Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [111]
‘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