Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [176]
‘Do you have supper?’
‘Why, of course we have supper. On Christmas Eve we go to vespers.’
‘That’s good,’ Oblomov commended her. ‘What church do you go to?’
‘The Church of the Nativity; it’s our parish church.’
‘Do you read anything?’
She looked at him with a vacant expression and said nothing.
‘Have you any books?’ he asked.
‘My brother has some, but he never reads. We get our newspapers from the inn, and my brother sometimes reads aloud – and Vanya, of course, has lots of books.’
‘But don’t you ever have a rest?’
‘No, I never do!’
‘Don’t you go to the theatre?’
‘My brother goes at Christmas.’
‘And you?’
‘Me? Why, I have no time. Who would get supper ready?’ she asked, casting a sidelong glance at him.
‘The cook could do without you.’
‘Akulina!’ she retorted in surprise. ‘Good heavens, no! She could do nothing without me. The supper wouldn’t be ready by the morning. I have all the keys.’
Silence. Oblomov gazed admiringly at her plump, round elbows.
‘What lovely arms you have,’ Oblomov said suddenly. ‘One could paint them just as they are!’
She smiled and blushed a little.
‘Sleeves are such a nuisance,’ she remarked apologetically. ‘Nowadays the dresses are made in such a way that one cannot help getting the sleeves dirty.’
She fell into silence. Oblomov did not speak either.
‘Must finish grinding the coffee,’ the landlady whispered to herself. ‘Then I must break the sugar. Mustn’t forget to send out for some cinnamon.’
‘You ought to get married,’ said Oblomov. ‘You’re such an excellent housewife.’
She smiled and began pouring the coffee into a big glass jar.
‘Really,’ Oblomov added.
‘Who would marry me with my two children?’ she replied, and began counting something in her mind. ‘Two dozen,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Will she be able to put it all in?’
And putting the jar into the cupboard, she rushed into the kitchen. Oblomov went back to his room and began reading.
‘What a fresh and healthy woman, and what an excellent housewife! She really ought to get married,’ he said to himself, and was lost in thoughts – of Olga.
On a fine day Oblomov put on his cap and took a stroll in the neighbourhood; after getting stuck in the mud in one place and having an unpleasant meeting with dogs in another, he returned home. At home the table was already laid and the food was so good and so well served. Sometimes a bare arm would be thrust through the door with the offer to try some of the landlady’s pie on a plate.
‘It’s nice and quiet here,’ Oblomov said as he drove off to the opera, ‘but rather dull.’
One night, returning late from the theatre, he and the cabby knocked for almost an hour at the gate; the dog lost its voice with barking and jumping on the chain. He got chilled and angry and vowed that he would leave the very next day. But the next day and the day after and a whole week passed – and still he did not leave.
He missed Olga greatly on the days he could not see her, or hear her voice, or read in her eyes the same unchanging affection, love, and happiness. On the days he could see her, however, he lived as he had done in the summer, was enchanted by her singing or gazed into her eyes; and in the company of other people one look of hers, indifferent to all, but deep and significant for him, was enough for him. With the approach of winter, though, they found it more and more difficult to see each other alone. The Ilyinskys always had visitors, and for days together Oblomov did not succeed in saying two words to her. They exchanged glances. Her glances sometimes expressed weariness and impatience. She looked at all the visitors with a frown. Once or twice Oblomov felt rather bored, and one day after dinner he was about to pick up his hat.
‘Where are you going?’ Olga asked in surprise, coming suddenly upon him and taking hold of his hat.
‘I’d like to go home.’
‘Why?’ she asked, raising one eyebrow higher than the other. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Oh, I don’t know –