Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [192]
‘Very well; why should I?’ he agreed. ‘Except perhaps to Mr Oblomov, if the subject should be mentioned….’
Olga restrained herself and said unconcernedly:
‘No, please, don’t tell him, either.’
‘Oh, all right; you know your will is law so far as I’m concerned,’ the baron added gallantly.
She was not without guile. If she wanted very much to look at Oblomov when other people were present, she would first look at two or three other people and only then at him. How much thought – and all for Oblomov. How many times had her cheeks begun to burn ! How many times did she touch this or that key of the piano to see if it had not been tuned too high, or shifted the music from one place to another! And he did not come! What could it mean? Three o’clock. Four o’clock – he wasn’t there! At half-past four she began visibly to wilt – her beauty was gone, her bloom faded, and she sat down at the table looking pale. No one seemed to have noticed anything, they were all eating the dishes which had been prepared for him, and talking cheerfully and unconcernedly. After dinner, in the evening – still he did not come. Till ten o’clock she fluctuated between hope and fear; at ten o’clock she went to her room. At first she vented on him all the bitterness that had accumulated in her heart; there was no word too sarcastic or too spiteful in her vocabulary for her to hurl it accusingly at his head. Then she felt suddenly as though her body were on fire and then turned cold as ice. ‘He is ill, alone – he cannot even write,’ it flashed through her head. This conviction took complete possession of her and kept her awake all night. She fell into a feverish slumber for a couple of hours, was delirious in the night, but got up in the morning calm and resolute, though pale.
On Monday morning the landlady looked into Oblomov’s study and said:
‘Some girl is asking for you.’
‘Me? Impossible!’ replied Oblomov. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s here. She came to our door by mistake. Shall I show her in?’
Oblomov had hardly time to make up his mind when Katya appeared before him. The landlady went out.
‘Katya!’ Oblomov cried in surprise. ‘Is it you? What’s the matter?’
‘Miss Olga is outside,’ Katya said in a whisper. ‘She has sent me to ask – –’
Oblomov turned pale.
‘Miss Olga!’ he whispered in horror. ‘It can’t be true, Katya. You’re joking, aren’t you? Please, don’t torture me!’
‘It is true, sir. She’s waiting in a hired carriage near the teashop. She wants to come here. She sent me to tell you to send Zakhar away. She’ll be here in half an hour.’
‘I’d better go and see her myself. She can’t possibly come here, can she?’ said Oblomov.
‘You won’t have time, sir. She may come in any minute. She thinks you’re not well. Good-bye, I must run. My mistress is waiting for me – she’s alone….’
And she went away.
Oblomov put on his boots, waistcoat, and tie with extraordinary rapidity and called Zakhar.
‘Zakhar,’ Oblomov said with feverish agitation, ‘the other day you asked my permission to go and see your friends in Garokhavaya Street, didn’t you? Well, you may go now!’
‘I won’t go, sir,’ Zakhar replied emphatically.
‘Oh yes, you will!’ Oblomov persisted.
‘I can’t go visiting people on weekdays, can I? I won’t go!’ Zakhar said obstinately.
‘Go and have a good time. Don’t be obstinate when your master does you a favour and lets you off – go and see your friends!’
‘I don’t care about my friends, sir!’
‘But don’t you want to see them?’
‘No, sir. They’re all such rascals that every time I see them I never want to see them again!’
‘Go – go for goodness’ sake!’ Oblomov kept repeating insistently, and the blood rushed to his face.
‘No, sir,’ Zakhar replied unconcernedly. ‘I’ll stay all day at home to-day, but on Sunday, sir, I’d be glad to go out.’
‘You’re going now – at once!’ Oblomov hurried him agitatedly. ‘You must – –’
‘But why should I go all that way for nothing?’
‘Well, just go for a walk for a couple of hours. Look at that sleepy face of yours – you want