt of that word at night written in letters of fire on the walls as at Belshazzar’s feast. Zakhar came back and glared dully at his master, astonished that he should have got out of bed. In this vacant look of astonishment he read: «Oblomovitis».

«A single word», Oblomov reflected, «but how – venomous it is!»

Zakhar, as was his wont, took up the comb, brush, and towel and went up to do his master’s hair.

«Go to hell!» Oblomov said angrily, knocking the brush out of Zakhar’s hand, while Zakhar dropped the comb himself.

«Aren’t you going to lie down again, sir?» Zakhar asked. «I could make the bed».

«Fetch me some paper and ink», replied Oblomov.

He was pondering over the words «Now or never!» As he listened intently to this desperate appeal of reason and energy, he realized and carefully weighed up the amount of will-power he still had left and where he could apply and what use he could make of that meagre remnant. After thinking it over painfully, he seized the pen and pulled a book out of the corner, wishing to read, write, and think over in one hour what he had not read, written, and thought over in ten years. What was he to do now? Go forward or stay where he was? This typically Oblomov question was of deeper significance to him than Hamlet’s. To go forward meant to throw the capacious dressing-gown not only off his shoulders but also from his heart and mind, to sweep the dust and cobwebs from his eyes as well as from the walls, and to recover his sight!

What was the first step towards it? What had he to start with? «I don’t know, I can’t – no! – I’m trying to deceive myself, I do know and – besides, Stolz is here and he will tell me at once». But what would he say? «He would say that during the week I should write detailed instructions to my agent and send him to the country, mortgage Oblomovka, buy some more land, send down a plan of the buildings to be erected, give up my flat, take out a passport and go abroad for six months, get rid of my superfluous fat, throw off my heaviness, refresh my soul with the air of which I once dreamed with my friend, live without a dressing-gown, without Zakhar and Tarantyev, put on my socks and take off my boots myself, sleep at night only, travel where everyone else is travelling, by rail or steamer, then – then – go to live in Oblomovka, learn what sowing and harvesting means, why a peasant is rich or poor; go out into the fields, journey to the district town for the elections, visit the factory, the mill, the landing stage. And at the same time read the newspapers, books, and worry about why the English have sent a man-of-war to the Far East… That’s what he would say! That is what going forward means. And so all my life! Good-bye, poetic ideal of life! That is a sort of smithy, and not life; it’s continuous flame, heat, noise, clatter – When is one to live? Had one not better stay? To stay meant to wear your shirt inside out, to listen to Zakhar jumping off the stove, to dine with Tarantyev, to think as little as possible about everything, not to finish The Journey to Africa, to grow peacefully old in the house of Tarantyev’s friend…»

«Now or never!» «To be or not to be!» – Oblomov raised himself from his chair a little, but failing to find his slippers with his feet at once, sat down again.

About a fortnight later Stolz left for England, having made Oblomov promise to come straight to Paris. Oblomov had even got his passport ready, he had even ordered a coat for travelling and bought a cap. That was how far things had advanced. Zakhar had been arguing with a wise air that it was enough to order one pair of boots and have the other re-soled. Oblomov had bought a blanket, a jersey, a travelling-bag, and was about to buy a bag for provisions when about a dozen people told him that one did not carry provisions abroad. Zakhar had been rushing about from one workshop and shop to another, perspiring copiously, and though he pocketed a good many five- and ten-copeck pieces out of the change in the shops, he cursed Stolz and all those who had invented travel.

«And what will he do there by himself?» he said in the shop. «I hear that in them parts it’s girls what attend on gentlemen. How can a girl pull off a gentleman’s boots? And how is she going to put socks on the master’s bare feet?»

He grinned so that his whiskers moved sideways, and shook his head. Oblomov was not too lazy to write down what he had to take with him and what had to be left at home. He asked Tarantyev to take the furniture and other things to his friend’s house in Vyborg, to lock them up in three rooms and keep them there till his return from abroad. Oblomov’s acquaintances were already saying – some incredulously, some laughingly, and some with a kind of alarm: «He’s going. Just fancy, Oblomov has actually budged from his place!»

But Oblomov did not go either after a month or after three months.

On the eve of his departure his lip became swollen during the night. «A fly has bitten me», he said. «I can’t possibly go on board ship with a lip like that!» and he decided to wait for the next ship.

It was already August. Stolz had been in Paris for some time, writing furious letters to Oblomov, who did not reply. Why? Was it because the ink had gone dry in the inkwell and there was no paper? Or was it perhaps because that and which jostled each other too frequently in Oblomov’s style? Or was it because, hearing the stern call: Now or never, Oblomov decided in favour of never and had relapsed into his recumbent position, and Zakhar was trying in vain to wake him?

No. His inkwell was full of ink: letters, papers, and even stamped paper, covered with his own handwriting, lay on his table. Having written several pages, he never once put which twice in the same sentence, he wrote freely and occasionally expressively and eloquently as «in the days of yore’ when he had dreamed with Stolz of a life of labour and travelling. He got up at seven, read, took books to a certain place. He did not look sleepy, tired, or bored. There was even a touch of colour in his face and a sparkle in his eyes – something like courage, or at any rate self-confidence. He never wore his dressing-gown: Tarantyev had taken it with him with the other things to his friend’s. He read a book or wrote dressed in an ordinary coat, a light kerchief round his neck, his shirt-collar showed over his tie, and was white as snow. He went out in an excellently made frock-coat and an elegant hat. He looked cheerful. He hummed to himself. What was the matter? Now he was sitting at the window of his country villa (he was staying at a villa in the country a few miles from the town), a bunch of flowers lying by him. He was quickly finishing writing something, glancing continually over the top of the bushes at the path, and again writing hurriedly.

Suddenly the sand on the path crunched under light footsteps; Oblomov threw down the pen, grabbed the bunch of flowers, and rushed to the window.

„Is it you, Olga Sergeyevna?“ he asked. I shan’t be a minute!»

He seized his cap and cane, ran out through the gate, offered his arm to a beautiful woman, and disappeared with her in the woods, in the shade of enormous fir-trees.

Zakhar came out from some corner, followed him with his eyes, shut the door of the room, and went to the kitchen.

«Gone!» he said to Anisya.

«Will he be in to dinner?»

«I don’t know, I’m sure», Zakhar replied sleepily.

Zakhar was the same as ever: the same enormous side-whiskers, the same unshaven chin, the same grey waistcoat and tear in his coat, but he was married to Anisya, either because of a break with his lady-friend or just from conviction that a man ought to marry; he was married and, regardless of the proverb, he had not changed.

Stolz had introduced Oblomov to Olga and her aunt. When he brought Oblomov to her aunt’s house for the first time, there were other visitors there. Oblomov felt depressed and ill at ease as usual. «I wish I could take off my gloves», he thought; «it’s so warm in the room. How I’ve grown out of it all!»

Stolz sat down beside Olga, who was sitting by herself under the lamp at some distance from the tea-table, leaning back in an arm-chair and showing little interest in what was going on around her. She was very glad to see Stolz; though her eyes did not glow, her cheeks were not flushed, an even, calm light spread over her face, and she smiled. She called him her friend; she liked him because he always made her laugh and did not let her be bored, but she was also a little afraid of him because she felt too much of a child in his company. When some question arose in her mind, or when she was puzzled by something, she did not at once decide to confide in him; he was too far ahead of her, too much above her, so that her vanity sometimes suffered from the realization of her immaturity and the difference in their ages and intelligence. Stolz, too, admired her disinterestedly as a lovely creature with a fragrant freshness of mind and feelings. He looked on her as on a charming child of great promise. Stolz, however, talked to her oftener and more readily than to other women, because, though unaware of it herself, her life was distinguished by the utmost simplicity and naturalness and, owing to her happy nature and her sensible and unsophisticated education, she did not shrink from expressing her thoughts, feelings, and desires without any trace of affectation, even in the tiniest movement of her eyes, her lips, and her hands. Quite likely she walked so confidently through life because she heard at times beside her the still more confident footsteps of her «friend’ whom she trusted and with whom she tried to keep in step. Be that as it may, there were few girls who possessed such a simplicity and spontaneity of opinions, words, and actions. You never read in her eyes: „Now I will purse up my lips a little and try to look thoughtful – I look pretty like that. I’ll glance over there and utter a little scream as though I were frightened, and they’ll all run up to me at once. I’ll sit down at the piano and show the tips of my feet“. There was not a trace of affectation, coquetry, falsity, tawdriness, or calculation about her! That was why hardly anyone but Stolz appreciated her and that was why she had sat through more than one mazurka alone without concealing her boredom; that was why the most gallant of the young men was silent in her presence, being at a loss what to say to her and how to say it. Some thought her simple, not very bright and not particularly profound because she did not overwhelm them with wise maxims about life and love or rapid, bold, and unexpected repartees or opinions on music and literature borrowed from books or overheard; she spoke little, and whatever she said was her own and not very important – so that the clever and dashing partners avoided her; on the other hand, those who were shy thought her too clever and were a little afraid of her. Stolz alone talked to her without stopping and never failed to make her laugh.

She was fond of music, but preferred to sing mostly to herself or to Stolz or to some schoolfriend; and, according to Stolz, she sang better than any professional singer. As soon as Stolz sat down beside her, she began laughing and her laughter was so melodious, so sincere, and so infectious that whoever heard it was sure to laugh too, without knowing why. But Stolz did not make her laugh all the time; half an hour later she listened to him with interest, and occasionally gazed at Oblomov with redoubled interest – and Oblomov felt like sinking through the ground because of her glances.

„What are they saying about me?“ he thought, looking at them anxiously out of the corner of his eye.

He was on the point of leaving when Olga’s aunt called him to the table and made him sit down beside her, under the crossfire of the glances of all the other visitors. He turned round to Stolz apprehensively, but Stolz had gone; he glanced at Olga, and met the same interested gaze fixed upon him.

„She is still looking at me!“ he thought, glancing in confusion at his clothes.

He even wiped his face with his handkerchief, wondering if his nose was smudged, and touched his tie to see if it had come undone, for that sometimes happened to him; but no, everything seemed to be in order, and she was still looking at him! The footman brought him a cup of tea and a tray with cakes. He wanted to suppress his feeling of embarrassment and to be free and easy – and picked up such a pile of rusks and biscuits that a little girl who sat next to him giggled. Others eyed the pile curiously.

„Good heavens, she too is looking!“ thought Oblomov. „What am I going to do with this pile?“

He could see without looking that Olga had got up from her seat and walked to another end of the room. He felt greatly relieved. But the little girl gazed intently at him, waiting to see what he would do with the biscuits. „I must hurry up and eat them“, he thought, and started putting them away quickly; luckily they seemed to melt in his mouth. Only two biscuits remained; he breathed freely and plucked up courage to look where Olga had gone. Oh dear, she was standing by a bust, leaning against the pedestal and watching him! She had apparently left her old place in order to be able to watch him more freely; she had noticed his gaucherie with the biscuits. At supper she sat at the other end of the table and she was talking and eating without apparently paying any attention to him. But no sooner did Oblomov turn apprehensively in her direction in the hope that she was not looking at him than he met her eyes, full of curiosity and at the same time so kind, too…

After supper Oblomov hastily took leave of Olga’s aunt: she invited him to dinner the next day and asked him to convey the invitation to Stolz as well. Oblomov bowed and walked across the whole length of the room without raising his eyes. Behind the piano was the screen and the door – he looked up: Olga sat at the piano and looked at him with great interest. He thought she smiled. „I expect“, he decided, „Andrey must have told her that I had odd socks on yesterday or that my shirt was inside out!“ He drove home, out of spirits, both because of this suspicion and still more because of the invitation to dine which he had answered with a bow – that is to say, he had accepted it.

From that moment Olga’s persistent gaze haunted Oblomov. In vain did he stretch out full length on his back, in vain did he assume the laziest and most comfortable positions – he simply could not go to sleep. His dressing-gown seemed hateful to him, Zakhar stupid and unbearable, and the dust and cobwebs intolerable. He told Zakhar to take out of the room several worthless pictures some patron of poor artists had forced upon him; he himself put right the blind which had not functioned for months, called Anisya and told her to clean the windows, brushed away the cobwebs, and then lay down on his side and spent an hour thinking of – Olga. At first he tried hard to recall what she looked like, drawing her portrait from memory. Strictly speaking, Olga was no beauty – that is, her cheeks were not of a vivid colour, and her eyes did not bum with an inward fire; her lips were not corals nor her teeth pearls, nor were her hands as tiny as those of a child of five nor her fingernails shaped like grapes. But if she were made into a statue, she would have been a model of grace and harmony. She was rather tall, and the size of her head was in strict proportion to her height, and the oval of her face to the size of her head; all this, in turn, was in perfect harmony with her shoulders and waist. Anyone who met her, even if he were absent-minded, could not help stopping for a moment before a creature so carefully and artistically made. Her exquisite nose was slightly aquiline; her lips were thin and for the most part tightly closed; a sign of concentrated thought. Her keen, bright, and wide-awake blue-grey eyes, which never missed anything, shone, too, with the same light and thought. The brows lent a peculiar beauty to her eyes: they were not arched, they had not been plucked into two thin lines above the eyes – no, they were two brown, fluffy, almost straight streaks, which seldom lay symmetrically: one was a little higher than the other, forming a tiny wrinkle above it which seemed to say something, as if some idea was hidden there. When she walked, her head, which was so gracefully and nobly poised on her slender, proud neck, was slightly inclined; her whole body moved evenly, striding along with so light a step that it was almost imperceptible.

„Why did she look so intently at me yesterday?“ Oblomov thought. „Andrey swears that he never mentioned my socks and shirt to her, but spoke of his friendship for me, of how we had grown up and gone to school together – about all the good things we had experienced together, and he also told her how unhappy I was, how everything that is fine in me perishes for lack of sympathy and activity, how feebly life flickers in me and how – But what was there to smile at?“ Oblomov continued to muse. „If she had a heart it ought to have throbbed or bled with pity, but instead – oh well, what does it matter what she did! I’d better stop thinking about her! I’ll go and dine there to-day – and then I shall never cross the threshold of her house!“

Day followed day, and he never left Olga’s house. One fine morning Tarantyev moved all his belongings to his friend’s in Vyborg, and Oblomov spent three days as he had not done for years: without a bed, or a sofa, dining at Olga’s aunt’s. Then suddenly it appeared that the summer villa opposite to theirs was vacant. Oblomov rented it without inspecting it and settled there. He was with Olga from morning till night; he read to her, sent her flowers, went with her on the lake, on the hills – he, Oblomov! All sorts of strange things happen in the world, but how could this have come to pass? Well, it was like this:

When Stolz and he dined at Olga’s, Oblomov suffered the same agonies at dinner as on the previous day: he ate and talked knowing that she was looking at him, feeling that her gaze rested on him like sunshine, burning him, exciting him, stirring his nerves and blood. It was only after smoking a cigar on the balcony that he succeeded in hiding for a moment from her silent, persistent gaze. „What is it all about?“ he asked himself, fidgeting nervously. „It’s sheer agony! Have I come here to be laughed at by her? She does not look at anyone else like that – she dare not. I’m quieter than the others – so she – I’ll talk to her“, he decided. „I’d rather myself say in words what she’s trying to drag out of me with her eyes“.

Suddenly she appeared before him at the balcony door; he offered her a chair and she sat down beside him.

„Is it true that you’re awfully bored?“ she asked him.

„It’s true, but not awfully“, he replied. „I have some work to do“.

„Mr Stolz told me that you were drawing up some scheme. Are you?“

„Yes. I want to go and live in the country, so I’m gradually preparing myself for it“.

„But aren’t you going abroad?“

„Yes, certainly, as soon as Mr Stolz is ready“.

„Are you glad you’re going?“ she asked.

„Yes, I’m very glad…“

He looked at her: a smile crept all over her face, gleaming in her eyes or spreading over her cheeks; only her lips were tightly closed as always.

He could not bring himself to lie to her calmly.

„I’m a little – er – lazy“, he said, „but“ -

He could not help feeling at the same time rather annoyed that she should so easily, almost without saying a word, have extracted from him a confession of laziness. „What is she to me? I’m not afraid of her, am I?“ he thought.

„Lazy?“ she retorted, with hardly perceptible slyness. „Is it possible? A man and lazy I don’t understand it“.

„What is there not to understand?“ he thought. „It seems simple enough“.

„I sit at home most of the time“, he said. „That is why Andrey thinks that I“ -

„But“, she said, ’I expect you write and read a lot. Have you read» – She looked intently at him.

«No, I haven’t!» he suddenly blurted out, afraid that she might try to cross-examine him.

«What?» she asked, laughing.

He, too, laughed.

«I thought you were going to ask me about some novel. I don’t read fiction».

«You’re wrong. I was going to ask you about books of travel…»

He looked keenly at her: her whole face was laughing, but not her lips.

«Oh, but she’s – one must be careful with her», Oblomov thought.

«What do you read?» she asked curiously.

«As a matter of fact, I do like books of travel mostly».

«To Africa?» she asked softly and slyly.

He blushed, guessing not without good reason that she knew not only what he read, but also how he read it.

«Are you a musician?» she asked, to help him to recover from his embarrassment.

At that moment Stolz came up.

«Ilya, I’ve told Olga that you’re passionately fond of music and asked her to sing something – Casta diva».

«Why have you been telling stories about me?» Oblomov replied. «I’m not at all passionately fond of music».

«How do you like that?» Stolz interrupted. «He seems offended! I recommend him to you as a decent chap and he hastens to disillusion you».

«I merely decline the part of a lover of music: it’s a doubtful and difficult part!»

«What music do you like best?» asked Olga.

«It’s a difficult question to answer. Any music. I sometimes listen with pleasure to a hoarse barrel-organ, some tune I can’t get out of my mind, and at other times I’ll leave in the middle of an opera; Meyerbeer may move me, or even a bargeman’s song: it all depends on what mood I’m in, I’m afraid! Sometimes I feel like stopping my ears to Mozart».

«That means that you are really fond of music».

«Sing something, Olga Sergeyevna», Stolz asked.

«But if Mr Oblomov is in such a mood that he feels like stopping his ears?» she said, addressing Oblomov.

«I suppose I ought to pay some compliment at this point», replied Oblomov. «I’m afraid I’m not good at it, and even if I were, I shouldn’t have dared to…»

«Why not?»

«Well», Oblomov observed ingenuously, «what if you sing badly? I’d feel awful afterwards».

«As with the biscuits yesterday», she suddenly blurted out, and blushed – she would have given anything not to have said it. «I’m awfully sorry», she said.

Oblomov did not expect that and he was utterly confused.

«It’s wicked treachery!» he said in a low voice.

«No, perhaps just a little revenge and that, too, quite unpremeditated, I assure you – because you hadn’t even a compliment for me».

«Maybe I shall have when I hear you».

«Do you want me to sing?» she asked.

«It’s he who wants you to», Oblomov replied, pointing to Stolz.

«And you?»

Oblomov shook his head.

«I can’t want what I don’t know».

«You’re rude, Ilya», Stolz observed. «That’s what comes of lying about at home and putting on socks that…»

«But, my dear fellow», Oblomov interrupted him quickly, not letting him finish, «I could easily have said, „Oh, I shall be very glad, very happy, you sing so wonderfully, of course“», he went on, addressing Olga, «it will give me…, etcetera. You didn’t really want me to say that, did you?»

«But you might, I think, have expressed a wish that I should sing – oh, just out of curiosity».

«I daren’t», Oblomov replied. «You’re not an actress».

«Very well», she said to Stolz, «I’ll sing for you».

«Ilya», said Stolz, «have your compliment ready».

Meanwhile it grew dark. The lamp was lit, and it looked like the moon through the ivy-covered trellis. The dusk had hidden the outlines of Olga’s face and figure and had thrown, as it were, a crêpe veil over her; her face was in the shadow; only her mellow but powerful voice with the nervous tremor of feeling in it could be heard. She sang many love-songs and arias at Stolz’s request; some of them expressed suffering with a vague premonition of happiness, and others joy with an undercurrent of sorrow already discernible in it. The words, the sounds, the pure, strong girlish voice made the heart throb, the nerves tremble, the eyes shine and fill with tears. One wanted to die listening to the sounds and at the same time one’s heart was eager for more life.

Oblomov was enchanted, overcome; he could hardly hold back his tears or stifle the shout of joy that was ready to escape from his breast. He had not for many years felt so alive and strong – his strength seemed to be welling out from the depths of his soul ready for any heroic deed. He would have gone abroad that very moment if all he had to do was to step into a carriage and go off.

In conclusion she sang Casta diva: his transports, the thoughts that flashed like lightning through his head, the cold shiver that ran through his body – all this crushed him; he felt completely shattered.

«Are you satisfied with me to-day?» Olga asked Stolz suddenly as she finished singing.

«Ask Oblomov what he thinks», said Stolz.

«Oh!» Oblomov cried, snatching Olga’s hand suddenly and letting it go at once in confusion. «I’m sorry», he murmured.

«Do you hear?» Stolz said to her. «Tell me honestly, Ilya, how long is it since this sort of thing happened to you?»

«It could have happened this morning if a hoarse barrel-organ had passed by Mr Oblomov’s windows», Olga interposed, but she spoke so kindly and gently that she took the sting out of the sarcasm.

He gave her a reproachful look.

«He hasn’t yet taken out the double windows, so he can’t hear what’s happening outside», Stolz added.

Oblomov gave Stolz a reproachful look.

Stolz took Olga’s hand.

«I don’t know why, but you sang to-day as you have never sung before, Olga Sergeyevna – at any rate, I’ve not heard you sing like that for a long time. This is my compliment», he said, kissing every finger of her hand.

Stolz was about to say good-bye. Oblomov, too, wanted to go, but Stolz and Olga insisted that he should stay.

«I have some business to attend to», Stolz observed, «but you’d merely go to lie down – and it’s still too early».

«Andrey! Andrey!» Oblomov said imploringly. «No», he added, «I’m afraid I can’t stay – I must go!» And he went.

He did not sleep all night; sad and thoughtful, he walked up and down the room; he went out at daybreak, walked along the Neva and then along the streets, and goodness only knows what he was feeling and thinking. Three days later he was there again, and in the evening, when the other visitors had sat down to play cards, he found himself at the piano alone with Olga. Her aunt had a headache and she was sitting in her study sniffing smelling-salts.

«Would you like me to show you the collection of drawings Mr Stolz brought me from Odessa?» Olga asked. «He didn’t show it to you, did he?»

«You’re not trying to entertain me like a hostess, are you?» asked Oblomov. «You needn’t trouble».

«Why not? I don’t want you to be bored. I want you to feel at home here. I want you to be comfortable, free, and at your ease, so that you shouldn’t go away – to lie down».

«She’s a spiteful, sarcastic creature», Oblomov thought, admiring, in spite of himself, her every movement.

«You want me to be free and at ease and not be bored, do you?» he repeated.

«Yes», she answered, looking at him as she had done before, but with an expression of still greater curiosity and kindness.

«If you do», Oblomov said, «you must, to begin with, not look at me as you are looking now and as you did the other day» – She looked at him with redoubled curiosity.

«For it is this look that makes me feel uncomfortable… Where’s my hat?»

«Why does it make you feel uncomfortable?» she asked gently, and her look lost its expression of curiosity, becoming just kind and affectionate.

«I don’t know. Only I can’t help feeling that with that look you are trying to extract from me everything that I don’t want other people to know – you, in particular».

«But why not? You are a friend of Mr Stolz and he is my friend, therefore…»

«– therefore», he finished the sentence for her, «there is no reason why you should know all that Mr Stolz knows about me».

«There is no reason, but there is a chance».

«Thanks to my friend’s frankness – a bad service on his part».

«You haven’t any secrets, have you?» she asked. «Crimes, perhaps?» she added, laughing and moving away from him.

«Perhaps», he answered, with a sigh.

«Oh, it is a great crime», she said softly and timidly, «to put on odd socks».

Oblomov grabbed his hat.

«I can’t stand it!» he said. «And you want me to be comfortable? I’ll fall out with Andrey. Did he tell you that too?»

«He did make me laugh terribly at it to-day», Olga added. «He always makes me laugh. I’m sorry, I won’t, I won’t, and I’ll try to look at you differently…» She looked at him with a mock-serious expression.

«All this is to begin with», she went on. «Very well, I’m not looking at you as I did the other day, so that you ought to feel comfortable and at ease now. Now, what must I do secondly so that you shouldn’t be bored?»

He looked straight into her grey-blue, tender eyes.

«Now you, too, are looking strangely at me», she said.

He really was looking at her not so much with his eyes as with his mind, with all his will, like a magnetizer, but involuntarily, being quite incapable of not looking.

«Heavens, how pretty she is!» he thought, looking at her almost with terrified eyes. «And to think that such wonderful girls actually exist! This white skin, these eyes which are as dark as deep pools and yet there is something gleaming in them – her soul, no doubt! Her smile can be read like a book, disclosing her beautiful teeth and – and her whole head – how tenderly it rests on her shoulders, swaying, like a flower, breathing with fragrance… Yes», he thought, «I am extracting something from her – something is passing from her into me. Here – close to my heart – something is beginning to stir and flutter – I feel a new sensation there – something that was not there before… Oh dear, what a joy it is to look at her! It takes my breath away!»

His thoughts went whirling through his mind and he was looking at her as into an endless distance, a bottomless abyss, with self-oblivion and delight.

«Really, Mr Oblomov, see how you are looking at me now yourself», she said, turning her head away shyly, but her curiosity got the better of her and she could not take her eyes off him.

He heard nothing. He really did look at her without hearing her words, and silently listened to what was happening inside him: he touched his head – there, too, something was stirring uneasily, rushing about with unimaginable swiftness. He could not catch his thoughts: they seemed to scurry away like a flock of birds, and there seemed to be a pain in his left side, by the heart.

«Don’t look at me so strangely», she said. «It makes me, too, uncomfortable. I expect you also want to extract something from my soul».

«What can I get from you?» he asked mechanically.

«I, too, have plans, begun and unfinished», she replied.

He recovered his senses at this hint at his unfinished plan.

«Strange», he said, «you’re spiteful, but you have kind eyes. It’s not for nothing people say that one must never believe women: they lie intentionally with their tongue and unintentionally with their eyes, smile, blushes, and even fainting fits».

She did not let this impression get stronger, took his hat from him quietly and sat down on a chair herself.

«I won’t, I won’t», she repeated quickly. «Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that! But I swear I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic at all!» She almost sang, and in the singing of those words emotion stirred.

Oblomov calmed down.

«Oh that Andrey!» he said reproachfully.

«Well, secondly, tell me what I have to do so that you shouldn’t be bored?» she asked.

«Sing!» – he said.

«There, that’s the compliment I was waiting for», she said joyfully, flushing. «Do you know», she went on with animation, «if you hadn’t cried „Oh!“ after my singing that night, I don’t think I could have slept – I should have cried, perhaps».

«Why?» Oblomov asked in surprise.

She pondered. «I don’t know myself», she said, after a pause.

«You’re vain. That’s why».

«Yes, of course», she said, musing and touching the keys with one hand, «but everyone is vain, and very much so. Mr Stolz claims that vanity is almost the only thing that controls a man’s will. I expect you haven’t any, and that is why you’re…»

She did not finish.

«I’m what?» he asked.

«Oh, nothing», she said, changing the subject. «I’m fond of Mr Stolz», she went on, «not only because he makes me laugh – sometimes his words make me cry – and not because he likes me, but I believe because – he likes me more than he likes other people: you see, my vanity betrays me!»

«You are fond of Mr Stolz?» Oblomov asked, looking intently and searchingly into her eyes.

«Why, of course, if he likes me more than he likes other people, then it’s only fair that I should be», she replied seriously.

Oblomov looked at her in silence: she answered him with a frank, silent look.

«He likes Anna Vassilyevna, too, and Zinaida Mikhailovna, but not as much as me», she went on. «He won’t sit with them for two hours, or make them laugh, or talk frankly to them; he talks about business, about the theatre, the news, but he talks to me as to a sister – no», she corrected herself quickly, «as to a daughter. Sometimes he even scolds me if I am too slow to understand something, or if I refuse to do as he wishes, or if I do not agree with him. But he never scolds them, and I think I like him all the more because of it. Vanity!» she added, pensively. «But I don’t know how it could have got into my singing. People have often praised it, but you wouldn’t even listen to me – you had almost to be forced to. And if you had gone away without saying a word to me, if I hadn’t noticed anything in your face – I think I’d have fallen ill. Yes, I must admit, that is vanity all right!» she concluded decisively.

«Why, did you notice something in my face?» he asked.

«Tears, though you did conceal them; it’s a bad habit with men to be ashamed of their feelings. That, too, is vanity, only false vanity. They had better sometimes be ashamed of their intellect: it leads them more often astray. Even Mr Stolz is ashamed of his feelings. I told him that, and he agreed with me. And you?»

«Looking at you, one would agree with anything!» he said.

«Another compliment – and such a» – she could not find the right word.

«– vulgar one», Oblomov finished, without taking his eyes off her.

She assented with a smile.

«That was exactly what I was afraid of when I refused to ask you to sing. What can one say after a first hearing? And yet one has to say something. It is difficult to be clever and sincere at the same time, especially about one’s feelings, when one is as greatly impressed as I was then».

«I really did sing then as I had not done for ages, perhaps as I had never done… Don’t ask me to sing, I shall not be able to sing so again… Wait, I’ll sing one more thing», she said, and her face seemed to flush, her eyes blazed. She sat down, struck two or three loud chords and began to sing.

Dear Lord, what did he not hear in her singing! Hopes, vague fear of storms, the storms themselves, transports of happiness – all this could be heard, not in the song, but in her voice. She sang a long time, turning to him now and again to ask like a child: «Have you had enough? No? Well, just this, then», and she went on singing. Her cheeks and ears were burning with agitation; sometimes her young face lit up with the sudden flash of emotion or with a ray of such mature passion as though she were re-living in her heart some great experience of the distant past, and then this momentary ray was suddenly extinguished and her voice once more sounded fresh and silvery. Oblomov, too, experienced the same sort of feeling: it seemed to him as though he had been living through it all not for one hour or two, but for years… Both of them, though outwardly motionless, were rent by an inward fire, shaken by the same agitation; the tears in their eyes were called forth by the same mood. These were all the symptoms of the passions which were evidently destined to arise in her young heart, now subject only to brief and fleeting outbursts of the still slumbering forces of life. She finished on a long-drawn-out note, and her voice died away in it. She stopped, put her hands in her lap, and, deeply moved and excited herself, glanced at Oblomov to see what he was feeling. His face was radiant with happiness that welled up from the depths of his being; he looked at her with eyes brimming with tears.

Now it was she who grasped his hand involuntarily.

«What’s the matter?» she asked. «Why do you look like that? Why?»

But she knew why he looked like that, and inwardly she modestly triumphed, enjoying this manifestation of her powers.

«Look in the glass», she went on, pointing with a smile to the reflection of his face in the mirror. «Your eyes are shining! Goodness, there are tears in them! How deeply you feel music!»

«No», said Oblomov quietly, «it isn’t music I feel, it’s – love!»

She at once dropped his hand and changed colour. Their eyes met: his gaze was fixed, almost deranged; it was not Oblomov, but passion that looked at her.

Olga realized that his words had escaped him against his will and that he was powerless to suppress them, for he merely spoke the truth.

He came to himself, took his hat, and ran out of the room without turning round. She did not follow him with curious eyes, but stood motionless like a statue at the piano for a long time, her eyes fixed on the ground; only her bosom rose and fell agitatedly.