Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [178]
One day there was perfect silence both at home and in nature: no rattling of carriages, no slamming of doors; in the entrance hall the clock was ticking away regularly and the canaries were singing; but that did not disturb the silence, merely adding a touch of life to it. Oblomov lay carelessly on the sofa, playing with his slipper, dropping it on the floor, throwing it up into the air, turning it over, and catching it with his foot when it fell. Zakhar came in and stopped in the doorway.
‘What do you want?’ Oblomov asked in a casual tone of voice.
Zakhar said nothing, looking not sideways, but almost straight at him.
‘Well?’ asked Oblomov, glancing at him in surprise. ‘Is the pie ready?’
‘Have you found a flat, sir?’ Zakhar asked in his turn.
‘Not yet. Why?’
‘I haven’t sorted everything out yet – crockery, clothes, trunks – it’s all still in a heap in the box-room, sir. Ought I to sort it out?’
‘Wait,’ Oblomov said absent-mindedly, ‘I’m waiting for a letter from the country.’
‘So, I suppose, sir, your wedding will be after Christmas?’ Zakhar added.
‘What wedding?’ Oblomov asked, getting up suddenly.
‘Yours, of course!’ Zakhar replied emphatically, as though the whole thing had long been settled. ‘You are getting married, aren’t you, sir?’
‘I’m getting married? Who to?’ Oblomov asked in horror, glaring at Zakhar in amazement.
‘Why, sir, to the Ilyinsky young lady – –’ Before Zakhar had time to utter the last word, Oblomov almost pounced on him.
‘What are you talking about, you unhappy wretch?’ Oblomov cried pathetically in a restrained voice, advancing closer and closer on Zakhar. ‘Who has put this idea into your head?’
‘I’m not an unhappy wretch, sir, I’m sure,’ Zakhar said, retreating towards the door. ‘Who told me? Why, the Ilyinsky servants told me in the summer.’
‘Sh-sh-sh…’ Oblomov hissed at him, raising his finger and shaking it threateningly. ‘Not another word!’
‘I didn’t invent it, did I?’ Zakhar said.
‘Not a word!’ Oblomov repeated, looking sternly at him and pointing to the door.
Zakhar went out, heaving so loud a sigh that it could be heard all over the house.
Oblomov was staggered; he remained in the same position, gazing in horror at the spot where Zakhar had stood, then clasped his head in despair and sank into an arm-chair.
‘The servants know!’ the thought recurred again and again in his head. ‘They are gossiping about it in kitchens and servants’ halls! That is what it has come to! He had the cheek to ask me when the wedding would be. And her aunt still suspects nothing, and if she does suspect it is perhaps something else, something bad…. Dear, dear, what will she think? And I? And Olga? Unhappy wretch, what have I done?’ he said, turning over on the sofa and burying his face in a cushion. ‘Wedding! This poetic moment in the life of lovers, this crown of happiness, is being discussed by footmen and coachmen, when nothing has been decided, when no reply has been received from the country, when I haven’t a penny in my purse, when I haven’t found a flat – –’
He began analysing the poetic moment, which suddenly lost all its glamour as soon as Zakhar had spoken of it. He became aware of the reverse side of the medal, and kept turning painfully from side to side, lay on his back, jumped up suddenly, took three turns round the room, and lay down again.
‘There’s going to be trouble,’ Zakhar thought fearfully in the hall. ‘What the devil made me say it?’
‘How do they know?’ Oblomov kept asking himself. ‘Olga never breathed a word, and I never dared to utter my thoughts