Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [180]
‘Listen, I’ll explain to you what it is. “A wedding, a wedding,” idle people will begin to say – women, children, in servants’ halls, in shops, in the markets. A man ceases to be Ilya Ilyich or Pyotr Petrovich, and is called “the fiancé”. The day before nobody would look at him, and the next day all are staring at him, as if he were a rogue or something. They won’t leave him alone in the theatre or in the street. “There he is,” they all whisper, “there!” And how many people come up to him during the day, each trying to look as stupid as possible, as you look just now’ (Zakhar turned away quickly and looked at the yard), ‘and to say something utterly preposterous. That’s how it all starts. And, like a damned soul, you have got to drive every day to your fiancée first thing in the morning, always wearing pale-yellow gloves and brand-new clothes; you must never appear to be bored, you must never eat and drink properly, but live on air and bouquets! And this has to go on for three or four months! Do you see? Do you think I could do that?’
Oblomov stopped to see whether his description of the disadvantages of marriage had any effect on Zakhar.
‘Shall I go now, sir?’ Zakhar asked, turning to the door.
‘No, wait! You’re good at spreading false rumours, and you may as well know why they are false.’
‘What’s there for me to know?’ said Zakhar, examining the walls.
‘You’ve forgotten how much rushing about an engaged couple have to do. It wouldn’t be you – would it now – who’d be running for me to the tailor, the cobbler, and the furniture shop? I couldn’t be everywhere at once, could I? The whole town will know about it. “Have you heard? – Oblomov is getting married!” “No! Who to?” “Who is she? When’s the wedding?”,’ Oblomov said in different voices. ‘They’ll be talking of nothing else. Why, I shall have a nervous breakdown because of it, and you can do nothing better than talk of a wedding!’
He glanced at Zakhar again.
‘Shall I call Anisya, sir?’ asked Zakhar.
‘What do I want Anisya for? It was you and not Anisya who made this wild suggestion.’
‘What have I done to deserve such punishment?’ Zakhar whispered, heaving a sigh that raised his shoulders.
‘And did you think of the expense of it?’ Oblomov went on. ‘Where am I to get the money? You saw how much money I had, didn’t you?’ Oblomov asked almost menacingly. ‘And the flat? I have to pay a thousand roubles here, pay three thousand for a new flat, and goodness only knows how much for doing it up! Then there’s the carriage, the cook, the living expenses! Where am I to get it all from?’
‘How do other people with three hundred serfs get married?’ Zakhar retorted, and was immediately sorry for it, for his master started so violently that he nearly jumped out of his chair.
‘Are you talking of “other people” again? Take care!’ he said, shaking his finger. ‘Other people live in two, or – at most – in three rooms: the dining-room and the drawing-room are the same, and some people sleep there, too, the children in the next room. One maid does the work of the whole place. The mistress herself goes to market! Do you think Olga Sergeyevna will go to market?’
‘Well, sir, I could go to the market, couldn’t I?’ Zakhar observed.
‘Do you know how much Oblomovka brings in?’ Oblomov asked. ‘You’ve heard what the bailiff wrote, haven’t you? The income is “about two thousand less”! And there’s the road to be constructed, school to be opened, the house to be built…. How could I think of a wedding? What are you talking about?’
Oblomov stopped. He was himself horrified at this terrible and comfortless prospect. The roses, the orange-blossom, the brilliant festivities, the whisper of admiration in the crowd – all had faded suddenly. He grew pale and sank into thought. Then he gradually recovered, looked round and saw Zakhar.
‘What is it?’ he asked gloomily.
‘Why, sir, you told me to stand here!’ said Zakhar.
‘Go!’ said Oblomov with an impatient wave of the hand.
Zakhar stepped over the threshold quickly.
‘No, wait!