Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [216]
On that day the only people Oblomov had invited to his name-day dinner were Ivan Gerasimovich and Alexeyev, the silent and mild-mannered man who had, at the beginning of this story, invited Oblomov to accompany him to the First of May festival. Oblomov was determined not to be outshone by Ivan Matveyevich, and he did his best to impress his guests by the delicacy and daintiness of the dishes unknown in that part of the town. Instead of a rich pie there were pasties stuffed with air; oysters were served before soup; there were chickens in curling-papers stuffed with truffles, choice cuts of meat, the finest vegetables, English soup. In the middle of the table there was an enormous pineapple, surrounded by peaches, apricots, and cherries. There were flowers in vases on the table.
No sooner had they started on the soup and Tarantyev had cursed the pasties and the cook for the stupid notion of having no stuffing in them, than the dog began jumping on the chain and barking desperately. A carriage drove into the yard and somone asked for Oblomov. They all gaped in astonishment.
‘Someone of my last year’s friends must have remembered my name-day,’ said Oblomov. ‘Tell them I am not at home – not at home!’ he said in a loud whisper to Zakhar.
They were having dinner in the summer-house in the garden. Zakhar rushed off to carry out his master’s order and ran into Stolz on the path.
‘Andrey Ivanych,’ he wheezed joyfully.
‘Andrey!’ Oblomov addressed him in a loud voice and ran to embrace him.
‘I’m just in time for dinner, I see,’ said Stolz. ‘May I join you? I’m famished. It took me hours to find you.’
‘Come along, come along, sit down!’ Oblomov said fussily, making him sit down next to him.
At Stolz’s appearance, Tarantyev was the first to jump quickly over the fence into the kitchen garden; he was followed by Ivan Matveyevich, who hid behind the summer-house and then disappeared into his attic. The landlady also got up from her seat.
‘I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you,’ said Stolz, jumping up.
‘Where are you off to? What for?’ Oblomov shouted. ‘Ivan Matveyevich! Mikhey Andreyich!’
He made the landlady sit down again, but he could not recall the landlady’s brother or Tarantyev.
‘Where have you sprung from? Are you staying here long?’ Oblomov began firing questions at him.
Stolz had come for a fortnight on business and was then going to the country, to Kiev and all sorts of other places. He spoke little at table, but ate a lot; he evidently was really hungry. The others, it goes without saying, ate in silence. After dinner, when everything had been cleared away, Oblomov asked for champagne and soda-water to be left in the summer-house and remained alone with Stolz. They did not speak for a time. Stolz looked at Oblomov long and intently.
‘Well, Ilya?’ he said at last, but in so stern and questioning a voice that Oblomov dropped his eyes and made no answer.
‘So that it’s “never”?’
‘What is “never”?’ asked Oblomov, as though he did not understand.
‘Have you forgotten? “Now or never!”’
‘I’m not the same now – as I was then, Andrey,’ he said at last. ‘My affairs are in order, thank Heaven. I am not lying about idly, my plan is almost finished, I subscribe to the journals, I’ve read almost all the books you left….’
‘But why didn