Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [188]
‘Oh, well, I must not detain you,’ said Oblomov, looking at her elbows and back.
‘I also got your dressing-gown out of the box-room,’ she went on. ‘It can be washed and mended: such nice material! It’s good for many more years!’
‘There was no need for it. I’m not wearing it any more, I’m afraid; it’s no use to me.’
‘Well, never mind, let them wash it: perhaps you will wear it one day – when you are married!’ she finished, smiling and shutting the door behind her.
His sleepiness suddenly left him. He pricked up his ears and opened his eyes wide.
‘She, too, knows about it – everybody knows about it!’ he said, sitting down on the chair he had offered the landlady. ‘Oh, Zakhar, Zakhar!’
Again a flood of ‘pathetic’ words was let loose on Zakhar, again Anisya’s nose was set in motion as she assured him that it was the first time she had heard the landlady speak about the wedding, that she never breathed a word about it in her talks with the landlady, that there was no question of any wedding, and, indeed, the whole thing was impossible. The whole thing, she opined, must have been invented by the common enemy of mankind, and as for her, she was ready to sink through the ground, and the landlady was also ready to take the icon off the wall and take an oath that she had never heard of the llyinsky young lady, and was thinking of someone else…. Anisya went on and on, so that in the end he had to wave her out of the room. Next day Zakhar asked if he might go and see some of his friends in Gorokhovaya Street, but Oblomov told him off so effectively that he was glad to get out of the room.
‘They don’t know anything about it, so you must spread the slanderous story there. Stay at home!’ Oblomov added sternly.
Wednesday passed. On Thursday Oblomov received another letter from Olga, asking what it all meant, what had happened, and why he had not come. She wrote that she had cried all the evening and hardly slept all night.
‘She cries, she can’t sleep, my angel!’ Oblomov exclaimed. ‘Lord, why does she love me? Why do I love her? Why did we meet? It’s all Andrey’s fault: he inoculated me with love as with a vaccine. And what sort of a life is it? All the time worries and anxieties! When at last am I to get rest and peaceful happiness?’
Sighing loudly, he lay down, got up, and even went out into the street, intent on trying to discover what was the right way to live a life which would be full and yet would go on quietly day after day, drop by drop, in mute contemplation of nature and slow, scarcely moving events of a peaceful busy family life. He did not want to think of it as a broad river, rushing along noisily with boiling waves, as Stolz thought of it.
‘It is a disease,’ Oblomov said, ‘a fever, rushing over rapids, with burst dams and floods.’
He wrote to Olga that he had caught a slight cold in the Summer Gardens, had had to drink a decoction and stay indoors for two days, that it had now passed and he hoped to see her on Sunday. She wrote back praising him for having been careful, advising him to stay in on Sunday, too, if necessary, adding that she did not mind being bored for a week provided he took care of himself. The letter was brought by Nikita, the same Nikita who, according to Anisya, was chiefly responsible for the gossip. He brought some new books from Olga, who wanted Oblomov to read them and tell her when they met whether they were worth reading. She asked how he was, and after writing an answer, Oblomov gave it to Nikita, and having seen him off, he followed him with his eyes to the gate to make sure he did not stray into the kitchen and repeat the ‘slanderous’ story there or that Zakhar did not see him off into the street. He was glad of Olga’s suggestion that he should take care and not come on Sunday, and he wrote to say that for a complete recovery it was really necessary for him to stay indoors for a few more days. On Sunday he paid a visit