7

FOR A LONG TIME he gazed after her open-mouthed and with wide-open eyes, and then stared blankly at the bushes… Some people he did not know passed by. A bird flew past. A peasant woman asked him in passing if he would like some strawberries – but the stupor continued. Then he walked very slowly down the same avenue and, half-way, came across the lilies of the valley Olga had dropped and the sprig of lilac she had tom off and thrown down in vexation. «Why had she done it?» he wondered, calling it back to mind. «You fool! You fool!» he cried suddenly aloud, picking up the lilies of the valley and the sprig of lilac, and almost running down the avenue. «I asked her to forgive me, and she – oh, can it be true?… What an idea!»

He came home, looking happy and radiant, «With the moon on his forehead», as his nurse used to say, sat down in the corner of the sofa and quickly wrote in large letters on the dust- covered table: «Olga».

«Oh, what dust!» he exclaimed, recovering from his ecstatic state. «Zakhar! Zakhar!»

He shouted again and again, because Zakhar was sitting with some coachmen at the gate that faced the lane.

«Go on», Anisya said in a stern whisper, pulling him by the sleeve, «the master has been calling for you for a long time».

«Have a look, Zakhar, what’s this?» Oblomov said, but in a gentle and kind voice, for he could not be angry just then. «You want everything to be in a mess here too, do you? Dust, cobwebs! No, my dear fellow, I shall not permit it! As it is, Olga Sergeyevna doesn’t give me a moment’s rest: „You like dirt,“ she says».

«It’s all very well for them to talk like that, sir», Zakhar remarked, turning to the door. «They have five servants, they have».

«Where are you going? Will you sweep the room at once, please? It’s impossible to sit down here, or lean on the table. Why, this is horrible – it’s – it’s Oblomovitis!»

Zakhar looked hurt and glanced sideways at his master.

«There he goes again!» he thought. «He’s invented another pathetic word, a familiar one, too!»

«Well», said Oblomov, «why don’t you get on with the sweeping?»

«There’s nothing to sweep here, sir», Zakhar observed stubbornly. «I’ve already swept the room to-day».

«Where’s the dust come from, if you’ve swept it? Look at it! There and there! I will not put up with it! Sweep it all up at once!»

«I did sweep it», Zakhar repeated. «You don’t expect me to sweep the rooms ten times a day, do you? The dust comes from the road – we’re in the country here, sir: there’s a lot of dust on the road».

«You shouldn’t sweep the floor first and dust the furniture afterwards», Anisya said, suddenly peeping out of the other room. «The room is bound to be covered in dust again. You ought first to…»

«Who asked you to come here and teach me what to do?» Zakhar wheezed furiously. «Go back to your place!»

«Who ever heard of sweeping the floor first and dusting the furniture afterwards? That’s why the master is angry…»

«Now then, now then», he shouted, pushing out his elbow as though intending to aim it at her breast.

She grinned and disappeared. Oblomov waved him out of the room too. He put his head on the embroidered cushion, put his hand to his heart, and began listening to its beating.

«This is bad for me», he said to himself. «What’s to be done? If I ask the doctor’s advice, he will probably send me to Abyssinia!»

Before Zakhar and Anisya were married, they did their own work in the house without interference – that is to say, Anisya did the shopping and the cooking and helped with the tidying of the rooms only once a year, when she scrubbed the floors. But after their marriage, she found freer access to the master’s rooms. She helped Zakhar, and the rooms were cleaner, and, besides, she took some of her husband’s duties upon herself, partly of her own accord and partly because Zakhar despotically laid them upon her.

«Here, beat the carpet, will you?» he wheezed authoritatively. Or: «You’d better sort out the things in that corner there and take what isn’t wanted to the kitchen».

He spent a month in this blissful state: the rooms were clean, his master did not grumble, or use «pathetic words», and he, Zakhar, had nothing to do. But the state of bliss came to an end – and for the following reason. As soon as he and Anisya began to look after Oblomov’s rooms together, everything Zakhar did turned out to be stupid. Whatever he did was wrong. For fifty-five years he had lived in the world in the conviction that whatever he did could not be done better or differently. And now, suddenly, Anisya proved to him that he was a wash-out, and she did it with such an offensive condescension, so quietly, as though he were a child or a perfect fool, and to make matters worse, she could not help smiling as she looked at him.

«You shouldn’t open the windows and then shut the flues, dear», she said affectionately. «You’ll chill the rooms again».

«Well, and how would you do it?» he asked with the rudeness of a husband. «When would you open the windows?»

«Why, dear, when lighting the stove», she answered gently. «The air will be drawn out and the room will get warm again». «What a silly fool!» he said. «I’ve been doing it like that for twenty years and I’m not going to change it for you».

On the same shelf in the cupboard he kept tea, sugar, lemons, silver, and, next to it, shoe-polish, brushes, and soap. One day he came home and found the soap on the wash-stand, the brushes and shoe-polish on the kitchen window-ledge, and the tea and sugar in a separate drawer.

«What do you mean by turning everything upside-down just as you please?» he asked sternly. «I’ve put it all together on purpose to have it handy, and now you’ve come and put it all in different places!»

«But I did it, dear, so that the tea shouldn’t smell of soap», she remarked gently.

Another time she pointed out to Zakhar two or three moth holes in Oblomov’s clothes and told him that he ought to shake and brush them at least once a week.

«Let me give them a brush, dear», she concluded affectionately.

He snatched the brush and Oblomov’s frock-coat out of her hands and put the coat back in the wardrobe. When on another occasion he began, as usual, to blame his master for scolding him without reason for the blackbeetles though he had not «invented them», Anisya, without saying a word, removed all the pieces and crumbs of black bread which had been lying on the shelves from time immemorial and swept out and washed all the cupboards and crockery – and the blackbeetles disappeared almost completely. Zakhar still did not properly understand what it was all about, and merely attributed it to her zeal. But one day, when he took a tray with cups and glasses to his master’s room and, dropping two glasses on the floor, began swearing as usual and was about to throw the whole tray down on the floor, Anisya took the tray from him, replaced the broken glasses and put the bread and the sugar-basin on the tray, arranging everything in such a way that not a cup moved, and then demonstrated to him how to pick up the tray with one hand and hold It firmly with the other; then she walked up and down the room twice, turning the tray to left and to right, and not a single spoon moved-it suddenly dawned on Zakhar that Anisya was cleverer than he. He snatched the tray from her, dropping the glasses, and could never forgive her for it.

«You see how it’s done», she added quietly.

He gave her a look of dull-witted superciliousness, but she only grinned.

«Oh, you silly peasant woman; you’re trying to be clever, are you? You don’t know the sort of a house we had in Oblomovka, do you now? Why, everything depended on me there. I had fifteen footmen and page-boys under me, not to mention other servants! And as for women like you, there were so many of them that I couldn’t remember all their names. And you’re trying to teach me, are you? Oh, you…»

«But I mean well», she began.

«All right, all right!» he wheezed, raising his elbow menacingly. «Get out of the master’s room. To the kitchen with you – and mind your woman’s business!»

She grinned and went out, while he looked at her gloomily out of the corner of his eye. His pride was hurt, and he treated Anisya dismally. When, however, Oblomov asked for something, and it could not be found or had been broken, or when there was confusion in the house and a storm, accompanied by «pathetic words», gathered over Zakhar’s head, Zakhar winked at Anisya, motioned towards his master’s study, and pointing to it with his thumb, said in an imperious whisper: «Go and see what the master wants, will you?» Anisya went, and the storm was always averted by a simple explanation. Indeed, Zakhar himself suggested calling in Anisya as soon as Oblomov began using «pathetic words». But for Anisya, therefore, everything in Oblomov’s rooms would have fallen into neglect again; she had already attached herself to Oblomov’s household and quite unconsciously shared her husband’s unshakeable connexion with Oblomov’s house, life, and person; her woman’s eyes kept careful watch over the neglected rooms. Zakhar had only to go out for a moment for Anisya to dust the tables and sofas, open a window, set the blinds right, put away the boots left in the middle of the room and the trousers thrown over an arm-chair, carefully examine all the clothes and even the papers, pencils, penknife, and pens on the table – and put it all in order; beat up the crumpled pillows and remake the bed – and all in no time at all; then she glanced round the room, moved a chair, closed a half-open drawer, took a napkin off the table, and quickly slipped into the kitchen the moment she heard Zakhar’s squeaking boots. She was a quick and lively woman of about forty-seven with a solicitous smile, eyes that never missed anything, a strong neck and chest, and a pair of red, tenacious, untiring hands. She had hardly any face at all; the nose was the only thing that stood out on it; though small, it did not seem to belong to it at all or to have been clumsily attached, and, besides, the end of it was turned up, which made the rest of the face unnoticeable: it was so drawn and faded that one gained a clear impression of the nose long before noticing the rest of her face.

There are many husbands like Zakhar in the world. A diplomat will sometimes listen carelessly to his wife’s advice, shrug, and – secretly write as she has advised him. A high official will whistle contemptuously while listening to his wife’s chatter about some important affair of state and reply to her with a pitying grimace – and the next day he will solemnly repeat her chatter to the Minister. These gentlemen treat their wives as grimly or as lightly as Zakhar and barely vouchsafe to speak to them, regarding them, if not, like Zakhar, as silly women, then as a delightful relaxation from serious business affairs.

The bright noonday sun had long been burning the paths of the park. Everyone was sitting in the shade of the canvas awnings; only nursemaids and children walked about boldly in groups or sat on the grass in the noonday sun. Oblomov still lay on the sofa, believing and disbelieving the meaning of his conversation with Olga that morning. «She loves me, she has set her affections on me. Is it possible? She dreams of me; it was for me she sang so passionately, and the music awakened the same feelings in us for one another». His pride was aroused, life shone brightly, its magic vistas opened before him, it was all aglow with light and colour, as it had not been so recently. He already saw himself travelling abroad with her, in Switzerland, on the lakes, in Italy, walking among the ruins in Rome, sailing in a gondola, then lost in a crowd in Paris and London, then – then in his earthly paradise, Oblomovka. She was divine with that charming prattle of hers, her exquisite, fair-skinned face, her lovely, slender neck… The peasants had never seen anything like her and they prostrated themselves before this angel. She was treading so softly on the grass; she walked with him in the shade of the young birch-trees; she sang to him… And he became conscious of life, of its gentle flow, of the splashing of its sweet stream – he sank into thought, his desires satisfied, his happiness full to overflowing… Suddenly his face clouded over.

«No», he cried aloud, getting up from the sofa and pacing the room. «This cannot be! To love a ridiculous fellow like me, with sleepy eyes and flabby cheeks… She is just laughing at me…».

He stopped before the looking-glass and examined himself for a long time, first disapprovingly, then his eyes suddenly cleared; he even smiled.

«I seem to look better, fresher than I did in town», he said. «My eyes are not dull – I was starting a stye, but it has disappeared. Must be because of the air here – I walk a lot, don’t drink, don’t lie about… No need for me to go to Egypt».

A servant from Olga’s aunt came with an invitation to dinner.

«I’m coming, I’m coming!» said Oblomov.

The servant turned to go.

«Wait! Here’s something for you». He gave him some money.

He felt gay and light-hearted. It was such a bright, sunny day. The people were so kind, everybody was enjoying himself, everybody looked happy. Zakhar alone was gloomy and kept looking sideways at his master; Anisya, on the other hand, was grinning so good-humouredly.

«I’ll get myself a dog», Oblomov decided, «or a cat: cats are affectionate creatures – they purr».

He rushed off to Olga’s.

«But then – Olga loves me!» he thought on the way. «She who is so young and so fresh! She, whose imagination should be wideawake to the poetic side of life, ought to be dreaming of black-haired, curly-headed youths, tall and slender, with thoughtful, hidden power, with courage in their faces, a proud smile, with that melting and trembling light in the eye that touches the heart so easily, and with a gentle fresh voice that sounds like a harp-string. It is true there are women who do not care for youth, courage, good dancing, clever riding… Olga, I daresay, is no ordinary girl whose heart can be won by a handsome moustache or whose ears can be charmed by the rattle of a sword; but then something else is needed – intelligence, for instance, so that a woman should yield and bow her head to it as the rest of the world does… Or a famous artist… But what am I? Oblomov – and nothing more. Stolz, now, is a different matter: Stolz has intelligence, force, he knows how to control himself, others, and life. Wherever he goes and whoever he meets, he immediately gets the upper hand, playing on people as on an instrument. And I? Why, I can’t get the better of Zakhar even – or of myself – I – Oblomov! Stolz – good Lord, she loves him», he thought with horror. «She said so herself. Like a friend, she said. But that’s a lie, an unconscious lie perhaps. There can be no friendship between man and woman…». He walked slower and slower, overcome with doubts. «And what if she is just flirting with me? If only» – He stopped altogether, rooted to the spot for a moment. «What if it is treachery, a plot?… And whatever made me think that she loves me? She did not say so: it is just the satanic whispering of my vanity! Andrey! Can it be? No, it can’t: she’s so-so – That is what she’s like!» he suddenly cried joyfully, seeing Olga coming to meet him.

Olga held out her hand to him with a gay smile.

«No», he decided, «she is not like that, she is not like that, she is not a deceiver. Deceivers don’t look so kind, they don’t laugh so candidly – they titter. But, all the same, she never said she loved me!» he suddenly thought again in terror: that was how he had interpreted it. «But, then, why should she have been vexed? Goodness, what a bog I am in!»

«What have you got there?»

«A twig».

«What sort of twig?»

«As you see: it’s lilac».

«Where did you get it? There is no lilac here. Which way did you come?»

«It’s the same sprig you plucked and threw away».

«Why did you pick it up?»

«Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was glad that – that you threw it away in vexation».

«You’re glad I was vexed! That’s something new. Why?»

«I won’t tell you!»

«Please, do, I beg you».

«Never! Not for anything in the world!»

«I implore you!»

He shook his head.

«And if I sing?»

«Then – perhaps».

«So it’s only music that has any effect on you, is it?» she said, frowning. «That’s true, isn’t it?»

«Yes, music interpreted by you».

«Very well, I’ll sing. Casta diva, Casta di…» she sang Norma’s invocation and stopped.

«Well, tell me now!» she said.

For some time he struggled with himself.

«No, no!» he concluded even more decisively than before. «Not for anything in the world! Never! Suppose it isn’t true, and I’ve just imagined it? Never, never!»

«What’s the matter? Is it something dreadful?» she said, her whole mind concentrated on the question, glancing searchingly at him.

Then gradually realization came to her: the ray of thought and surmise spread to every feature of her face and, suddenly, her whole face lit up with the consciousness of the truth Just like the sun which, emerging from behind a cloud, sometimes first lights up one bush, then another, then the roof of a house and, suddenly, floods a whole landscape with light. She knew what Oblomov’s thought was.

«No, no», Oblomov kept repeating. «I could never say it. It’s no use your asking».

«I’m not asking you», she replied indifferently.

«Aren’t you? But just now…»

«Let’s go home», she said seriously, without listening to him. «Auntie is waiting».

She walked in front of him and, leaving him with her aunt, went straight to her room.