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By Root 2307 0

spirits spread through his body. And again, as many times before, he felt like being everywhere at once, far, far away: to go around with Stolz, accompanied by Olga; to go to the country, to the fields and woods; to shut himself up in his study and busy himself with his work; to travel to Rybinsk harbour, to construct the new road; to read the new book which had just been published and which everybody was talking about; to go to the opera – to-day…. Yes, she had been to see him to-day, and he would go to see her and then – to the opera. What a full day it had been! How easy it was to breathe in the sort of atmosphere Olga lived in, in the rays of her virginal brilliance, her high spirits, and her young but subtle, deep, and sound intelligence! He felt as though he were not walking, but flying, as though he were being wafted about the room.

‘Forward, forward!’ Olga had said. ‘Higher, higher, to that boundary where the power of grace and tenderness loses its rights and where man’s kingdom begins!’ How clearly she saw life! How easily she had found her way in that intricate book and had guessed instinctively his way in it too! Their two lives, like two rivers, must merge: he was to be her guide, her leader! She saw his powers, his abilities, she knew how much he could do, and was waiting submissively for him to assert his dominion over her. Wonderful Olga! A cool, brave, simple, but resolute woman, natural as life itself!

‘How disgusting this place really is!’ he said, looking round. ‘And this angel descended into a swamp and sanctified it with her presence!’

He looked lovingly at the chair on which she had been sitting, and suddenly his eyes shone: beside the chair, on the floor, he saw a tiny glove.

‘A pledge! Her hand: it’s a portent! Oh!’ he moaned passionately, pressing the glove to his lips.

The landlady thrust her head through the door to ask him if he would like to have a look at some linen: it had been brought for sale and he might like to buy some. But he thanked her dryly, without thinking of glancing at her elbows, said he was sorry, but he was very busy. Then he became absorbed in the recollections of the summer, went over all the details, remembered every tree, bush, and seat, every uttered word, and found it all more charming than it had been at the time when he was enjoying it. He seemed to have lost all control of himself. He sang, spoke kindly to Anisya, joked about her having no children, and promised to stand godfather to her first baby. He played so noisily with Masha that the landlady looked in and sent Masha away so that she should not interfere with their lodger’s ‘work’.

He spent the rest of the day indulging in even madder dreams: Olga was gay and sang, then there was more singing at the opera, then he had tea with them, and the conversation at the tea-table between him, the aunt, the baron, and Olga was so sincere and cordial that Oblomov felt absolutely a member of this small family. He need no longer live a solitary life: he had a home, his life was now built on firm foundations – he had warmth and light – and how lovely life was!

He slept little that night: he was reading the books Olga had sent him and read a volume and a half.

‘To-morrow the letter from the country is sure to come,’ he thought, and his heart beat fast – fast. ‘At last!’

8

NEXT day Zakhar, while tidying the room, found a small glove on the writing-desk. He examined it for some time, grinned, and then gave it to Oblomov.

‘I suppose, sir, the Ilyinsky young lady must have left it behind,’ he said.

‘You devil!’ Oblomov thundered, snatching the glove from his hand. ‘Nonsense! There was no Ilyinsky young lady! It was the dressmakers who came from the shop with some shirts for me. How dare you make up such stories?’

‘What sort of devil am I, sir? I am making up stories, am I? You should hear what they are saying at the landlady’s…’

‘What are they saying?’ asked Oblomov.

‘Why, sir, that the Ilyinsky young lady was here with her maid.’

‘Good God!’ Oblomov said in horror. ‘How do they know that