Читать книгу Oblomov - Иван Александрович Гончаров - Страница 6

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T here entered a young fellow of about twenty-five. Beaming with health and irreproachably dressed to a degree which dazzled the eye with its immaculateness of linen and gorgeousness of jewellery, he was a figure calculated to excite envy.

“Good morning, Volkov!” cried Oblomov.

“And good morning to you,” returned the radiant gentleman, approaching the bed and looking about him for a spot whereon to deposit a hat. However, perceiving only dust, he retained his headgear in his hand. Next he drew aside the skirts of his coat (preparatory to sitting down), but a hasty inspection of the nearest chair convinced him that he had far better remain standing.

“So you are not yet up?” he went on. “And why on earth are you wearing a nightshirt? They have quite gone out of fashion.”

“ ’Tis not a nightshirt, it is a dressinggown,” said Oblomov, nestling lovingly into the ample folds of the garment. “Where are you from?”

“From the tailor’s. Do you think this frock-coat a nice one?” And he turned himself round and round for Oblomov’s inspection.

“Splendid! Made with excellent taste!” was the verdict. “Only why is it so broad behind?”

“The better to ride in it. It is a riding-coat. I ordered it for to-day for the reason that this is the first of May and I am to go to the Ekaterinhov * with Gorunov. He has just got his promotion, and we intend to cut a dash on the strength of it. He has a roan horse—all the horses in his regiment are roans—and I a black. How are you going-in a carriage or on foot?”

“By neither method,” replied Oblomov.

“What? To-day is the first of May, and you are not going to the Ekaterinhov? Why, every one will be there!”

“Not quite every one,” Oblomov lazily remarked.

“You must go, though. Sophia Nikolaevna and Lydia will be occupying two of the seats in our carriage, but the seat facing them will be vacant. Come with us, I tell you.”

“No, I do not intend to occupy the vacant seat. What sort of a figure should I cut on it?”

“Then, if you like, Mischa Gorunov shall lend you a horse.”

“Of what is the fellow thinking?” said Oblomov as though to himself. “How come you and the Gorunov family to be so friendly with one another?”

“Give me your word of honour not to repeat what I may tell you, and I will explain.”

“Herewith I give it.”

“Very well. I am in love with Lydia.”

“Splendid! Have you been in love with her long? She seems a charming girl.”

“I have been in love with her for three weeks,” said Volkov, with a sigh. “And Mischa, for his part, is in love with Dashenka.”

“Who is Dashenka?”

“What! You do not know Dashenka? Why, the whole town is raving over her dancing. To-night I am going to the Opera with Mischa, and he is to throw her a bouquet. Well, I must be off to buy the necessary camelias for it.”

“Come back, then, and take lunch with me. I should like to have a talk with you, for I have just experienced two misfortunes.”

“Impossible, I fear, for I am lunching with Prince Tiumenev. All the Gorunova—yes, and Lydia, too—are to be there. What a cheerful house it is! And so is Tiumenev’s country place. I have heard that it is to be the scene of numberless dances and tableaux this summer. Are you likely to be one of the guests?”

“No—I think not.”

“What hospitality the Prince dispenses! This winter his guests averaged fifty, and sometimes a hundred.”

“How wearisome the whole thing must have been!”

“What! Wearisome? Why, the more the merrier. Lydia, too, used to be there—though in those days I never so much as noticed her. In fact, never once did I do so until one day I found myself ‘vainly trying to forget her, vainly pitting reason in the lists with love.’ ” Volkov hummed the concluding words, and seated himself carelessly upon a chair. Almost instantly he leaped to his feet again, and blushed the dust from his trousers.

“What quantities of dirt you keep everywhere!” he remarked.“ ’tis Zakhar’s fault, not mine,” replied Oblomov.

“Well, now I must be off, as it is absolutely necessary that I should buy those camelias for Mischa’s bouquet. Au revoir!”

“Come and have tea after the opera, and tell me all about it.”

“No, that is impossible, for I am promised to supper at the Musinskis’. It is their reception day, you know. However, meet me there, and I’ll present you.”

“What is toward at the Musinskis’?”

“What, indeed? Why, entertainment in a house where you hear all the news.”

“Like everything else, it would bore me.”

“Then go and call upon the Mezdrovs, where the talk centres upon one topic, and one topic alone—the arts. Of nothing else will you hear but the Venetian School. Beethoven, Bach, Leonardo da Vinci, and so forth.”

“All of them boring subjects!” said Oblomov with a yawn. “What a lot of pedants the Mezdrovs must be! Do you never get tired of running about from house to house?”

“Tired? Why should I? Every morning like to go out and learn the news, thank God, my official duties never require my actual presence, save twice a week, when they consist of lunching with and doing the civil to the General. * After that I proceed to call upon any people upon whom I have not called for a long while. Next there will be some new actress—whether at the Russian theatre or at the French. Besides, always there is the Opera, to which I am a subscriber. Furthermore, I am in love, and Mischa is about to enjoy a month’s leave from his regiment, and the summer is on the point of beginning, and Mischa and I intend to retire to his country house for a change of air. We shall have plenty of sport there, since he possesses excellent neighbours and they give bals champêtres. Also I shall be able to escort Lydia for walks through the woods, and to row her about in a boat, and to pluck flowers for her benefit. At the present moment I must leave you. Good-bye!”

* In this case the term “General” denotes a civil grade

corresponding to the military rank of the same title.

Rising, he endeavoured to look at himself in a dust-coated mirror; after which he departed—though returning once more to show his friend the newest thing in Parisian gloves and an Easter card which Prince Tiumenev had recently sent him.

“What a life!” thought Oblomov, with a shrug of his shoulders. “What good can a man get out of it? It is merely a squandering and a wasting of his all. Of course, an occasional look into a theatre is not a bad thing, nor is being in love—for Lydia is a delightful girl, and pursuits like plucking flowers with her and rowing her about in a boat even I should enjoy; but to have to be in ten different places every day, as Volkov has——!”

He turned over on his back and congratulated himself that he at least cherished no vain social aspirations. ’Twas better to lie where he was and to preserve both his nerves and his human dignity. …

Another ring at the doorbell interrupted his reflections. This time the visitor turned out to be a gentleman in a dark frock-coat with crested buttons whose most prominent features were a clean-shaven chin, a pair of black whiskers around a haggard (but quiet and sensible) face, and a thoughtful smile.

“Good day, Sudbinski!” cried Oblomov cheerfully.

“Good day to you,” replied the gentleman. “ ’Tis a long time since I last saw you, but you know what this devilish Civil Service means. Look at that bagful of reports which I have brought with me! And not only that, but I have had to leave word at the office that a messenger will find me here should I be wanted. Never do I get a single moment to myself.”

“So you were on the way to your office? How come you to be going so late? Your usual hour used to be nine.”

“Yes, it used to be nine, but now I go at twelve.”

“Ah, I see: you have recently been made the head of a department. Since when?”

“Since Easter,” replied Sudbinski, with a meaning nod. “But what a lot of work! It is terrible! From eight to twelve in the morning I am slaving at home; from twelve to five at the Chancellory; and all the evening at home again. I have quite lost touch with my acquaintances.”

“Come and lunch with me to-day, and we will drink to your promotion,” said Oblomov.

“No, to-day I am lunching with the Vice-Director, as well as have a report to prepare by Thursday. You see, one cannot rely upon provincial advices, but must verify every return personally. Are you going to the Ekaterinhov to-day?”

“No, for I am not very well,” replied Oblomov, knitting his brows. “Moreover, like yourself, I have some work to do.”

“I am very sorry,” said Sudbinski; “for it is a fine day, and the only day on which I myself can hope for a little rest.”

“And what news have you?” asked Oblomov.

“Oh, a good deal-of a sort. We are required no longer to write at the end of our official letters ‘Your humble servant,’ but merely ‘Accept the assurance of my profound respect.’ Also we have been told that we are to cease to make out formal documents in duplicate. Likewise, our office has just been allotted three new tables and a couple of confidential clerks. Lastly, the Commission has now concluded its sittings. There’s a budget of news for you!”

“And what of our old comrades?”

“Nothing at present, except that Svinkin has lost his case.”

“And to think that you work from eight to twelve, and from twelve to five, and again in the evening! Dear, dear!”

“Well, what should I do if I were not in the Service?” asked Sudbinski.

“You would just read and write on your own account.”

“But it is not given to every one to be a littérateur. For example, you yourself write nothing.”

“No, for I have some property on my hands,” said Oblomov with a sigh. “But I am working out a new system for it; I am going to introduce reforms of various kinds. The affair worries me terribly.”

“Well, for my part, I must work, in order to make a little money. Besides, I am to be married this coming autumn.”

“Indeed! And to whom?”

“To Mademoiselle Murashina. Do you remember their country villa, next to mine? I think you came to tea with me and met her there?”

“No, I have no recollection of it. Is she pretty?”

“Yes, charming. Suppose, one day, we go to lunch with her?”

Oblomov hesitated. “Very well,” he said after a pause; “only——”

“What about next week?”

“Certainly. Next week let it be. But at the moment I have no suitable clothes. Is your fiancêe a financial catch?”

“Yes, for her father is a State councillor, and intends to give her ten thousand roubles, as well as to let us have half his official house (a house of twelve rooms—the whole being furnished, heated, and lighted at the public expense); so we ought to do very well. Herewith I invite you to be my best man at the wedding.”

Once more the doorbell rang.

“Good-bye,” said Sudbinski. “I am annoyed that, as I surmise, I should be wanted at the office.”

“Then stay where you are,” urged Oblomov. “I desire your advice, for two misfortunes have just befallen me.”

“No, no; I had better come and see you another day.” And Sudbinski took his leave.

“Plunged up to the ears in work, good ‘friend!” thought Oblomov as he watched him depart. “Yes, and blind and deaf and dumb to everything else in the world! Yet by going into society and at the same time, busying yourself about your affairs you will yet__win distinction, and promotion. Such is what they call ‘a career’! Yet of how little use is a man like that! His intellect, his will, his feelings—what do they avail him? So many luxuries is what they are—nothing more. Such an individual lives out his little span without achieving a single thing worth mentioning; and meanwhile he works in an office from morning till night—yes, from morning till night, poor wretch!”

Certainly a modicum of quiet satisfaction was to be derived from the thought that from nine o’clock until three, and from eight o’clock until nine on the following day, he, Oblomov, could remain lying prone on a sofa instead of having to trot about with reports and to inscribe multitudes of documents. Yes, he preferred, rather, leisure for the indulgence of his feelings and imagination. Plunged in a philosophical reverie, he overlooked the fact that by his bedside there was standing a man whose lean, dark face was almost covered with a pair of whiskers, a moustache, and an imperial. Also the new-comer’s dress was studied in its negligence.

“Good morning, Oblomov,” he said.

“Good morning, Penkin,” was the response. “I should like to show you a letter which I have just received from my starnsta. Whence have you sprung?”

“From the newsagent’s, near by. I went to see if the papers are yet out. Have you read my latest article?”

“No.”

“Then you ought to do so.”

“What is it about?” Oblomov asked with a faint yawn.

“About trade, about the emancipation of women, about the beautiful April days with which we have been favoured, and about the newly formed fire-brigade. How come you not to have read that article? In it you will see portrayed the whole of our daily life. Over and above anything else, you will read therein an argument in favour of the present realistic: tendency in literature.”

“And have you no other work on hand?” inquired Oblomov.

“Yes, a good deal. I write two newspaper articles a week, besides reviewing a number of books. In addition, I have just finished a tale of my own.”

“What is it about?”

“It tells how, in a certain town, the governor used to beat the citizens with his own hand.”

“The realistic tendency, right enough!” commented Oblomov.

“Quite so,” said the delighted littérateur. “In my tale (which is novel and daring in its idea) a traveller witnesses a beating of this kind, seeks an interview with the governor of the province, and lays before him a complaint. At once the said governor of the province orders an official who happens to be proceeding to that town for the purpose of conducting another investigation to inquire also into the truth of the complaint just laid, and likewise to collect evidence as to the character and behaviour of the local administrator. The official in question calls together the local citizens, on the pretext of a trade conference, and incidentally sounds them concerning the other matter. And what do you suppose they do? They merely smile, present their compliments, and load the governor of the town with praises! Thereafter the official makes extraneous inquiries, and is informed that the said citizens are rogues who trade in rotten merchandise, give underweight, cheat the Treasury, and indulge in wholesale immorality; wherefore the beatings have been a just retribution.”

“Then you intend the assaults committed by the governor to figure in the story as the fatum of the old tragedians?”

“Quite so,” said Penkin. “You have great quickness of apprehension, and ought yourself to tackle the writing of stories. Yes, it has always been my idea to expose the arbitrariness of our local governors, the decline of morality among the masses, the faulty organization existing among our subordinate officials, and the necessity of drastic, but legal, measures to counterbalance these evils. ’Tis a novel idea for a story, is it not?”

“Certainly; and to me who read so little a peculiarly novel one.”

“True, I have never once seen you with a book in your hand. Nevertheless, I beseech you to read a poem which, I may say, is shortly to appear. It is called ‘The Love of a Blackmailer for a Fallen Woman.’ the identity ol the author I am not at liberty to disclose—at all events yet.”

“Pray give me an idea of this poem.”

“It exposes, as you will see, the whole mechanism of the social movement—but a mechanism that is painted only in poetic colours. Each spring of that engine is touched upon, and each degree of the social scale held up to the light. We see summoned to the bar, as it were, a weak, but vicious, lord, with a swarm of blackmailers who are engaged in cheating him. Also various categories of fallen women are dissected—French women, German women, and others; the whole being done with vivid and striking verisimilitude. Certain extracts from the poem have come to my ears, and I may say that the author is a great man—one hears in him the notes both of Dante and of Shakespeare.”

“And whence has he originated?” asked Oblomov, leaning forward in astonishment; but Penkin, perceiving that he had now said too much, merely repeated that Oblomov must read the poem, and judge for himself. This Oblomov declined to do.

“Why?” asked Penkin. “The thing will make a great stir and be much talked about.”

“Very well: let people talk. ’Tis all some folks have to do. ’Tis their métier.”

“Nevertheless, read it yourself, for curiosity’s sake.”

“What have I not seen in books!” commented the other. “Surely folk must write such things merely to amuse themselves?”

“Yes; even as I do. At the same time, what truth, what verisimilitude, do you not find in books! How powerfully some of them move one through the vivid portraiture which they contain! Whomsoever these authors take—a tchinovnik, * an officer, or a blackmailer—they paint them as living creatures.”