Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [243]
‘Are you really, sir? I am glad, sir, to have lived to hear such joyful news. Accept my congratulations, Mr Stolz, sir! May you live happily for many years and have children in plenty. Dear me, this is great news indeed, sir!’
Zakhar bowed, smiled, grunted, and wheezed. Stolz took out a note and gave it him.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘take it and buy yourself a coat; you look like a beggar.’
‘Whom have you married, sir?’ asked Zakhar, trying to catch Stolz’s hand to kiss.
‘Olga Sergeyevna – remember?’ said Oblomov.
‘The llyinsky young lady! Lord, what a nice young lady she is, sir! You were right to scold me that time, sir, old dog that I am! It was all my stupid fault, sir: I thought it was you. It was I who told the Ilyinsky servants about it, and not Nikita! Aye, that was slander, that was! Oh, dear me, dear me – –’ he kept repeating, as he went out of the room.
‘Olga invites you to stay at her house in the country. Your love has cooled down, so there is no danger: you won’t be jealous. Let’s go.’
Oblomov sighed. ‘No, Andrey,’ he said; ‘it isn’t love or jealousy I’m afraid of, but I won’t go with you all the same.’
‘What are you afraid of then?’
‘I’m afraid of envying you: your happiness will be like a mirror in which I shall see my bitter and wasted life; for, you see, I won’t live differently any more – I can’t.’
‘My dear Ilya, how can you talk like this? You’ll have to live the same sort of life as those around you, whether you want to or not. You’ll keep accounts, look after your estate, read, listen to music. You can’t imagine how much her voice has improved! Remember Casta diva?’
Oblomov waved his hand to stop Stolz reminding him of it.
‘Let’s go, then!’ Stolz insisted. ‘It’s her wish. She won’t leave you alone. I may get tired of asking you, but not she. There is so much energy in her, so much vitality that quite often I find it hard to keep up with her myself. The past will again begin to stir in your soul. You will recall the park, the lilac, and you’ll rouse yourself….’
‘No, Andrey, no; don’t remind me of it, don’t try to rouse me, for God’s sake,’ Oblomov interrupted him earnestly. ‘It doesn’t comfort me, it hurts me. Memories are either the finest poetry when they are memories of actual happiness or a burning pain when they are associated with wounds that have scarcely healed. Let’s talk of something else. Oh, yes, I forgot to thank you for all the trouble you are taking about my affairs and my estate. My friend, I cannot, I don’t feel equal to it; you must look for my gratitude in your own heart, in your happiness – in Olga…. Sergeyevna, but I – I – cannot! I’m sorry I am giving you all this trouble. But it will soon be spring and I will most certainly go to Oblomovka….’
‘But have you any idea what is happening in Oblomovka?’ said Stolz. ‘You won’t recognize it! I haven’t written to you because you don’t answer letters. The bridge is built, and the house is finished, roof and all. But you must see about the interior decorations according to your own taste – I can’t undertake that. The new manager is one of my own men and he is looking after everything. You’ve seen the accounts, haven’t you?’
Oblomov made no answer.
‘Haven’t you read them?’ Stolz asked. ‘Where are they?’
‘Wait, I’ll find them after dinner. I must ask Zakhar.’
‘Oh, Ilya, Ilya! I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry.’
‘We’ll find them after dinner. Let’s have dinner!’
Stolz frowned as he sat down to the table. He remembered Oblomov’s name-day party: the oysters, the pineapples, the double-snipe; now he saw a coarse table-cloth, cruet-bottles stopped with bits of paper instead of corks, forks with broken handles, two large pieces of black bread on their plates. Oblomov had fish soup and he had barley broth and boiled chicken, followed by tough tongue and mutton. Red wine was served. Stolz poured himself out half a glass, had a sip, put the glass back on the table, and did not touch