Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [123]
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