Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [190]
One morning, as soon as Oblomov woke up without a care in the world and began drinking his coffee, Zakhar suddenly announced that the bridges had been put back. Oblomov’s heart missed a beat.
‘It’s Sunday to-morrow,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll have to go to Olga’s, manfully endure all day the significant glances of all sorts of curious strangers, then tell her when I intend to talk to her aunt.’
And he was still in the position where he found it absolutely impossible to move an inch forward. He imagined vividly how their engagement would be announced, how all sorts of ladies and gentlemen would arrive the next day and the day after that, how he would suddenly become an object of curiosity, how his health would be drunk at the dinner specially given to celebrate his engagement to Olga. Then – as Olga’s fiancé he would be expected to buy her a present.
‘A present!’ he said to himself in horror and burst out laughing bitterly. A present! And he had only 200 roubles in his pocket! Even if his money arrived, it would not be before Christmas, and perhaps later, after the corn had been sold, and when that would be, how much corn there was and what it would fetch – all that the letter would explain, and there was no letter. So what on earth was he to do? Farewell, his fortnight’s rest! And amid these worries he saw Olga’s beautiful face, her fluffy expressive eyebrows, her intelligent, grey-blue eyes, her sweet head, and her plait of hair, which was so long that it accentuated the noble proportions of her figure, from her head to her shoulders and waist. But no sooner did he begin to quiver with love than he was crushed by the thought: what was he to do, how was he to tackle the question of marriage, where was he to get the money, and what were they to live on afterwards?…
‘I will wait a little longer; perhaps the letter will come tomorrow or the day after,’ and he began to calculate when his letter could have arrived in the country, how long his neighbour would take over his reply, and how long the answer would take to reach him. ‘It must come in another three or at most four days – I’ll go to Olga’s a little later,’ he decided, ‘particularly as she can hardly be expected to know whether the bridges have been put back or not.’
‘Katya, have the bridges been put back?’ Olga asked her maid as soon as she woke that morning.
And this question was repeated every day. Oblomov did not suspect it.
‘I don’t know, miss. I haven’t seen the coachman or the caretaker to-day, and Nikita does not know.’
‘You never can answer my questions!’ Olga said with displeasure, examining the chain round her neck as she lay in bed.
‘I’ll find out at once, miss. I didn’t dare to go out, thinking that you would wake, or I’d have run down long ago.’
And Katya disappeared from the room. Olga opened the drawer of her bedside table and took out Oblomov’s last note.
‘He’s ill, the poor darling,’ she thought anxiously. ‘He is alone there, he is bored… Oh dear, how much longer…’ She had not finished the sentence when Katya, all flushed, flew into the room.
‘They were put back last night!’ she cried joyfully, caught Olga, who had jumped out of bed, in her arms, threw her dressing-gown round her, and helped her into her tiny slippers. Olga quickly opened a box, took something out of it, and put it in Katya’s hand. Katya kissed her hand. All this – her jumping out of bed, the coin dropped into Katya’s hand and Katya’s kiss – happened in one minute. ‘Oh, to-morrow’s Sunday: how lucky! He’ll be coming!’ thought Olga. She dressed quickly, had her breakfast, and went shopping with her aunt.
‘Let’s go to Mass at Smolny to-morrow, Auntie,’ she begged.
Her aunt screwed up her eyes, thought it over, then said:
‘Very well, only