Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [91]
‘Well?’ said the father.
‘Well?’ said the son.
‘Is that all?’ asked the father.
‘All!’ replied the son.
They looked at each other in silence, as though trying to pierce each other with their eyes.
Meanwhile, a small group of curious neighbours had collected and were gazing open-mouthed at the way the steward was taking leave of his son.
Father and son shook hands. Andrey rode off at a gallop.
‘How do you like the young puppy?’ the neighbours were saying to one another. ‘He hasn’t shed a tear! Those two crows on the fence are cawing as though their throats would burst. Mark my words, that bodes no good – he’d better look out!’
‘What are crows to him? He’s not afraid of walking in the woods alone on St John’s Eve. All that means nothing to Germans. A Russian would have paid dearly for it!’
‘And the old infidel is a fine fellow, too!’ a mother observed. ‘He threw him out into the street like a kitten: never embraced or wailed over him.’
‘Stop, stop, Andrey!’ the old man shouted.
Andrey stopped his horse.
‘Oh, so his heart misgave him, after all,’ people in the crowd said with approval.
‘Well?’ asked Andrey.
‘The saddle-strap is loose – let me tighten it.’
‘I’ll tighten it myself when I get to Shamshevka. It’s no use wasting time; I want to be there before dark.’
‘All right,’ said the father with a wave of the hand.
‘All right,’ the son repeated with a nod and, bending down a little, he was about to spur his horse.
‘Just like dogs – the two of them,’ said the neighbours. ‘They might be strangers!’
Suddenly a loud wail was heard in the crowd: some woman could bear it no longer.
‘Oh, you poor darling,’ she said, wiping her tears with a corner of her kerchief. ‘Poor little orphan! You have no mother, you have no one to bless you.… Let me at least make the sign of the cross over you!’
Andrey rode up to her and jumped off his horse. He embraced the old woman and was about to ride on – when suddenly he burst out crying while she was kissing him and making the sign of the cross over him. In her fervent words he seemed to have heard the voice of his mother, and for a moment his mother’s tender image rose before his mind. He embraced the woman once more with great tenderness, hastily wiped his tears, and jumped on to his horse. He struck it with his crop and disappeared in a cloud of dust; three dogs rushed after him desperately from two sides, barking at the top of their voices.
2
STOLZ was the same age as Oblomov: he, too, was over thirty. He had been a civil servant, retired, gone into business, and had actually acquired a house and capital. He was on the board of some company trading with foreign countries. He was continually on the move: if his company had to send an agent to Belgium or England, they sent him; if some new scheme had to be drafted or a new idea put into practice, he was chosen to do it. At the same time he kept up his social connexions and his reading; goodness only knows how he found time to do it.
He was made of bone, muscle, and nerve, like an English racehorse. He was spare: he had practically no cheeks, that is to say, there was bone and muscle but no sign of fat; his complexion was clear, darkish, and without a sign of red in it; his eyes were expressive, though slightly green. He made no superfluous gestures. If he was sitting, he sat quietly; if he was doing something, he used as few gestures as were necessary. Just as there was nothing excessive in his organism, so in his moral outlook he aimed at a balance between the practical side of life and the finer requirements of the spirit. The two sides ran parallel to each other, twisting and turning on the way, but never getting entangled in heavy, inextricable knots. He went along on his way firmly and cheerfully, lived within his income, and spent every day as he spent every rouble, keeping a firm and unremitting control over his time, his labour, and his mental and emotional powers. He seemed to be able to control