Oblomov shook his head deprecatingly.
“I could not wish for what I have not yet experienced,” he said.
“You are very rude, Ilya,” put in Schtoltz. “See what comes of lolling about at home and confining your efforts to having your socks put on for you.”
“Pardon me,” said Oblomov quickly, and without giving him time to finish. “I should find it no trouble to say: ‘I shall be most glad, most delighted, to hear you sing, for of course you sing perfectly.’ So,” he went on, “‘it will afford me the very greatest possible pleasure.’ But do you really think it necessary?”
“At least you might express a desire that I should sing—if only out of curiosity.”
“I dare not do so,” replied Oblomov. “You are not an actress.”
“Then it shall be for you that I will sing,” she said to Schtoltz.
“While you, Ilya,” he added, “can be getting your compliment ready.”
Evening was closing in, and the lamp had been lit. Moonlike, it cast through the ivy-covered trellis a light so dim that the dusk still veiled the outlines of Olga’s face and figure—it still shrouded them, as it were, in crepe; while the soft, strong voice, vibrating with nervous tension, came ringing through the darkness with a note of mystery. At Schtoltz’s prompting she sang several arias and romances, of which some expressed suffering, with a vague forecast of joy, while others expressed joy, coupled with a lurking germ of sorrow.
As Oblomov listened he could scarcely restrain his tears or the cry of ecstasy that was almost bursting from his soul. In fact, he would have undertaken the tour abroad if thereby he could have remained where he was at that moment, and then gone.