Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [102]
Oblomov and Stolz burst out laughing.
‘It is damp in the fields,’ Oblomov concluded. ‘it’s dark; a mist, like an inverted sea, hangs over the rye; a shiver passes over the flanks of the horses and they paw the ground; it is time to go home. In the house lights are already burning; knives are clattering in the kitchen; a frying-pan full of mushrooms, cutlets, berries – music in the drawing-room – Casta diva, Casta diva!…’ Oblomov burst into song. ‘I can’t think of Casta diva without wishing to sing it,’ he said, singing the beginning of the cavatina. ‘How that woman cried her heart out! How full of sadness those sounds are! And no one around her knows anything.… She is alone.… Her secret oppresses her; she entrusts it to the moon.…’
‘You are fond of that aria? That’s fine! Olga Ilyinsky sings it beautifully. I’ll introduce you to her. She has a lovely voice and she sings wonderfully. And she herself is such a charming child! But I’m afraid I may be a little partial: I have a soft spot in my heart for her.… However,’ he added, ‘go on, please.’
‘Well,’ Oblomov went on, ‘what else is there? That is all. The visitors go to their rooms in the cottages and pavilions, and on the following day they disperse in different directions; some go fishing, some shooting, and some simply sit still.’
‘Simply? Have they nothing in their hands?’ asked Stolz.
‘What would you like them to have? A handkerchief, maybe. Now, wouldn’t you like to live like that?’ asked Oblomov. ‘It is real life, isn’t it?’
‘Always like that?’ asked Stolz.
‘Yes, till old age – till the grave. That is life!’
‘No, that isn’t life!’
‘No? Why not? Did I leave anything out? Just think, you wouldn’t see a single pale, worried face, no troubles, no questions about the high court, the stock exchange, shares, reports, the minister’s reception, ranks, larger allowances for expenses. Instead, everything you heard people say would be sincere! You would never have to move to a new flat – that alone is worth something! And that isn’t life?’
‘No, it isn’t!’ Stolz repeated obstinately.
‘What, then, is this life in your opinion?’
‘It is – –’ Stolz pondered for a while, trying to find a name for this sort of life – ‘it is a sort of – Oblomovitis!’ he said at last.
‘Oblomovitis!’ Oblomov repeated slowly, surprised at this strange definition and scanning it syllable by syllable. ‘Oblomovitis – ob-lo-mo-vi-tis!’
He gave Stolz a strange and intent look.
‘And what is the ideal of life, in your opinion, then? What is not Oblomovitis?’ he asked timidly and without enthusiasm. ‘Doesn’t everybody strive to achieve the very thing I dream of? Why,’ he added, ‘isn’t the whole purpose of all your rushing about, all your passions, wars, trade, and politics to attain rest – reach this ideal of a lost paradise?’
‘Your utopia, too, is a typical Oblomov utopia,’ replied Stolz.
‘But everyone seeks peace and rest!’ Oblomov defended himself.
‘No, not all. Ten years ago you, too, were looking for something different.’
‘What was I looking for?’ Oblomov asked in perplexity, lost in thoughts of his past.
‘Think! Try to remember! Where are your books, your translations?’
‘Zakhar put them away somewhere,’ replied Oblomov. ‘In one of the corners of this room, I suppose.’
‘In a corner!’ Stolz said, reproachfully. ‘In the same corner, I suppose, as your plan to serve Russia so long as you have any strength left, because Russia needs hands and brains for the exploitation of her inexhaustible resources (your own words!); to work so that rest should be the sweeter, and to rest means to live a different and more artistic, more elegant kind of life, the life of poets and artists! Has Zakhar put away all those plans in a corner too? Do you remember telling me that after you had finished with your studies you wanted to visit foreign countries so as to be able to appreciate and