Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [242]
‘Guess what I’m doing and where I’ve come from?’ Stolz asked. ‘Why, I don’t suppose you get any news from the outside world here, do you?’
Oblomov looked at him with interest, waiting to hear what he had to say.
‘How is Olga?’ he asked.
‘Oh, so you haven’t forgotten her, have you?’ said Stolz. ‘I did not think you would remember.’
‘No, Andrey, I couldn’t forget her, could I? That would have meant forgetting that I had been alive once, that I had been in paradise…. And now here I am!’ he sighed. ‘But where is she?’
‘She’s looking after her estate.’
‘With her aunt?’ asked Oblomov.
‘And with her husband.’
‘Is she married?’ Oblomov cried, staring at Stolz.
‘Why are you so alarmed? Memories?’ Stolz added softly, almost tenderly.
‘Good heavens, no!’ Oblomov cried, coming to himself. ‘I wasn’t alarmed, but surprised. I don’t know why it startled me. How long has she been married? Is she happy? Tell me, please. I feel as though you had lifted a load off my mind. Though you assured me that she had forgiven me, I – well, you know, I felt uneasy! Something kept gnawing at me…. Dear Andrey, how grateful I am to you!’
He was so genuinely pleased, he was so jumping about on the sofa, unable to keep still, that Stolz could not help admiring him and was even touched.
‘What a good chap you are, Ilya,’ he said. ‘Your heart was worthy of her. I shall tell her everything.’
‘No, no, don’t tell her!’ Oblomov interrupted. ‘She’ll think me unfeeling if she hears that I was glad to learn of her marriage.’
‘But isn’t gladness also a feeling, and an unselfish one too? You’re only glad that she is happy.’
‘That’s true, that’s true!’ Oblomov interrupted. ‘I don’t know what I’m talking about. But who – who is the lucky man? I forgot to ask.’
‘Who?’ Stolz repeated. ‘How slow you are, Ilya!’
Oblomov suddenly looked motionless at his friend: for a moment his face went rigid and the colour left his cheeks.
‘It – it isn’t you, is it?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Frightened again? What of?’ Stolz said, laughing.
‘Don’t joke, Andrey, tell me the truth!’ Oblomov cried agitatedly.
‘Of course, I’m not joking. I’ve been married to Olga for over a year.’
Gradually the look of alarm disappeared from Oblomov’s face, giving place to an expression of peaceful thoughtfulness; he did not raise his eyes, but his thoughtfulness was a minute later changed to a deep and quiet joy, and when he slowly looked up at Stolz, his eyes were full of tender emotion and tears.
‘Dear Andrey!’ said Oblomov, embracing his friend. ‘Dear Olga – Sergeyevna,’ he added, restraining his enthusiasm. ‘God himself has blessed you! Oh dear, I’m so happy! Tell her – –’
‘I’ll tell her that I know of no other Oblomov!’ Stolz interrupted him, deeply moved.
‘No, tell her, remind her that we were brought together only for the sake of putting her on the right path and that I bless our meeting and bless her on her new path in life! What if it had been someone else?’ he added in terror. ‘But now,’ he concluded gaily, ‘I do not blush for the part I played, and I am not sorry for it. A heavy load has lifted from my soul; it’s all clear there and I am happy. Dear Lord, I thank you!’
He again almost jumped about on the sofa with excitement: one moment he laughed and another he cried.
‘Zakhar, champagne for dinner!’ he cried, forgetting that he had not a farthing.
‘I’ll tell Olga everything, everything,’ said Stolz. ‘I understand now why she can’t forget you. No, you were worthy of her: your heart is a well – deep!’
Zakhar thrust his head round the door.
‘Please, sir, one moment!’ he said, winking at his master.
‘What do you want?’ Oblomov asked impatiently. ‘Go away!’
‘I want some money, please!’ Zakhar whispered.
Oblomov suddenly fell silent.
‘Never mind,’ he whispered into the door. ‘Say you’d forgotten or that you hadn’t time!