Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [75]
At last they managed somehow to compose themselves.
‘Will you go tobogganing this Christmas?’ Luka Savich asked Oblomov’s father after a pause.
Another general outburst of laughter which lasted for about ten minutes.
‘Shall I ask Antip to get the hill ready before the holidays?’ Oblomov’s father said suddenly. ‘Luka Savich is dying to have another go – he can’t bear to wait – –’
The laughter of the whole company interrupted him.
‘But is that toboggan still in working order?’ one of them asked, choking with laughter.
There was more laughter.
They all went on laughing for a long time, then gradually began quieting down: one was wiping his tears, another blowing his nose, a third coughing violently and clearing his throat, saying with difficulty: ‘Oh dear, oh dear, this will be the death of me! Dear me, the way he rolled over on his back with the skirts of his coat flying – –’
This was followed by another outburst of laughter, the last and the longest of all, and then all was quiet. One man sighed, another yawned aloud, muttering something under his breath, and everyone fell silent.
As before, the only sounds that could be heard were the ticking of the clock, Oblomov’s father’s footfalls, and the sharp snapping of a thread broken off by one of the ladies. Suddenly Oblomov’s father stopped in the middle of the room, looking dismayed and touching the tip of his nose.
‘Good heavens,’ he said, ‘what can this mean? Someone’s going to die: the tip of my nose keeps itching.’
‘Goodness,’ his wife cried, throwing up her hands, ‘no one’s going to die if it’s the tip of the nose that’s itching. Someone’s going to die when the bridge of the nose is itching. Really, my dear, you never can remember anything! You’ll say something like this when strangers or visitors are in the house, and you will disgrace yourself!’
‘But what does it mean when the tip of your nose is itching?’ Oblomov’s father asked, looking embarrassed.
‘Looking into a wine-glass! How could you say a thing like that! Someone’s going to die, indeed!’
‘I’m always mixing things up!’ said Oblomov’s father. ‘How is one to remember – the nose itching at the side, or at the tip, or the eyebrows – –’
‘At the side means news,’ Pelageya Ivanovna chimed in. ‘If the eyebrows are itching, it means tears; the forehead, bowing, if it’s on the right – to a man, and if it’s on the left side – to a woman; if the ears are itching, it means that it’s going to rain; lips – kissing; moustache – eating sweets; elbow – sleeping in a new place; soles of the feet – a journey – –’
‘Well done, Pelageya Ivanovna!’ said Oblomov’s father. ‘And I suppose when butter is going to be cheap, your neck will be itching – –’
The ladies began to laugh and whisper to one another; some of the men smiled; it seemed as though they would burst out laughing again, but at that moment there came a sound like a dog growling and a cat hissing when they are about to throw themselves upon each other. That was the clock striking.
‘Good Lord, it’s nine o’clock already!’ Oblomov’s father cried with joyful surprise. ‘Dear me, I never noticed how the time was passing. Hey, there! Vaska! Vanka! Motka!’
Three sleepy faces appeared at the door.
‘Why don’t you lay the table?’ Oblomov’s father asked with surprise and vexation. ‘You never think of your masters! Well, what are you standing there for? Come on, vodka!’
‘That’s why the tip of your nose was itching,’ Pelageya Ivanovna said quickly. ‘When you drink vodka, you’ll be looking into your glass.’
After supper, having kissed and made the sign of the cross over each other, they all went to bed, and sleep descended over their untroubled heads. In his dream Oblomov saw not one or two such evenings, but weeks, months, and years of days and evenings spent in this way. Nothing interfered with the monotony of their life, and the inhabitants of Oblomovka were not tired of it because