Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [143]
‘What can it mean?’ he thought anxiously. ‘No one has called. Why is that?’
A secret voice whispered to him: ‘What are you so worried about? You want to break off all relations with her, don’t you?’ But he stifled that voice.
Half an hour later he at last succeeded in calling in Zakhar, who had been sitting in the yard with the coachman.
‘Hasn’t anyone been?’ he asked. ‘Hasn’t the servant called?’
‘He has called, sir,’ Zakhar replied.
‘Well, what did you do?’
‘I said you were not at home – you had gone to town.’
Oblomov glared at him.
‘Why did you say that?’ he asked. ‘What did I tell you to do when the man came?’
‘But it was a maid, sir, not a man,’ Zakhar answered with unruffled calmness.
‘Did you give her the letter?’
‘No, sir. You told me first to say you were not at home and then give the letter. When the man-servant comes, I’ll give it to him.’
‘Why, you – you’re a murderer! Where’s the letter? Give it me!’
Zakhar brought the letter, which was considerably soiled by then.
‘Why don’t you wash your hands?’ Oblomov cried angrily, pointing to a stain. ‘Look at it!’
‘My hands are clean, sir,’ Zakhar replied, looking away.
‘Anisya! Anisya!’ cried Oblomov.
Anisya thrust her head and shoulders in at the door.
‘Look what Zakhar has done!’ he complained to her. ‘Take this letter and give it to the maid or the man-servant who calls from the Ilyinskys, for the young lady. Do you hear?’
‘Yes, sir. Let me have it, I’ll see that it’s delivered.’
But as soon as she left the room Zakhar snatched the letter out of her hands.
‘Go along,’ he shouted, ‘and mind your own business.’
Soon the maid came again. Zakhar was opening the door to her, and when Anisya was about to go up to it, he glared furiously at her.
‘What do you want here?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘I’ve just come to hear what you – –’
‘All right, all right,’ he thundered, threatening her with his elbow. ‘Out you go!’
She smiled and went out, but watched through a crack in the door to see if Zakhar was carrying out his master’s orders.
Hearing the noise, Oblomov himself rushed out into the hall.
‘What is it, Katya?’ he asked.
‘My mistress, sir, sent me to ask where you have gone but it seems you haven’t gone anywhere. You’re at home. I’ll run and tell her,’ she said, turning to go.
‘Of course I’m at home,’ said Oblomov. ‘Zakhar is always talking nonsense. Here, give this letter to your mistress.’
‘Yes, sir, I will.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She’s gone for a walk in the village, sir. She asked me to tell you, sir, if you’d finished the book, to come to the park at two o’clock.’
Katya went away.
‘I won’t go,’ Oblomov thought, walking towards the village. ‘Why exacerbate one’s feelings when all should be over?’
From a distance he saw Olga walking up the hill; he watched Katya overtaking her and giving her the letter; he saw Olga stop for a moment, glance at the letter, think it over, then nod to Katya and turn into the avenue leading to the park.
Oblomov made a detour, and walking past the hill, entered the same avenue from the other end and, half-way down it, sat down on the grass among the bushes and waited.
‘She’s bound to pass here,’ he thought. ‘I’ll just peep at her unobserved, see how she is, and then go away for ever.’
He listened for the sound of her footsteps with a sinking heart. No – all was quiet. Nature carried on with her never-ceasing work: all around him unseen, tiny creatures were busy while everything seemed to be enjoying a solemn rest. In the grass everything was moving, creeping, bustling. Ants were running in different directions, looking very busy and engrossed in their work, running into one another, scampering about, hurrying – it was just like looking from a height at a busy marketplace: the same small crowds, the same