Читать книгу Oblomov / Обломов. Книга для чтения на английском языке - Иван Гончаров, Иван Александрович Гончаров - Страница 9
Part one
8
ОглавлениеHaving closed the door behind Tarantyev and Alexeyev, Zakhar did not sit down on the stove, but waited for his master to call him any minute, for he had heard that Oblomov was going to write letters. But everything in Oblomov’s study was as silent as the grave.
Zakhar peeped through the chink in the wall – and what did he see? Oblomov was lying quietly on the sofa, his head propped on his hand; a book lay open in front of him. Zakhar opened the door.
«Why are you lying down again, sir?» he asked.
«Don’t disturb me, you see I am reading», Oblomov said curtly.
«It’s time to wash and to write», Zakhar said mercilessly.
«Yes», Oblomov said, coming to himself. «As a matter of fact it is. I’ll be ready directly. You go now. I’ll think».
«How did he manage to lie down again?» Zakhar growled, jumping on the stove. «He’s not half quick!»
Oblomov, however, managed to read the page which had turned yellow during the month since he had last read the book. He put the book down, yawned, and then began thinking of «the two misfortunes».
«What a bore!» he whispered, stretching his legs and tucking them under him again. He felt like lying like that in comfort and dreaming. He gazed at the sky, looking for the sun that he loved so much, but it was right overhead, shining dazzlingly on the whitewashed wall of the house behind which Oblomov watched it set in the evening.
«No», he said to himself sternly, «first to business and then…»
In the country the morning would long have been over, but in Petersburg it was just drawing to a close. From the courtyard a mingled sound of human and animal noises reached Oblomov’s ears: the singing of some strolling street musicians, accompanied by the barking of dogs. A sea monster was being brought for show, hawkers shouted their wares in all sorts of voices.
He lay on his back and put both hands under his head. Oblomov was busy with his plan for reorganizing his estate. He rapidly ran through several important, vital points about the rent he was going to charge for leasing his land, the fields that had to be ploughed, thought of a new and sterner measure against laziness and vagrancy among the peasants, and went over to the subject of arranging his own life in the country. He was preoccupied with the problem of building his new country house; he dwelt pleasurably for a few minutes on the arrangement of the rooms, made up his mind about the size of the dining-room and billiard-room, thought on which side the windows of his study would look, and even remembered the furniture and carpets. After that he decided where to erect the outbuildings, taking into account the number of guests he intended to entertain, and allotted the space for the stables, barns, servants’ quarters, and so on. At last he turned his attention to the garden: he decided to leave all the old lime trees and oaks, to cut down the apple and pear trees and plant acacias in their place; he thought of having a park, but making a rough estimate of the expenses, found that it would cost too much and, leaving it for the time being, passed on to the flower-beds and hot-houses. At this point the tempting thought of the fruit he would gather flashed through his mind so vividly that he suddenly transferred himself to the country as it would be several years hence when his estate was already reorganized according to his plan and when he lived there permanently.
He imagined himself sitting one summer evening at the tea-table on the veranda under an impenetrable canopy of trees, lazily inhaling the smoke from a long pipe, dreamily enjoying the view from behind the trees, the cool air, the stillness; in the distance the com in the fields was turning yellow, the sun was setting behind the familiar birch-wood and spreading a red glow over the mirror-like surface of the pond; a mist was rising from the fields; it was getting cool, dusk was falling; the peasants were returning home in crowds. The idle servants were sitting at the gate; cheerful voices came from there, laughter, the sound of a balalaika; girls were playing a game of catch; his own little children were playing round him, climbing on his knees, putting their arms about his neck; at the samovar sat – the queen of it all – his divinity – a woman – his wife! Meanwhile, in the dining-room, furnished with elegant simplicity, bright, friendly lights were lighted, and the big, round table was being laid; Zakhar, promoted to butler, his whiskers perfectly white by now, was setting the table, placing the glasses and the silver on it with a pleasant ringing sound, every moment dropping a glass or a fork on the floor; they sat down to an abundant supper; Stolz, the comrade of his childhood and his faithful friend, was sitting next to him, as well as other familiar faces; then they went to bed…
Oblomov’s face suddenly flushed with happiness: his dream was so vivid, so distinct, and so poetical that he at once buried his face in the pillow. He suddenly felt a vague longing for love and peaceful happiness, a keen desire for his native fields and hills, for a home with a wife and children of his own… After lying for five minutes with his face in the pillow, Oblomov slowly turned over on his back again. His face shone with tender, warm emotion; he was happy. He stretched out his legs slowly and with delight, which made his trousers roll up a little, but he did not notice this slight disorder. His obliging imagination carried him lightly and freely into the far-away future. Now he became absorbed in his favourite idea: he was thinking of a small group of friends settling in villages and farms within ten or fifteen miles of his estate, who would visit each other daily in turn, and dine, sup, and dance together; he saw nothing but bright days and bright, laughing people, without a care or a wrinkle, with round faces and rosy cheeks, double chins and insatiable appetites; it was going to be a perpetual summer, everlasting gaiety, lovely food, and sweet leisure…
«Oh Lord, oh Lord!» he murmured, overflowing with happiness, and came back to reality. He heard five people shouting their wares in the courtyard: «Potatoes! Who wants sand – sand? Coals! Coals! Spare a few coppers for building a temple of God, ladies and gentlemen!» And from the house that was being built next door came the sound of axes and the shouts of workmen.
«Oh dear!» Oblomov sighed mournfully aloud. «What a life! How horrible these town noises are! When will the heavenly life I long for come? When shall I return to my native woods and fields? Oh», he thought, «if only I were lying under a tree on the grass now, looking at the sun through the branches and counting the birds on them. Some rosy-cheeked maid-servant with soft, round bare arms and a sunburnt neck would bring me my lunch or dinner, lowering her eyes, the pretty rogue, and smiling… Oh, when will this time come at last?»
«And what about my plan, the bailiff, the flat?» he suddenly heard a voice inside him say.
«Yes, yes!» Oblomov said hurriedly. «At once! At once!»
He quickly rose and sat up on the sofa, then he lowered his feet to the floor, got into both his slippers at once, and sat like that for several minutes; then he got up and stood thinking for a minute or two.
«Zakhar! Zakhar!» he called loudly, looking at the table and the inkstand.
«Oh, what is it now?» Zakhar muttered as he jumped off the stove. «I wonder I’ve still strength left to drag my feet about», he added in a hoarse whisper.
«Zakhar!» Oblomov repeated thoughtfully, without taking his eyes off the table. «Look here, old fellow», he began, pointing to the inkstand, but sank into thought again, without finishing the sentence.
Then he raised his arms slowly, his knees gave way, as he began stretching himself and yawning.
«We’ve still got some cheese left», he said slowly, still stretching himself, «and – er – yes, bring me some Madeira; dinner won’t be for some time yet, so I think I’ll have a little lunch…»
«Where was it left, sir?» Zakhar said. «There was nothing left».
«What do you mean?» Oblomov interrupted him. «I remember very well – it was a piece as big as that».
«No, sir», Zakhar insisted stubbornly.
«There wasn’t any piece left at all».
«There was!» said Oblomov.
«There wasn’t», replied Zakhar.
«Well, go and buy some».
«Give me the money, please, sir».
«There’s some change on the table, take it».
«There’s only one rouble forty copecks, sir, and the cheese costs one rouble sixty copecks».
«There were some coppers there too».
«I never saw them, sir», said Zakhar, shifting from one foot to another. «There was some silver and it’s still there, but there were no coppers».
«There were – the pedlar gave them to me himself yesterday».
«Yes, sir, I saw him give you your change», said Zakhar, «but I never saw no coppers».
«I wonder if Tarantyev took it», Oblomov thought irresolutely. «But no, he would have taken all the change».
«What else is there left?» he asked.
«Nothing, sir. There may be some ham left over from yesterday», said Zakhar. «I’ll go and ask Anisya. Shall I bring it?»
«Bring what there is. But how is it there’s no cheese left?» «Well, there isn’t», said Zakhar, and went out.
Oblomov slowly and thoughtfully paced about the study.
«Yes», he said softly, «there’s plenty to do. Take the plan alone – lots of work still to be done on it! I’m sure there was some cheese left», he added thoughtfully. «It’s that Zakhar who’s eaten it and he’s just saying there wasn’t any. And where could the coppers have gone to?» he went on, rummaging on the table.
A quarter of an hour later Zakhar opened the door with the tray, which he carried in both hands. As he came into the room, he wanted to shut the door with his foot, but missed it and nearly fell over; a wine-glass, the stopper of the decanter, and a roll dropped to the floor.
«You can’t take a step without dropping something», said Oblomov. «Well, pick up what you’ve dropped! Look at him, standing there and admiring his handiwork!»
Zakhar, still holding the tray, bent down to pick up the roll, but as he squatted down, he realized that both his hands were still occupied and he could not possibly do so.
«Well, sir, pick it up!» Oblomov said sarcastically. «Why don’t you? What’s wrong?»
«Oh, damn you all!» Zakhar burst out furiously, addressing himself to the articles on the floor. «Who ever heard of having lunch before dinner?»
And, putting down the tray, he picked up the things from the floor; taking the roll, he blew on it and then put it on the table.
Oblomov began his lunch, and Zakhar remained standing at some distance from him, glancing at him sideways and evidently intending to say something. But Oblomov went on eating without taking the slightest notice of him. Zakhar coughed once or twice. Oblomov still paid no attention.
«The landlord’s agent, sir, has just called again», Zakhar at last began timidly. «The builder has been to see him and asked if he could have a look at our flat. It’s all about the conversion, sir…»
Oblomov went on eating without answering a word.
«Sir», Zakhar said after a pause, more quietly than ever.
Oblomov pretended not to hear.
«They say we must move next week, sir», Zakhar wheezed.
Oblomov drank a glass of wine and said nothing.
«What are we going to do, sir?» Zakhar asked almost in a whisper.
«I told you not to mention it to me again», Oblomov said sternly and, getting up, went up to Zakhar.
Zakhar drew back from him.
«What a venomous creature you are, Zakhar!» Oblomov added with feeling.
Zakhar was hurt.
«Me, sir?» he said. «Me venomous? I haven’t killed nobody».
«Why, of course you are venomous», Oblomov repeated. «You poison my life».
«No, sir», Zakhar insisted. «I’m not venomous, sir!»
«Why, then, do you pester me about the flat?»
«But what can I do, sir?»
«What can I do?»
«But you were going to write to the landlord, weren’t you, sir?»
«Well, of course, I will write. But you must have patience. One can’t do it all at once».
«You ought to write to him now, sir».
«Now, now! I have much more important business to attend to. You think it’s just like chopping wood? Bang – and it’s done? Look», Oblomov said, turning a dry pen in the inkwell, «there no ink in the inkwell, either. How can I write?»
«I’ll dilute it with kvas at once», said Zakhar, picking up the inkstand, and he walked quickly out of the room, while Oblomov began looking for note-paper.
«I don’t think we have any note-paper in the house», he said, rummaging in a drawer and running his fingers over the table. «No, there isn’t! Oh, that Zakhar – what a damn nuisance the fellow is!»
«Well», said Oblomov to Zakhar as he came back, «aren’t you a venomous creature? You never look after anything! Why isn’t there any note-paper in the house?»
«But really, sir, how can you say that? I am a Christian, I am. Why do you call me venomous? Venomous, indeed! I was born and grew up in the old master’s time. He’d call me a puppy, and box my ears, but I never heard him call me that! He’d never have thought of such a word, he wouldn’t! There is no telling what you might do next! Here’s the paper, sir».
He picked up half a sheet of grey note-paper from the bookcase and gave it to Oblomov.
«You don’t suppose I can write a letter on this, do you?» Oblomov asked, throwing down the paper. «I’ve been using it to cover my glass at night so that nothing – venomous might drop into it!»
Zakhar turned away and looked at the wall.
«Oh, never mind, give it to me and I’ll write a rough draft and Alexeyev will copy it».
Oblomov sat down at the table and quickly wrote: «Dear Sir.»..
«What awful ink!» said Oblomov. «Next time you’d better look out, Zakhar, and see everything’s done properly».
He thought a little and began writing.
«The flat which I occupy on the second floor of the house in which you propose to make some alterations, entirely conforms to my mode of life and habits acquired by my long residence in this house. Having been informed by my serf, Zakhar Trofimov, that you had asked him to tell me that the flat I occupy…’
Oblomov paused and read what he had written.
„It’s awkward“, he said. „There are two whichs at the beginning and two thats at the end“.
He read it through in a whisper and transposed the words: which now seemed to refer to the floor – again awkward. He corrected it somehow and began thinking how he could avoid using that twice. He crossed out a word and then put it in again. He transposed that three times, but it either made nonsense or was too near the other that.
„Can’t get rid of the second that!“ he said impatiently. „Oh, to hell with the letter! Rack my brains over such trifles! I’ve lost the knack of writing business letters. Good Lord, it’s almost three o’clock!“
„Well, Zakhar, here you are!“
He tore the letter into four and threw it on the floor.
„Did you see that?“ he asked.
„I saw it“, replied Zakhar, picking up the bits of paper.
„So don’t pester me any more about the flat, there’s a good fellow. And what have you got there?“
„The bills, sir“.
’Oh, good heavens, you’ll be the death of me! Well, how much is it? Tell me quickly?»
«Eighty-six roubles and fifty-four copecks – to the butcher, sir».
Oblomov threw up his hands in dismay.
«Have you gone mad? Such a lot of money for the butcher only?»
«If you don’t pay for three months, sir, it’s liable to mount up. It’s all written down here. No one has stolen it!»
«And you still say you’re not venomous, do you?» said Oblomov. «Spent a million on beef! And what good does it do you? None at all as far as I can see».
«I didn’t eat it», Zakhar muttered angrily.
«You didn’t, didn’t you?»
«So you begrudge me my food now, do you, sir? Here, have a look at it yourself!» And he shoved the bills to Oblomov.
«Well, who else is there?» said Oblomov, pushing away the greasy little books with vexation.
«There’s another one hundred and twenty-one roubles and eighteen copecks owing to the baker and greengrocer».
«This is sheer ruin! It’s just madness!» Oblomov said, losing his temper. «Are you a cow that you have munched so much greenstuff?»
«No, sir, I’m a venomous creature!» Zakhar observed bitterly, turning almost entirely away from his master. «If you didn’t let Mr Tarantyev come, you wouldn’t have to pay so much», he added.
«Well, how much does it come to altogether? Count!» said Oblomov and began counting himself.
Zakhar was calculating on his fingers.
«Goodness only knows how much it comes to: every time it’s different», said Oblomov. «Well, what do you make it? Two hundred, isn’t it?»
«Half a minute, sir! Give me time!» said Zakhar, screwing up his eyes and muttering. «Eight tens and ten tens – eighteen and two more tens…»
«Oh, you’ll never finish it», said Oblomov. «You’d better go back to your room and let me have the bills to-morrow, and see about the paper and ink too… What a lot of money! I told you to pay a little at a time, but no! he prefers to pay all at once – what people!»
«Two hundred and five roubles and seventy-two copecks», said Zakhar, having added it up. «Won’t you give me the money, sir?»
«You want it at once, do you? I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer. I’ll check it to-morrow».
«Just as you like, sir, only they’re asking for it…»
«All right, all right! Leave me alone, will you? I said tomorrow, and to-morrow you will have it. You go back to your room, and I’ll do a bit of work. I’ve something more important to worry about».
Oblomov settled in his chair and tucked his feet under him, but before he had time to start thinking, the doorbell rang.
A shortish man with a small paunch, a fair complexion, red cheeks, and a bald head, covered at the back by a thick fringe of black hair, came into the room. The bald patch on his head was round, clean, and so shiny that it seemed to have been carved out of ivory. The visitor’s face was remarkable for the carefully attentive look with which he regarded everything he saw; there was an expression of reserve in his eyes and of discretion in his smile; his behaviour was distinguished by a modestly official decorum. He was wearing a comfortable frock-coat which opened widely and easily like a gate at a single touch. His linen was dazzlingly white, as though to match his bald head. On the forefinger of his right hand he wore a massive ring with some dark stone in it.
«Doctor, how nice to see you!» Oblomov cried, holding out one hand to the visitor and pulling up a chair for him with the other.
«I’ve got tired of your being well all the time and not calling me in, so I called without being asked», the doctor replied jestingly. «Well, no», he added seriously afterwards. «I have been upstairs with your neighbour and have called in to see how you are».
«Thank you. And how’s the patient?»
«Not so good, I’m afraid. He may last for three or four weeks or perhaps till the autumn, and then – it’s a dropsy in the chest; I’m afraid there’s no hope. Well, and how are you?»
Oblomov shook his head sadly.
«I’m not feeling at all well, doctor. I’ve been thinking of calling you in. I don’t know what to do. My digestion is awful; I’ve such a feeling of heaviness in the pit of the stomach, terrible heartburn, and attacks of breathlessness», Oblomov said, looking miserable.
«Give me your hand», said the doctor, closing his eyes for a minute and feeling Oblomov’s pulse.
«Any cough?» he asked.
«At night, especially after supper».
«I see. Any palpitations? Headache?»
The doctor asked several more questions of the same kind, then he bent his bald head and thought deeply. After two minutes he suddenly raised his head and said in a firm voice:
«If you spend another two or three years in this climate, and go on lying about and eating rich, heavy food, you’ll die of a stroke».
Oblomov gave a start.
«What am I to do? Tell me, for heaven’s sake!» he cried. «What everyone else does – go abroad».
«Abroad?» Oblomov repeated in surprise.
«Yes, why not?»
«But! Good Lord, doctor – abroad! How can I?»
«Why can’t you?»
Oblomov looked silently at himself, at his study, and repeated mechanically:
«Abroad!»
«What is there to prevent you?»
«Why, everything».
«Everything? Have you no money?»
«Well, as a matter of fact, I haven’t any money at all», Oblomov said quickly, glad of this perfectly natural excuse. «Just have a look what my bailiff writes me. Where’s the letter? Where have I put it? Zakhar!»
«All right, all right», said the doctor. «That isn’t my business. It is my duty to tell you that you must change the manner of your life, the place, air, occupation – everything, everything».
«Very well, I’ll think about it», said Oblomov. «Where ought I to go and what must I do?»
«Go to Kissingen or Ems», the doctor began. «Spend June and July there, drink the waters, then go to Switzerland or the Tyrol for a grape cure. Spend September and October there» —
«Good Lord, the Tyrol!» Oblomov whispered in a barely audible voice.
«… then to some dry place, say, to Egypt…»
«Good Lord!» thought Oblomov.
«Avoid worry and vexation…»
«It’s all very well for you to talk», said Oblomov. «You don’t get such letters from the bailiff».
«You must also avoid thinking», the doctor went on.
«Thinking?»
«Yes, mental strain».
«And what about my plan for reorganizing my estate? Good heavens, doctor, I’m not a piece of wood, am I?»
«Well, do as you like. It’s my duty to warn you. That’s all. You must also avoid passionate entanglements; they interfere with the cure. You must try and divert yourself by riding, dancing, moderate exercise in the fresh air, pleasant conversation, especially with ladies, so that your heart should be stirred lightly and only by pleasant sensations».
Oblomov listened to him dejectedly.
«And then?» he asked.
«And then keep away from reading and writing – that’s very important! Hire a villa with a southern aspect, with lots of flowers, and see there are women about you and music» —
«What sort of food ought I to have?»
«Avoid meat and animal food in general, also starchy food and meat jellies. You may have thin soup and vegetables, only remember there’s cholera about, so you must be careful. You may walk for about eight hours a day. Get yourself a shotgun…»
«Good heavens!» Oblomov groaned.
«– and, finally», the doctor concluded, «go to Paris for the winter and amuse yourself there – in the whirl of life – and try not to think; from the theatre to a dance, a fancy-dress ball, pay visits to friends in the country, see that you have friends, noise, laughter around you».
«Anything else?» asked Oblomov with ill-disguised vexation.
The doctor pondered.
«Perhaps you could try the sea air; get on a steamer in England and take a trip to America».
He got up to leave.
«If you carry it all out exactly» – he said.
«Very well, very well», Oblomov replied sarcastically, as he saw him off, «I shall certainly carry it out».
The doctor went away, leaving Oblomov in a most pitiful condition. He closed his eyes, put both hands behind his head, huddled himself up in the chair and sat like that, seeing and feeling nothing.
A timid voice called behind him:
«Sir!»
«Well?» he replied.
«And what shall I tell the landlord’s agent?»
«What about?»
«About our moving?»
«You’re at it again?» Oblomov asked in surprise.
«But, sir, what am I to do? You must admit that my life’s not easy as it is. I’m worried to death…»
«Oh no, it’s me you’re worrying to death by your talk of moving», said Oblomov. «You’d better hear what the doctor has just told me!»
Zakhar did not know what to say to that and merely fetched so deep a sigh that the ends of the kerchief round his neck shook on his breast.
«You’ve made up your mind to kill me, have you?» Oblomov asked again. «You’re sick of me, are you? Well, speak!»
«Good Lord, sir, live as long as you like! I’m sure no one wishes you ill, sir», Zakhar growled, completely put out by the tragic turn the conversation was taking.
«You do!» said Oblomov. «I’ve forbidden you to mention moving to me, and you remind me of it half a dozen times a day. It upsets me – don’t you realize that? I’m in a bad way as it is».
«I thought, sir, that – I thought why shouldn’t we move?» Zakhar said in a voice trembling with emotion.
«Why shouldn’t we move?» Oblomov said, turning together with his chair towards Zakhar. «You think it’s so easy, don’t you? But, my dear fellow, have you considered carefully what moving means? You haven’t, have you?»
«I don’t think I have, sir», Zakhar answered humbly, ready to agree with his master about everything so long as there were no pathetic scenes, which he could not endure.
«If you haven’t», said Oblomov, «then listen and see for yourself whether we can move or not. What does moving mean? It means that your master will have to leave the house for a whole day and walk about dressed from early morning».
«Well, sir, why not leave the house?» Zakhar remarked. «Why not go away for a whole day? It’s unhealthy to sit at home. You do look bad, sir! Before, you looked the picture of health, but now that you always sit at home you look like nothing on earth. If you only took a walk in the streets, had a look at the people or something…»
«Don’t talk nonsense and listen!» said Oblomov. «Take a walk in the streets!»
«Why not, sir?» Zakhar went on warmly. «I’m told, sir, there’s a terrible monster on show. Why not go and have a look at it? Or you might go to a theatre or a mask ball, and we’d do the moving without you».
«Don’t talk rubbish! So that’s how you look after your master’s comfort! You don’t care if I tramp about the streets all day long, do you? What would it matter to you if I had dinner in some poky little hole and couldn’t lie down after it? They’ll do the moving without me! If I’m not here to keep an eye on things, you’d be moving – bits and pieces. I know», Oblomov went on with growing conviction, «what moving furniture means! It means breakages, noise, everything will be piled together on the floor: trunks, the back of the sofa, pictures, books, pipes, all sorts of bottles one never sees at any other time which suddenly turn up goodness knows from where! And you have to look after it all so that nothing gets broken or lost – one half here, another on the cart, or in the new flat! You want to smoke, you pick up your pipe, but the tobacco’s already gone – you want to sit down, but there’s nothing to sit on, you can’t touch anything without getting dirty and covered with dust – nothing to wash with and you have to go about with hands as filthy as yours…»
«My hands are clean», Zakhar remarked, showing what looked more like two soles than a pair of hands.
«Oh, you’d better not show them to me», said Oblomov, turning away. «And should you want to have a drink, the decanter’s there, but there’s no glass».
«You can drink from the decanter just as well», Zakhar observed good-naturedly.
«That’s just like you: one can just as well not sweep the floor, not dust, and not beat the carpets. And at the new flat», Oblomov went on, carried away by the vivid picture of the moving he had conjured up, «things won’t be put straight for at least three days – everything is sure to be in the wrong place: the pictures on the floor by the walls, the goloshes on the bed, the boots in the same bundle as the tea and the pomatum. There’s a chair with a broken leg, a picture with a smashed glass, a sofa covered in stains. Whatever you ask for is not to be found, no one knows where it is – been lost or left at the old flat – go and run back for it».
«Aye», Zakhar interrupted, «sometimes one has to run there and back a dozen times».
«There you are», Oblomov went on. «And getting up in the morning in a new flat – what a bore! No water, no charcoal for the samovar, and in the winter you’re sure to freeze to death, the rooms are cold and there’s no firewood; you have to run and borrow some».
«That depends on the kind of neighbours you get», Zakhar observed again. «Some wouldn’t lend you a jug of water, let alone a bundle of firewood».
«Yes, indeed!» said Oblomov. «You move and you’d suppose that by the evening everything would be over, but not at all, you won’t be settled for another fortnight at least. Everything seems to be in its place, but there are still heaps of things to do: hang up the curtains, put up the pictures – you’d be sick and tired of it all, you’d wish you were dead. And the expense!»
«Last time we moved, eight years ago», Zakhar confirmed, «it cost us two hundred roubles – I remember it as if it was today».
«Well, that’s no joke, is it?» said Oblomov. «And how strange life is in a new flat at first! How soon will you get used to it? Why, I shan’t be able to sleep for at least a week in the new place. I’ll be eaten up with misery when I get up and don’t see the wood-turner’s signboard opposite; if that old woman with the short hair doesn’t look out of the window before dinner, I feel miserable. So you see now what you’re trying to let your master in for, don’t you?» Oblomov asked reproachfully.
«I see, sir», Zakhar whispered humbly.
«Then why did you try to persuade me to move?» said Oblomov. «Do you think I’m strong enough to stand it?»
«I thought, sir, that other people are no better than us, and if they move, why can’t we?»
«What? What?» Oblomov asked in surprise, rising from his chair. «What did you say?»
Zakhar was utterly confused, not knowing what he could have said to cause his master’s pathetic words and gestures. He was silent.
«Other people are no better!» Oblomov repeated in dismay. «So that’s what you’ve been leading up to! Now I shall know that I’m the same as „other people“ to you!»
Oblomov bowed to Zakhar ironically, and looked highly offended.
«Good Lord, sir, I never said that you were the same as anyone else, did I?»
«Get out of my sight, sir!» Oblomov cried imperiously, pointing to the door. «I can’t bear to look at you! „Other people!“ That’s nice!»
Zakhar heaved a deep sigh and withdrew to his room.
«What a life!» he growled, sitting down on the stove.
«Good Lord», Oblomov, too, groaned. «Here I was going to devote the morning to some decent work, and now I’m upset for the whole day. And who’s done it? My own tried and devoted servant. And the things he has said! How could he have said it?»
Oblomov could not compose himself for a long time; he lay down, he got up, paced the room, and again lay down. In Zakhar’s attempt to reduce him to the level of other people he saw a violation of his rights to Zakhar’s exclusive preference of his own master. He tried to grasp the whole meaning of that comparison and analyse what the others were and what he was, and to what an extent a parallel between him and other people was justified, and how gravely Zakhar had insulted him. Finally, he wondered whether Zakhar had insulted him consciously, that is to say, whether he was convinced that he, Oblomov, was the same as «another», or whether the words had escaped him without thinking. All this hurt Oblomov’s vanity and he decided to show Zakhar the difference between himself and those «others» and make him feel the whole baseness of his action.
«Zakhar!» he called solemnly in a drawn-out voice.
Hearing this call, Zakhar did not growl or jump off the stove as usual, making a noise with his feet, but got down slowly and, brushing against everything with his arms and sides, walked out of his room quietly and reluctantly like a dog which knows by the sound of its master’s voice that its trick has been discovered and that it is being called to receive punishment. Zakhar half opened the door, but did not venture to go in.
«Come in!» said Oblomov.
Though the door could be opened easily, Zakhar opened it only an inch and stuck in the doorway instead of walking in.
Oblomov was sitting on the edge of his couch.
«Come here!» Oblomov ordered.
Zakhar disentangled himself from the door with difficulty, but at once closed it behind him and leant against it firmly with his back.
«Here!» said Oblomov, pointing to a place beside him.
Zakhar took half a step and stopped five yards from the place indicated.
«Nearer!» said Oblomov.
Zakhar pretended to take another step, but merely swayed forward, stamped his foot, and remained where he was. Seeing that this time he could not make Zakhar come nearer, Oblomov let him stay where he was and looked at him for some time reproachfully and in silence. Embarrassed by this silent contemplation of his person, Zakhar pretended not to notice his master and stood turning away from him more than usual and did not even at that moment look at Oblomov out of the corner of his eye. He looked stubbornly to the left, where he saw a long-familiar sight: the fringe of the spider’s web round the pictures and the spider – a living reproach to his remissness.
«Zakhar!» Oblomov said quietly and with dignity.
Zakhar made no answer.
«Well», he seemed to be thinking, «what do you want? Some other Zakhar? Can’t you see that I’m here?» He transferred his gaze from the left to the right, past his master; there, too, he was reminded of himself by the looking-glass covered with a thick layer of dust as with muslin – his own gloomy and unattractive face looked at him sullenly and wildly from there as through a mist. He turned away with displeasure from that melancholy and all-too-familiar object and made up his mind to glance for a moment at Oblomov. Their eyes met.
Zakhar could not bear the reproach in his master’s eyes, and lowered his own eyes: there again, in the carpet, impregnated with dust and covered with stains, he read the sad testimony to his zeal in his master’s service.
«Zakhar!» Oblomov repeated with feeling.
«What is it, sir?» Zakhar asked in a barely audible whisper and gave a slight shudder, anticipating a pathetic speech.
«Give me some kvas», said Oblomov.
Zakhar breathed freely; he felt so happy that he rushed like a boy to the sideboard and brought some kvas.
«Well, how do you feel?» Oblomov asked gently, taking a sip from the glass and holding it in his hands. «You’re sorry, aren’t you?»
The crestfallen expression on Zakhar’s face was immediately softened by a ray of repentance that appeared on his features. Zakhar felt the first symptoms of awakening reverence for his master and he suddenly began to look straight in his eyes.
«Are you sorry for your misdemeanour?» asked Oblomov.
«Why, what „misdemeanour“ is this?» Zakhar thought bitterly. «Something awful, I’ll be bound. I shall burst into tears if he goes on lecturing me like this».
«Well, sir», Zakhar began on the lowest note of his register, «I haven’t said nothing except that…»
«No, wait!» Oblomov interrupted. «Do you realize what you’ve done? Here, put the glass on the table and tell me».
Zakhar said nothing, being completely at a loss to understand what he had done, but that did not prevent him from looking with reverence at his master; he even hung his head a little, conscious of his guilt.
«Well, aren’t you a venomous creature?» Oblomov said.
Zakhar still said nothing, and only blinked slowly a few times.
«You’ve grieved your master!» Oblomov declared slowly, looking fixedly at Zakhar and enjoying his embarrassment.
Zakhar felt so miserable that he wished he could sink through the floor.
«You have grieved him, haven’t you?» asked Oblomov.
«Grieved!» Zakhar whispered, utterly bewildered by that new, pathetic word. He glanced wildly from the right to the left, looking in vain for some deliverance, and again all he saw was the spider’s web, the dust, and his own and his master’s reflections in the looking-glass.
«Oh, I wish I could sink through the ground! Oh, why aren’t I dead?» he thought, seeing that, try as he might, he could not avoid a pathetic scene. He felt that he was blinking more and more and that any moment tears would start in his eyes. At last he regaled his master with his familiar song, except that it was in prose.
«How have I grieved you, sir?» he asked, almost in tears.
«How?» Oblomov repeated. «Why, did it occur to you to think what other people are?»
He stopped, still looking at Zakhar.
«Shall I tell you what they are?»
Zakhar turned like a bear in its lair and heaved a loud sigh.
«The other people you’re thinking of are poor wretches, rough, uncivilized people who live in dirt and poverty in some attic; they can sleep comfortably on a felt mat somewhere in the yard. What can happen to such people? Nothing. They guzzle potatoes and salt herrings. Poverty drives them from one place to another, and so they rush about all day long. They, I’m sure, wouldn’t mind moving to a new flat. Lyagayev, for instance. He would put his ruler under his arm, tie up his two shirts in a handkerchief, and go off. „Where are you going?“ „I’m moving,“ he would say. That’s what other people are like. Aren’t they?»
Zakhar glanced at his master, shifted from foot to foot, and said nothing.
«What are other people?» Oblomov went on. «They are people who do not mind cleaning their boots and dressing themselves, and though they sometimes look like gentlemen, it’s all a put-up show; they don’t know what a servant looks like. If they have no one to send out on an errand, they run out themselves. They don’t mind stirring the fire in the stove or dusting their furniture…»
«There are many Germans who are like that», Zakhar said gloomily.
«No doubt there are! And I? What do you think? Am I like them?»
«You’re quite different, sir», Zakhar said piteously, still at a loss to know what his master was driving at. «What has come over you, sir?»
«I’m quite different, am I? Wait, think carefully what you’re saying. Just consider how the „others“ live. The „others“ work hard, they rush about, they’re always busy», Oblomov went on. «If they don’t work, they don’t eat. The „others“ bow and scrape, beg, grovel. And I? Well, tell me, what do you think: am I like „other people“?»
«Please, sir, don’t go on torturing me with pathetic words», Zakhar implored. «Oh dear, oh dear!»
«I am like the „others“, am I? Do I rush about? Do I work? Have I not enough to eat? Do I look thin and wretched? Do I go short of things? It seems to me I have someone to wait on me and do things for me! Never in my life, thank God, have I had to pull a sock on my foot myself! Why should I worry? Whatever for? And who am I saying this to? Haven’t you looked after me since I was a child? You know all this; you’ve seen how tenderly I’ve been brought up; you know that I’ve never suffered from hunger or cold, that I’ve never lacked anything, that I haven’t had to earn my living and never done any heavy work. So how did you have the heart to compare me to „others“? Do you think I am as strong as those „others“? Can I do and endure what they can?»
Zakhar was no longer capable of understanding what Oblomov was talking about. But his lips were blown up with emotion: the pathetic scene was raging like a storm-cloud over his head. He was silent.
«Zakhar!» Oblomov repeated.
«Yes, sir?» Zakhar hissed in a barely audible whisper.
«Give me some more kvas».
Zakhar brought the kvas, and when Oblomov had drunk it and handed him back the glass, he made a dash for the door.
«No, no, wait!» said Oblomov. «I’m asking you how you could so terribly insult your master whom you carried in your arms as a baby, whom you have served all your life, and who has been your benefactor?»
Zakhar could not bear it any more. The word «benefactor» finished him! He began blinking more and more. The less he understood what Oblomov was saying to him in his pathetic speech, the sadder he became.
«I’m very sorry, sir», he began to wheeze penitently. «It was out of foolishness, sir, out of foolishness that I…»
Not understanding what he had done, Zakhar did not know what verb to use at the end of his speech.
«And I», went on Oblomov in the voice of a man who had been insulted and whose merits had not been sufficiently appreciated, «and I go on working and worrying day and night, sometimes with a burning head and a sinking heart. I lie awake at night, toss about, always thinking how to improve things – and for whom? Who is it I’m worrying about? All for you, for the peasants, and that means you, too… I daresay when you see me pull my blankets over my head you think I lie there asleep like a log. But no, I don’t sleep, I keep thinking all the time what I can do that my peasants should not suffer any hardships, that they should not envy the peasants belonging to other people, that they should not complain against me to God on the Day of Judgement, but should pray for me and remember me for the good I had done them. Ungrateful ones», Oblomov concluded bitterly.
Zakhar was completely overcome by the last pathetic words. He began to whimper quietly.
«Please, sir», he implored, «don’t carry on like that! What are you saying, sir? Oh, Blessed Virgin, Mother of God, what a terrible calamity has befallen us!»
«And you», Oblomov went on, without listening to him – «you ought to be ashamed to say such things. That’s the sort of snake I’ve warmed in my bosom!»
«Snake!» Zakhar repeated, throwing up his hands and bursting out sobbing so loudly that it sounded as though two dozen beetles had flown into the room and begun buzzing. «When have I mentioned a snake?» he said amidst his sobs. «Wily, I never even dream of the cursed things!»
Each had ceased to understand the other and, at last, they no longer understood themselves.
«How could you have brought yourself to say a thing like that?» Oblomov went on. «And in my plan I had assigned you a house of your own, a kitchen garden, a quantity of corn, and a regular wage! I had appointed you my steward, my butler, and my business manager! The peasants would bow low to you, they would all call you Zakhar Trofimych, Zakhar Trofimych! And you’re still dissatisfied, you put me on the same level as the „others“! That’s how you reward me! That’s how you abuse your master!»
Zakhar continued to sob, and Oblomov himself was moved. While admonishing Zakhar, he was filled with the consciousness of the benefits he had conferred on his peasants, and he uttered his last reproaches in a trembling voice and with tears in his eyes.
«Well, you can go now», he said to Zakhar in a conciliatory tone of voice. «Wait, give me some more kvas! My throat is parched. You might have thought of it yourself – can’t you hear your master is hoarse? That’s what you have brought me to! I hope», he went on when Zakhar had brought him the kvas, «you’ve understood your misdemeanour and that you won’t ever again compare your master to „other people“! To atone for your guilt, you must make some arrangement with the landlord so that we have not got to move. This is how much you care for your master’s peace of mind: you have thoroughly upset me and made it impossible for me to think of any new and useful idea. And who will suffer from it? You will. It is to my peasants that I have devoted all my life, it is for all of you that I have resigned from the service and sit shut up in my room. Well, never mind! There, it’s striking three. Only two hours left before dinner, and what can one do in two hours? Nothing. And there’s lots to be done. Oh well, I shall have to put off my letter till the next post and jot down the plan to-morrow. And now I’ll lie down for an hour: I’m worn out. Draw the blinds, shut the door, and be sure I’m not disturbed. Wake me at half-past four».
Zakhar began to seal up his master in the study; first he covered him up and tucked the blanket under him, then he drew the blinds, closed the doors tightly, and retired to his own room.
«May you never get up again, you devil», he growled, wiping away the traces of tears and climbing on the stove. «A devil he is, and no mistake! A house of your own, a kitchen garden, wages!» Zakhar, who had understood only the last words, muttered. «He knows how to talk, he does, just like cutting your heart with a knife! This is my house and my kitchen garden, and this is where I’ll peg out!» he said, hitting the stove furiously. «Wages! If I didn’t pick up a few coppers now and then, I shouldn’t have anything to buy tobacco with or to treat my friend. Curse you!.. I wish I was dead and buried!»
Oblomov lay on his back, but he did not fall asleep at once. He kept thinking and thinking, and got more and more agitated.
«Two misfortunes at once!» he said, pulling the blanket over his head. «How is one to stand up to it?»
But actually those two misfortunes – that is, the bailiff’s ominous letter and the moving – no longer worried Oblomov and were already becoming mere disturbing memories.
«The troubles the bailiff is threatening me with are still far off», he thought. «All sorts of things can happen before that: the rains may save the crops, the bailiff may make good the arrears, the runaway peasants may be returned to their „place of domicile“ as he writes… And where could those peasants have gone to?» he thought, getting more and more absorbed in an artistic examination of that circumstance. «They could not have gone off at night, in the damp and without provisions. Where would they sleep? Not in the woods, surely? They just can’t stay there! There may be a bad smell in a peasant’s cottage but at least it’s warm… And what am I so worried about?» he thought. «Soon my plan will be ready – why be frightened before I need to? Oh, you…»
He was a little more troubled by the thought of moving. That was the new and the latest misfortune. But in his present hopeful mood that fact, too, was already pushed into the background. Though he vaguely realized that he would have to move, particularly as Tarantyev had taken a hand in this business, he postponed it in his mind for at least a week, and thus gained a whole week of peace! «And perhaps Zakhar will succeed in coming to some arrangement so that it will not be necessary to move at all. Perhaps it could be arranged somehow! They might agree to put it off till next summer or give up the idea of conversion altogether; well, arrange it in one way or another! After all, I really can’t – move!»
So he kept agitating and composing himself in turn, and, as always, found in the soothing and comforting words perhaps, somehow, in one way or another, a whole ark of hope and consolation as in the old ark of the Covenant, and succeeded with their help in warding off the two misfortunes for the tune being. Already a slight, pleasant numbness spread over his body and began to cast a mist over his senses with sleep, just as the surface of the water is misted over with the first, timid frosts; another moment and his consciousness would have slipped away heaven only knows where, when suddenly he came to and opened his eyes.
«But, good Lord, I haven’t washed! I haven’t done a thing!» he whispered. «I was going to put down my plan on paper, and I haven’t done so. I haven’t written to the police inspector or the Governor. I began a letter to the landlord, but haven’t finished it. I haven’t checked the bills – or given Zakhar the money – a whole morning wasted!»
He sank into thought. «What’s the matter with me? And would the „others“ have done that?» flashed through his mind.
«„Others, others“ – who are they?»
He became absorbed in a comparison of himself with those «others». He thought and thought, and presently an idea quite different from the one he had been expounding to Zakhar was formed in his mind. He had to admit that another one would have managed to write all the letters so that which and that would never have clashed with one another, that another would have moved to a new flat, carried out the plan, gone to the country…
«Why, I, too, could have done it», he reflected. «I can write well enough. I have written more complicated things than ordinary letters in my time! What has become of it all? And what is there so terrible about moving? It’s only a question of making up one’s mind! The „others“», he added a further characteristic of those other people, «never wear a dressing-gown» – here he yawned – «they hardly ever sleep, they enjoy life, they go everywhere, see everything, are interested in everything… And I–I am not like them!» he added sadly and sank into deep thought. He even put his head out from under the blanket.
It was one of the most clear-sighted and courageous moments of Oblomov’s life. Oh, how dreadful he felt when there arose in his mind a clear and vivid idea of human destiny and the purpose of a man’s life, and when he compared this purpose with his own life, and when various vital problems wakened one after another in his mind and began whirling about confusedly, like frightened birds awakened suddenly by a ray of sunlight in some dark ruin. He felt sad and sorry at the thought of his own lack of education, at the arrested development of his spiritual powers, at the feeling of heaviness which interfered with everything he planned to do; and was overcome by envy of those whose lives were rich and full, while a huge rock seemed to have been thrown across the narrow and pitiful path of his own existence. Slowly there arose in his mind the painful realization that many sides of his nature had never been awakened, that others were barely touched, that none had developed fully. And yet he was painfully aware that something good and fine lay buried in him as in a grave, that it was perhaps already dead or lay hidden like gold in the heart of a mountain, and that it was high time that gold was put into circulation. But the treasure was deeply buried under a heap of rubbish and silt. It was as though he himself had stolen and buried in his own soul the treasures bestowed on him as a gift by the world and life. Something prevented him from launching out into the ocean of life and devoting all the powers of his mind and will to flying across it under full sail. Some secret enemy seemed to have laid a heavy hand upon him at the very start of his journey and cast him a long way off from the direct purpose of human existence. And it seemed that he would never find his way to the straight path from the wild and impenetrable jungle. The forest grew thicker and darker in his soul and around him; the path was getting more and more overgrown; clear consciousness awakened more and more seldom, and roused the slumbering powers only for a moment. His mind and will had long been paralysed and, it seemed, irretrievably. The events of his life had dwindled to microscopic dimensions, but even so he could not cope with them; he did not pass from one to another, but was tossed to and fro by them as by waves; he was powerless to oppose one by the resilience of his will or to follow another by the force of his reason. He felt bitter at having to confess it all to himself in secret. Fruitless regrets for the past, burning reproaches of his conscience pricked him like needles, and he tried hard to throw off the burden of those reproaches, to find someone else to blame and turn their sting against. But who?
«It’s all – Zakhar’s fault», he whispered.
He recalled the details of the scene with Zakhar, and his face burned with shame. «What if someone had overheard it?» he wondered, turning cold at the thought. «Thank goodness Zakhar won’t be able to repeat it to anyone, and no one would believe him, either».
He sighed, cursed himself, turned from side to side, looked for someone to blame and could not find anyone. His moans and groans even reached Zakhar’s ears.
«It’s that kvas that’s given him wind», Zakhar muttered angrily.
«Why am I like this?» Oblomov asked himself almost with tears, hiding his head under the blanket again. «Why?»
After seeking in vain for the hostile source that prevented him from living as he should, as the «others» lived, he sighed, closed his eyes, and a few minutes later drowsiness began once again to benumb his senses.
«I, too, would have liked – liked», he murmured, blinking with difficulty, «something like that – has nature treated me so badly – no, thank God – I’ve nothing to complain of» – There followed a resigned sigh. He was passing from agitation to his normal state of calm and apathy. «It’s fate, I suppose – can’t do anything about it», he was hardly able to whisper, overcome by sleep. «Some two thousand less than last year», he said suddenly in a loud voice, as though in a delirium. «Wait – wait a moment» – And he half awoke. «Still», he whispered again, «it would be interesting – to know why – I am like that!» His eyelids closed tightly. «Yes – why? Perhaps it’s – because» – He tried to utter the words but could not.
So he never arrived at the cause, after all; his tongue and lips stopped in the middle of the sentence and remained half open. Instead of a word, another sigh was heard, followed by the sound of the even snoring of a man who was peacefully asleep.
Sleep stopped the slow and lazy flow of his thoughts and instantly transferred him to another age and other people, to another place, where we, too, gentle reader, will follow him in the next chapter.
