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By Root 2321 0

ate bread they had not earned and wore gold and silver garments…. He heard the stories of dreams and signs, the clatter of knives, and the rattle of crockery. He clung to his nurse and listened to her old shaky voice: ‘Militrissa Kirbityevna!’ she said, pointing to Agafya Matveyevna. It seemed to him that the same cloud was sailing in the blue sky as then, the same breeze was blowing in at the window and playing with his hair; the Oblomovka turkey cock was strutting about and raising a great clamour under the window. Now a dog was barking: a visitor must have arrived. Was it Andrey and his father who had come from Verkhlyovo? It was a great day for him. It really must be he: his footsteps were coming nearer and nearer, the door opened…. ‘Andrey!’ he cried. Andrey was, indeed, standing before him, but no longer a boy – he was a middle-aged man.

Oblomov came to: before him stood the real Stolz, not a hallucination, but large as life.

Agafya Matveyevna quickly seized the baby, grabbed her sewing from the table, and took the children away; Alexeyev, too, disappeared. Stolz and Oblomov were left alone, looking silently and motionlessly at each other. Stolz seemed to pierce him with his gaze.

‘Is it you, Andrey?’ asked Oblomov in a voice that was almost inaudible with emotion, as a lover might ask his sweet-heart after a long separation.

‘It’s me,’ Andrey said softly. ‘Are you all right?’

Oblomov embraced him and clung closely to him.

‘Ah!’ he said in reply in a drawn-out voice, putting into that Ah all the intensity of the sorrow and gladness that had lain hidden in his heart for a great many years and that had never, not perhaps since their parting, been released by anyone or anything.

They sat down and again looked intently at each other.

‘Are you well?’ asked Andrey.

‘Yes, I’m all right now, thank God.’

‘But you’ve been ill, have you?’

‘Yes, Andrey; I had a stroke.’

‘Really? Good Lord!’ Andrey cried with alarm and sympathy. ‘No after effects?’

‘No, except that I can’t use my left leg freely,’ replied Oblomov.

‘Oh, Ilya, Ilya! What is the matter with you? You’ve gone to seed completely. What have you been doing all this time? Do you realize we haven’t seen each other for almost five years?’

Oblomov fetched a sigh.

‘Why didn’t you come to Oblomovka? Why didn’t you write?’

‘What shall I say to you, Andrey? You know me, so don’t, please, ask me any more,’ Oblomov said sadly.

‘And all the time here in this flat?’ Stolz said, looking round the room. ‘You never moved?’

‘No, I’ve lived here all the time. I’ll never move now.’

‘Do you really mean it? Never?’

‘I really do mean it, Andrey.’

Stolz looked at him intently, fell into thought, and began pacing the room.

‘And Olga Sergeyevna? Is she all right? Where is she? Does she still remember me?’

He broke off.

‘She’s all right, and she remembers you just as though you had parted only yesterday. I’ll tell you presently where she is…’

‘And your children?’

‘They are well too. But tell me, Ilya, are you serious about staying here? You see, I’ve come for you, to take you to us, to the country….’

‘No, no!’ Oblomov cried, lowering his voice and glancing apprehensively at the door, as though he were alarmed. ‘No, please don’t mention it – don’t talk of it.’

‘Why not? What is the matter with you?’ Stolz began. ‘You know me: I’ve set myself this task long ago, and I’m not going to give it up. Till now I’ve been prevented by all sorts of business, but now I am free. You must live with us, near us. That is what Olga and I have decided and that is what it is going to be. Thank God I have found you as you are and not worse. I hadn’t hoped… Come along, then! I’m quite ready to take you away by force! You must live differently – you know how…’

Oblomov listened to this tirade with impatience.

‘Please don’t shout,’ he begged. ‘Speak softly… there – –’

‘What do you mean, “there”?’

‘I mean, they may hear there and – and my landlady may think that I really want to go away.’

‘What does it matter? Let her!