“What now?” asked Oblomov indifferently. Zakhar said nothing, but eyed him with a sidelong glance. “Well?” said Oblomov again. “Have you yet found for yourself another flat?” Zakhar countered. “No, not yet. Why should you want to know?” “Because I suppose the wedding will be taking place soon after Christmas.” “The wedding? What wedding?” Oblomov suddenly leaped up. “You know what wedding--your own,” replied Zakhar with assurance, as though he were speaking of an event long since arranged for. “You are going to be married, are you not?” “I to be married? To whom?” And Oblomov glared at the valet. “To Mademoiselle Ilyinski----” Almost before the man could finish his words Oblomov had darted forward. “Who put _that_ idea into your head?” he cried in a carefully suppressed voice. “The Lord bless us all and protect us!” Zakhar ejaculated, backing towards the door. “Who told me about it? Why, the Ilyinskis’ servants, this very summer.” “Rubbish!” hissed Oblomov as he shook a warning finger at the old man. “Remember--henceforth let me hear not a word about it!” He pointed to the door, and Zakhar left the room--filling the flat with his sighs as he did so. Somehow Oblomov could not recover his composure, but remained gazing at the spot which Zakhar had just vacated. Then he clasped his hands behind his head, and reseated himself in the arm-chair. “So the servants’ hall and the kitchen are talking!” was his insistent reflection. “It has come to this, that Zakhar can actually dare to ask me when the wedding is to be! Yes, and that though even Olga’s aunt has not an inkling of the truth! What would she think of it if she knew? The wedding, that most poetical moment in the life of a lover, that crown of all his happiness--why, lacqueys and grooms are talking of it even though nothing is yet decided upon! No answer has come from the estate, my registry certificate is a blank, and a new flat still remains to be found.” With that he fell to analysing that poetical phase from which the colour had faded with Zakhar’s mention of the same. Oblomov was beginning to see the other face of the medal. He tossed and turned from side to side, lay flat on his back, leaped up and took a stride or two, and ended by sinking back into a reclining position. “How come folk to know about it?” he reflected. “Olga has kept silence, and I too have breathed not a word. So much for stolen meetings at dawn and sunset, for passionate glances, for the wizardry of song! Ah, those poems of love! Never do they end save in disaster. One should go beneath the wedding canopy before one attempts to swim in an atmosphere of roses. To think that before any preparations have been made--before even an answer has come, from the estate, or I have obtained either money or a flat--I should have to go to her aunt, and to say: ‘This is my betrothed!’ At all costs must I put a stop to these rumours. Marriage! What _is_ marriage?”