Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [179]
He smiled, recalling his former poetic vision of the wedding: a long veil, orange blossom, the murmur of the crowd…. But the colours were no longer the same: in the crowd he could see the coarse, dirty Zakhar and all Ilyinskys’ house serfs, a number of carriages, the cold and curious eyes of strangers…. And then he kept imagining all sorts of tiresome and dreadful things….
‘I must get that idea out of Zakhar’s head,’ he decided, in a tumult of excitement one moment and painfully thoughtful the next. ‘I must make him believe that it is utterly absurd.’
An hour later he called in Zakhar. Zakhar pretended not to hear and was about to steal quietly into the kitchen. He had opened one half of the door without making any noise, but he missed it and caught his shoulder against the other half so clumsily that both halves flew open with a bang.
‘Zakhar!’ Oblomov shouted imperiously.
‘Yes, sir?’ Zakhar replied from the passage.
‘Come here!’ said Oblomov.
‘If you want me to bring you anything, sir, tell me what it is and I’ll fetch it,’ he replied.
‘Come here!’ Oblomov said slowly and insistently.
‘Oh, I wish I was dead!’ Zakhar wheezed, shuffling into the room. ‘What do you want, sir?’ he asked, getting stuck in the doorway.
‘Come here!’ Oblomov said in a solemn and mysterious voice, indicating a place so close to himself that Zakhar would have to sit almost on his master’s knees.
‘Where do you want me to come?’ Zakhar protested, remaining stubbornly at the door. ‘There’s no room there, and I can hear from here just as well.’
‘Come here when you’re told!’ Oblomov said sternly.
Zakhar took a step and stood still like a monument, looking out of the window at the wandering hens and turning a brush-like side-whisker to his master. His agitation had wrought a change in Oblomov in one hour. His face looked pinched and his eyes wandered uneasily.
‘I’m in for it now!’ thought Zakhar, looking gloomier and gloomier.
‘How could you have asked your master such an absurd question?’ asked Oblomov.
‘He’s off!’ thought Zakhar, blinking in expectation of ‘pathetic words’.
‘I ask you: how could you have got such a preposterous idea into your head?’ Oblomov repeated.
Zakhar said nothing.
‘Do you hear, Zakhar? What right have you to think such things, let alone say them?’
‘I think, sir, I’d better call Anisya,’ Zakhar replied, taking a step towards the door.
‘I want to speak to you and not to Anisya,’ Oblomov replied. ‘Why did you invent such a preposterous story?’
‘I didn’t invent it, sir,’ said Zakhar. ‘The Ilyinskys’ servants told me.’
‘And who told them?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir. Katya told Semyon, Semyon told Nikita, Nikita told Vasilisa, Vasilisa told Anisya, and Anisya told me,’ said Zakhar.
‘Oh dear, all of them!’ Oblomov cried in horror. ‘It’s all nonsense, absurdity, lies, slanders – do you hear?’ Oblomov said, rapping his fist on the table. ‘It cannot be!’
‘Why not, sir?’ Zakhar interrupted indifferently. ‘It’s an ordinary sort of thing – a wedding is! You’re not the only one to get married – everyone does it.’
‘Everyone!’ Oblomov repeated. ‘You certainly enjoy comparing me to other people! This cannot be! It isn’t and it will never be! A wedding is an ordinary sort of thing – did you hear that? What is a wedding?’
Zakhar glanced at Oblomov, but seeing his master’s furious eyes, at once looked