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Oblomov / Обломов. Книга для чтения на английском языке
Ivan Goncharov
Чтение в оригинале (Каро)Russian Classic Literature
Вашему вниманию предлагается роман Ивана Александровича Гончарова «Обломов» (1859), который является вершиной критического реализма в русской классической литературе XIX века и одновременно произведением, не утратившим своей актуальности сегодня.
В романе Гончаров представляет конфликт между мечтательным Обломовым и деятельным Штольцем. В этом конфликте автор не берёт ничью сторону. Обломов под действием какой-то неодолимой силы лежит на диване. Имя этой силы – «обломовщина», которое стало нарицательным.
Английский перевод с русского языка выполнен Дэвидом Магаршаком.

Ivan Goncharov
Oblomov

© КАРО, 2020
Все права защищены

Part one

1
Ilya Ilyich Oblomov was lying in bed one morning in his flat in Gorokhovaya Street in one of those large houses which have as many inhabitants as a country town.
He was a man of about thirty-two or three, of medium height and pleasant appearance, with dark grey eyes, but with a total absence of any definite idea, any concentration, in his features. Thoughts promenaded freely all over his face, fluttered about in his eyes, reposed on his half-parted lips, concealed themselves in the furrows of his brow, and then vanished completely – and it was at such moments that an expression of serene unconcern spread all over his face. This unconcern passed from his face into the contours of his body and even into the folds of his dressing-gown.
Occasionally a sombre look of something like fatigue or boredom crept into his eyes; but neither fatigue nor boredom could banish for a moment the mildness which was the predominant and fundamental expression not only of his face but of his whole soul, so serenely and unashamedly reflected in his eyes, his smile and every movement of his head and hands. A cold and superficial observer, casting a passing glance at Oblomov, would have said: «A good-natured fellow, I’ll be bound, a simpleton!» A more thoughtful and sympathetic man, after a long scrutiny of his face, would have walked away with a smile, full of pleasant thoughts.
Oblomov’s complexion was not ruddy, nor dark, nor particularly pale, but rather nondescript, or seemed to be so because he had grown so fat and flabby – which was unusual for a man of his age – whether because of lack of exercise, or fresh air, or both, it is difficult to say. Generally speaking, his body, if one were to judge by the dull and excessively white colour of his neck, his small, chubby hands, and his soft shoulders, seemed too effeminate for a man.
His movements, too, even when he was excited, were kept in check by a certain kind of mildness and laziness which was not without its own touch of gracefulness. If his mind was troubled, his eyes were clouded over, lines appeared on his forehead, and he was plunged into doubt, sadness, and fear; but his anxiety seldom took the form of any definite idea and still more seldom was it transformed into a decision. All his anxiety resolved itself into a sigh and dissolved into apathy or drowsiness.
How well Oblomov’s indoor clothes went with the calm features of his countenance and his effeminate body! He wore a dressing-gown of Persian cloth – a real oriental dressing-gown, without the slightest hint of Europe, without tassels, without velvet trimmings, and so capacious that he could wrap it round him twice. The sleeves, in true Asiatic fashion, got wider and wider from the shoulders to the hands. Though this dressing- gown had lost its original freshness and here and there exchanged its natural sheen for one acquired by years of faithful service, it still preserved the brilliance of its oriental colour, and the material was as strong as ever.
The dressing-gown had a vast number of inestimable qualities in Oblomov’s eyes: it was soft and flexible, it was so light that he did not feel its weight, and it obeyed the least movement of his body like a devoted slave.
Oblomov never wore a tie or a waistcoat at home because he liked to feel unhampered and free. He wore long, soft, wide slippers; when he put his feet on the floor as he got out of bed, he invariably stepped into them without looking.
Lying down was not for Oblomov a necessity, as it is for a sick man or for a man who is sleepy; or a matter of chance, as it is for a man who is tired; or a pleasure, as it is for a lazy man: it was his normal condition. When he was at home – and he was almost always at home – he lay down all the time, and always in the same room, the room in which we have found him and which served him as a bedroom, study, and reception-room. He had three more rooms, but he seldom looked into them, except perhaps in the morning, and that, too, not every day, but only when his man-servant swept his study – which did not happen every day. In those rooms the furniture was covered with dust sheets and the curtains were drawn.
The room in which Oblomov was lying seemed at first glance to be splendidly furnished. It had a mahogany bureau, two sofas, upholstered in a silk material, and a beautiful screen embroidered with birds and fruits never to be found in nature. It had silk curtains, rugs, a number of pictures, bronze, porcelain, and all sorts of pretty knick-knacks. But an experienced person of good taste casting a cursory glance round the room would at once detect a desire to keep up appearances somehow or other, since appearances had to be kept up. Oblomov, of course, had nothing else in mind when he furnished his study. A man of refined taste would never have been satisfied with those clumsy and heavy mahogany chairs and those rickety book-stands. The back of one of the sofas had dropped and the mahogany veneer had come unstuck in some places.
The pictures, vases, and knick-knacks were equally shoddy.
The owner himself, however, was so utterly indifferent to the furniture of his study that he seemed to be wondering who on earth could have dumped all that junk there. It was Oblomov’s indifference to his own property, and perhaps even still more the utter indifference shown by his servant Zakhar, that made the study look, on closer inspection, so neglected and untidy.
Dust-covered cobwebs were festooned round the pictures on the walls; instead of reflecting the objects in the room, the mirrors were more like tablets which might be used for writing memoranda on in the dust. The rugs were covered in stains. A towel had been left on the sofa; almost every morning a dirty plate, with a salt-cellar and a bare bone from the previous night’s supper, could be seen on the table, which was strewn with crumbs. If it had not been for this plate and a freshly smoked pipe by the bed, or the owner of the flat himself lying in it, one might have thought that no one lived there – everything was so dusty and faded and void of all living traces of human habitation. It is true there were two or three open books and a newspaper on the book-stands, an inkwell with pens on the bureau; but the open pages had turned yellow and were covered with dust – it was clear that they had been left like that for a long, long time; the newspaper bore last year’s date, and if one were to dip a pen in the inkwell, a startled fly was as likely as not to come buzzing out of it.
Oblomov, contrary to his custom, had woken up very early – about eight o’clock. He looked very worried about something. The expression of his face kept changing continually from that of alarm to one of anguish and vexation. It was clear that he was in the throes of some inner struggle, and his reason had not vet come to his aid.
What had happened was that on the previous evening Oblomov had received a disagreeable letter from the bailiff of his estate. The sort of disagreeable news a bailiff usually sends can be easily imagined: bad harvest, arrears of taxes due from the peasants, falling income, and so on. Though the bailiff had written identical letters to his master the year before and the year before that, this last letter had the same strong effect as any other unpleasant and unexpected piece of news.
The whole thing was a great nuisance: he had to think of raising some money and of taking certain steps. Still, it is only fair to do justice to the care Oblomov bestowed on his affairs. Already, after receiving his bailiff’s first unpleasant letter several years before, he had begun devising a plan for all sorts of changes and improvements in the management of his estate. According to his plan, various economic, administrative, and other measures would have to be introduced. But it was far from being thoroughly thought out, and the bailiff’s disagreeable letters went on arriving every year, arousing in him the desire to do something and, consequently, disturbing his peace of mind. Oblomov, indeed, realized very well that he would have to do something decisive before his plan was worked out.
As soon as he woke he made up his mind to get up, wash, and, after he had had breakfast, think things over thoroughly, come to some sort of decision, put it down on paper and, generally, make a good job of it. He lay for half an hour, tormented by this decision; but afterwards it occurred to him that he would have plenty of time to do it after breakfast, which he could have in bed as usual, particularly as there was nothing to prevent him from thinking while lying down.
That was what he did. After breakfast he sat up and nearly got out of bed; glancing at his slippers, he even lowered one foot from the bed, but immediately put it back again. It struck half-past nine. Oblomov gave a start.
«What am I doing?» he said aloud in a vexed voice. «This is awful! I must set to work! If I go on like this – „Zakhar!“» he shouted.
From the room separated from Oblomov’s study only by a narrow passage came what sounded like the growl of a watchdog on a chain, followed by the noise of a pair of legs which had jumped off from somewhere. That was Zakhar, who had jumped off the stove where he usually sat dozing.
An elderly man, wearing a grey waistcoat with brass buttons and a grey coat with a hole under the arm from which a bit of his shirt protruded, came into the room; his head was bald as a billiard ball, but his side-whiskers, light brown and streaked with grey, were so enormous and so thick that each of them could have made three beards.
Zakhar had made no attempt to change either the appearance which the good Lord had bestowed upon him or the clothes he had worn in the country. His clothes were made after the pattern he had brought from his village. He liked the grey coat and waistcoat, for they reminded him vaguely of the livery he used to wear in the good old days when he accompanied his late master and mistress to church or on some visit; and to his mind this livery was the only evidence of the dignity of the Oblomov family. There was nothing else to remind the old man of his prosperous and peaceful life in his old master’s house in the wilds of the country. His old master and mistress were dead, the family portraits had been left behind in the old country house, where, no doubt, they were lying somewhere in the attic; the stories which told of the old way of life and the important position occupied by the family were no longer heard and only lived in the memory of a few old people who had remained on the estate. This was why his grey coat was so dear to Zakhar. He saw in it a faint reflection of past glory, of which he was also reminded by something in Oblomov’s face and manner which recalled his parents, Zakhar’s old master and mistress, and by his whims, at which the servant grumbled both to himself and aloud, but which he respected for all that as a manifestation of his master’s will and his master’s rights. Without these whims he would, somehow, not have felt that he had a master over him; without them nothing would have brought back to him the memory of his youth, the country they had left so long ago, and the tales of the ancient family seat, preserved in the memory of the old servants and nursemaids and passed on from one generation to another.
The Oblomov family had once been rich and famous in its part of the country, but afterwards, goodness only knows why, it had grown poorer, lost all its influence, and, at last, was imperceptibly lost among the newer families of the landed gentry. Only the grey-haired servants of the family kept alive and handed on the faithful memories of the past which they treasured as if they were something sacred.
That was why Zakhar was so fond of his grey coat. Perhaps he valued his side-whiskers, too, because as a child he had seen so many old servants who wore that ancient and aristocratic adornment.
Oblomov, absorbed in his thoughts, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood before him in silence. At last he coughed.
«What do you want?» Oblomov asked.
«But you called me, sir, didn’t you?»
«Called you? Whatever did I call you for? Can’t remember!» he replied, stretching himself. «You’d better go back to your room and I’ll try and remember».
Zakhar went out of the room, and Oblomov went on lying in bed and thinking of the cursed letter.
A quarter of an hour passed.
«Well, I’ve been lying long enough», he said. «I must get up. But wait – let me read the bailiff’s letter carefully once more and then I’ll get up. Zakhar!»
Again the same jump and louder growling. Zakhar came in, and Oblomov again sank into thought. Zakhar stood for a couple of minutes looking at his master disapprovingly and slightly sideways, and at last walked towards the door.
«Where are you off to?» Oblomov asked suddenly.
«You say nothing, sir, so why should I stand here for nothing?» Zakhar said in a hoarse whisper, having lost his voice, so he claimed, riding to hounds with the old master, when a strong gust of wind had blown into his throat.
He was standing in the middle of the room, half turned away from Oblomov, at whom he went on looking sideways.
«Have you lost the use of your legs, that you can’t stand a little longer? You see I am worried – so just wait! Haven’t you been lying down long enough in your room? Find the letter I received from the bailiff yesterday. Where did you put it?»
«What letter? I’ve seen no letter, sir», Zakhar said.
«But you took it from the postman yourself – such a dirty letter!»
«How should I know where you put it?» said Zakhar, tapping the papers and the various articles on the table.
«You never know anything! Look there – in the waste-paper basket! Or perhaps it has dropped behind the sofa? Look at the back of that sofa – hasn’t it been repaired yet? Why don’t you send for the carpenter and have it repaired? It was you who broke it, wasn’t it? You never think of anything!»
«It wasn’t me that broke it, sir», replied Zakhar. «It broke by itself. Can’t last for ever, can it? It’s bound to get broken some day».
Oblomov did not think it necessary to contest the point.
«Haven’t you found it yet?» he merely asked.
«Here are some letters, sir».
«That’s not it».
«Well, sir, there ain’t no more», Zakhar said.
«Very well, you can go», Oblomov said impatiently. «I’ll look for it myself when I get up».
Zakhar went back to his room, but he was just about to lay his hands on the stove in order to jump on to it, when he again heard a hurried call:
«Zakhar! Zakhar!»
«Oh Lord!» Zakhar growled, as he went into the study again. «What a trial he is! I wish I was dead!
„What is it now, sir?“ he asked, holding on to the door of the study with one hand, and, to show his extreme disapproval, looking at Oblomov at such an angle that he could see his master only out of the corner of his eye, while his master could only see one of his vast side-whiskers, out of which, it would seem, two or three birds might fly at any moment.
„My handkerchief, and be quick about it! You might have thought of it yourself – you never see anything!“ Oblomov observed sternly.
Zakhar showed no sign of any particular displeasure or surprise at his master’s command and reproach, no doubt finding both quite natural.
„How should I know where your handkerchief is?“ he grumbled, walking round the room and feeling every chair with his hand, though one could see there was nothing lying there.
„You’re always losing things“, he observed, opening the drawing-room door to see if the handkerchief was there.
„Where are you going? Look for it here! I haven’t been there since the day before yesterday. And hurry up, will you?“ Oblomov said.
„Where is that handkerchief? Can’t see it anywhere!“ said Zakhar, throwing up his hands and looking round the room. „Why, there it is“, he suddenly hissed angrily. „It’s under you, sir! There’s one end of it sticking out! You lie on your handkerchief and then you ask for it!“
And, without waiting for a reply, Zakhar was about to leave the room. Oblomov felt a little disconcerted by his own mistake. But he quickly found another reason for putting the blame on Zakhar.
„Is this the way you keep the place clean and tidy? Look at the dust, the dirt – good Lord! There – have a look in the corners – you don’t do anything!“
Don’t I, sir?» Zakhar said in a hurt voice. «As if I wasn’t trying. Working my fingers to the bone, I am. Dusting and sweeping nearly every day».
He pointed to the middle of the floor and the table at which Oblomov had dinner.
«Look there, sir, there», he said; «everything’s swept up and tidy as for a wedding. What more do you want?»
«And what’s this?» Oblomov interrupted him, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. «And this! And this!»
He pointed to the towel left on the sofa since the day before and to a plate with a piece of bread on it, forgotten on the table.
«Well, sir, I daresay I might take this away», said Zakhar, picking up the plate with a condescending air.
«Only that? And what about the dust on the walls – the cobwebs?» Oblomov said, pointing to the walls.
«I usually sweep the walls before Easter, sir. I clean the icons then, too, and take off the cobwebs».
«And the books and pictures – when do you dust them?»
«The books and pictures, sir, I do before Christmas: Anisya and I turn out all the book-cases then. How do you expect me to clean the place now? You’re at home all day, aren’t you?»
«I sometimes go to the theatre or visit friends – that’s when you ought to do it».
«Can’t do things at night, can I, sir?»
Oblomov gave him a reproachful look, shook his head, and sighed. Zakhar cast an indifferent glance out of the window and sighed, too. The master seemed to think: «Well, my dear chap, you’re even more of an Oblomov than I am». And Zakhar, quite likely, thought to himself: «Fiddlesticks! All you’re good at is to use high-sounding and aggravating words – you don’t care a fig for the dust and the cobwebs!»
«Don’t you realize», said Oblomov, «that moths thrive on dust? And sometimes I can even see a bug on the wall!»
«I’ve got fleas as well, sir», Zakhar remarked unconcernedly.
«You think that’s all right, do you?» Oblomov said. «Why, it’s vermin!»
Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that his eyebrows and side-whiskers parted, and a red flush spread all over his face.
«Isn’t my fault, sir, if there are bugs in the world», he said with naive surprise. «I didn’t invent them, did I?»
«It’s because of the dirt», Oblomov interrupted him. «What nonsense you do talk!»
«I didn’t invent dirt, either».
«You’ve got mice running about in your room at night – I can hear them».
«I didn’t invent the mice, either. There are lots of these creatures everywhere, sir: mice and moths and bugs».
«How is it other people have neither moths nor bugs?»
Zakhar’s face expressed incredulity, or rather a calm certainty that this never happened.
«I’ve got lots of everything, sir», he said obstinately. «You can’t expect me to see to every bug. I can’t crawl into their cracks, can I?»
He seemed to be thinking to himself: «And what would sleep be like without a bug?»
«Sweep up the dirt out of the corners – then there won’t be any», Oblomov instructed him.
«Sweep it up to-day and there’ll be plenty of it to-morrow», said Zakhar.
«No, there won’t», his master interrupted him. «There shouldn’t be».
«There will be», the servant insisted; «I know, sir».
«Well, if there is, you must sweep it up again».
«What, sir? Sweep out all the corners every day?» Zakhar asked. «Why, what sort of life would that be? I’d rather be dead!»
«But why are other people’s rooms clean?» Oblomov retorted. «Look at the piano-tuner’s opposite: it’s a pleasure to look at his place, and he has only one maid».
«And where, sir, do you expect Germans to get dirt from?» Zakhar objected suddenly. «See how they live! The whole family gnaw a bone all the week. A coat passes from the father to the son and from the son back again to the father. His wife and daughters wear short frocks: their legs stick out under them like geese… Where are they to get dirt from? They’re not like us, with stacks of worn-out clothes lying in wardrobes for years. They don’t get a whole corner full of crusts of bread during the winter. They don’t waste a crust, they don’t! They make them into rusks and have them with their beer!»
Zakhar spat through his teeth at the thought of such a niggardly existence.
«It’s no good your talking!» replied Oblomov. «You’d better tidy up the rooms».
«Well, sir, I’d be glad to tidy up sometimes, but you won’t let me».
«There he goes again! It’s I who won’t let him, if you please!»
«Of course it’s you, sir. You’re always at home: how can I tidy the place with you here? Go out for a whole day and I’ll get it nice and tidy».
«Good Lord! what next? Go out indeed! You’d better go back to your room».
«But really, sir», Zakhar insisted. «Why don’t you go out today, and Anisya and me will get everything ship-shape. Though, mind you, sir, we shan’t be able to do everything by ourselves – not the two of us: we should have to get some charwomen to come and wash…»
«Good Lord! what an idea – charwomen! Go on, back to your room», said Oblomov.
He was sorry he had started the conversation with Zakhar. He kept forgetting that as soon as he touched on that delicate subject he got involved in endless trouble. Oblomov would have liked to have his rooms clean, but he could not help wishing that it would all happen somehow of itself, without any fuss; but the moment Zakhar was asked to dust, scrub, and so on, he always made a fuss. Every time it was mentioned he began proving that it would mean a tremendous lot of trouble, knowing very well that the very thought of it terrified his master.
Zakhar left the room and Oblomov sank into thought. A few minutes later it again struck the half-hour.
«Good heavens», Oblomov said almost in dismay, «it’ll soon be eleven o’clock, and I haven’t got up and washed! Zakhar! Zakhar!»
«Dear, oh dear! What now?» Zakhar’s voice came from the passage followed by the familiar sound of a jump.
«Is my water ready?» Oblomov asked.
«Been ready for hours», Zakhar replied. «Why don’t you get up, sir?»
«Why didn’t you tell me it was ready? I’d have got up long ago. Go now, I’ll follow you presently. I have some work to do. I’ll sit down and write».
Zakhar went out, but a minute later returned with a greasy notebook covered with writing and scraps of paper.
«If you’re going to write, sir, you might as well check these accounts – they have to be paid».
«What accounts? What has to be paid?» Oblomov asked, looking displeased.
«The butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker, sir. They are all asking for money».
«All they think of is money!» Oblomov grumbled. «And why don’t you give me a few bills at a time? Why do you produce them all at once?»
«But every time I do, sir, you tell me to go – it’s always tomorrow, to-morrow».
«Well, can’t we put it off till to-morrow now?»
«No, sir. They keep on pestering me, sir. They won’t give us any credit. To-day’s the first of the month».
«Oh dear!» said Oblomov dejectedly. «A fresh worry! Well, what are you standing there for? Put them on the table. I’ll get up presently, wash, and have a look at them. So my water is ready, is it?»
«It’s ready, sir», said Zakhar.
«All right, now», – he groaned and was about to raise himself in his bed in order to get up.
«I forgot to tell you, sir», Zakhar began. «Just a few hours ago, while you were still asleep, the house agent sent the porter to say that we must move – they want the flat».
«Well, what about it? If they want it, we shall of course move. What are you pestering me for? It’s the third time you’ve told me».
«They’re pestering me too, sir».
«Tell them we’re going to move».
«They say, sir, you’ve been promising to move for the last month but you still don’t move. They’re threatening to tell the police».
«Let them!» Oblomov said resolutely. «We’ll move as soon as the weather gets warmer – in three weeks or so».
«In three weeks, sir? Why, sir, the agent says the workmen are coming in in a fortnight’s time. They’re going to break the whole place down. You’ll have to move to-morrow or the day after – that’s what he says, sir!»
«Does he? He’s in too much of a hurry! He wants us to move at once, does he? Don’t you dare even to mention the flat to me again. I’ve told you once before and you’re at it again. Take care!»
«But what am I to do, sir?» Zakhar asked.
«What are you to do? So that’s the way you want to wriggle out of your responsibilities?» replied Oblomov. «You’re asking me! What do I care? So long as you don’t bother me, you can make any arrangements you like, provided we haven’t got to move out of this flat! You won’t do anything for your master, will you?»
«But what can I do, sir?» – Zakhar began, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice. «It’s not my house, is it? How can we refuse to go, if we’re being chucked out? Now, if it was my house, sir, I’d have been only too glad…»
«Can’t you persuade them somehow? Tell them we’ve been here for years, always paid the rent regularly…»
«I told them that, sir».
«Oh? Well, what did they say?»
«Why, sir, what do you think they said? They just keep on saying we must move because they have to do all sorts of alterations. You see, sir, they want to convert this flat and the doctor’s next door into one big flat in time for the landlord’s son’s wedding».
«Goodness me, how do you like that?» Oblomov said with vexation. «To think that there are such donkeys who want to get married!»
He turned over on his back.
«Why don’t you write to the landlord, sir?» said Zakhar. «Perhaps he wouldn’t bother you then, but tell the workmen to break down the flat next door first».
Zakhar pointed somewhere to the right.
«Oh, very well, I’ll write as soon as I get up. You’d better go back to your room now, and I’ll think it over», he added. «It seems that you can’t do anything and I shall have to arrange this stupid affair myself too».
Zakhar went out of the room and Oblomov began thinking. But he could not make up his mind what he was to think of first: the bailiff’s letter, or moving out of the flat, or looking through the accounts. He was lost in a flood of worldly cares, and remained lying in bed, turning over from side to side. At times sudden cries were heard in the room: «Oh dear, oh dear! You can’t run away from life – it gets at you everywhere!»
It is difficult to say how long he would have remained in this state of indecision, if there had not been a ring at the front door.
«There’s someone at the door already», said Oblomov, wrapping his dressing-gown round him, «and I haven’t got up yet. Oh, it’s disgraceful! I wonder who it can be so early?»
And without attempting to get up, he looked curiously at the door.

2
A YOUNG MAN of twenty-five, looking the picture of health, with laughing cheeks, lips, and eyes, entered the room. It made one envious to look at him.
He was irreproachably groomed and dressed, and his countenance, linen, gloves, and frock-coat had a dazzling freshness. An elegant chain with numberless tiny trinkets stretched across his waistcoat. He pulled out a handkerchief of the finest lawn, inhaled the perfumes of the Orient, then, passing it lightly across his face and his shiny hat, flicked his patent leather boots with it.
«Oh, Volkov, how are you?» said Oblomov.
«How are you, Oblomov?» the dazzling gentleman said, walking up to him.
«Don’t come near me», Oblomov cried, «don’t come near me; you’re straight from the cold street!»
«Oh, you spoilt darling, you sybarite!» Volkov said, looking for a place to put down his hat, but, seeing the dust everywhere, he decided to keep it in his hand. He parted the skirts of his frock-coat to sit down, but after a careful glance at the armchair, remained standing.
«You aren’t up yet! What an old-fashioned dressing-gown you’re wearing – I haven’t seen one like it for ages!»
«It’s a perfectly good dressing-gown», said Oblomov, lovingly wrapping the wide folds of the garment round him.
«Are you well?» asked Volkov.
«Well? Good Lord, no!» Oblomov answered, yawning. «Couldn’t feel worse. High blood pressure, you know. And how are you?»
«Me? I’m all right. In perfect health, and having a jolly good time», the young man added with feeling.
«Where do you come from so early?» asked Oblomov.
«From my tailor’s. How do you like my frock-coat? Splendid, isn’t it?» he said, turning round before Oblomov.
«Splendid! In excellent taste», said Oblomov. «But why is it so wide at the back?»
«It’s a riding-coat; for riding on horseback».
«Oh, I see! But do you ride?»
«Of course I do! I had the coat specially made for to-day. It’s the first of May to-day: Goryunov and I are going to Yekaterinhof. Oh, you don’t know, do you? Misha Goryunov has received his commission – so we’re celebrating to-day», Volkov added with enthusiasm.
«Oh, indeed», said Oblomov.
«He has a chestnut horse», Volkov went on. «All the horses in his regiment are chestnut; and mine is a black one. How will you go – will you walk or drive?»
«Oh, I don’t think I’ll go at all», said Oblomov.
«Not go to Yekaterinhof on the first of May? Good Lord, Oblomov!» Volkov cried in surprise. «Why, everyone will be there!»
«Not everyone, surely», Oblomov observed lazily.
«Do come, my dear fellow! Sofya Nikolayevna and Lydia will be alone in the carriage, and the seat opposite is entirely at your disposal».
«No, that seat is too small for me. And, besides, what on earth am I going to do there?»
«Very well, in that case Misha could hire another horse for you».
«The things he thinks of!» Oblomov said, almost to himself. «Why are you so interested in the Goryunovs?»
«Oh!» Volkov said, flushing crimson. «Shall I tell you?»
«Do».
«You won’t tell anyone – on your word of honour?» Volkov went on, sitting down on the sofa beside him.
«I won't».
«I–I’m in love with Lydia», he whispered.
«Bravo! How long? – She’s very charming, I believe».
«For three weeks», Volkov said with a deep sigh. «And Misha is in love with Dashenka».
«Which Dashenka?»
«Where have you been, Oblomov? You don’t know Dashenka? Why, the whole town is crazy about her dancing. To-night I’m going to the ballet with him: he wants to throw a bouquet on to the stage. I must introduce him into society. He’s so shy – a novice. Oh, good Lord, I have got to go and buy some camelias».
«Whatever for? You’d better come and dine with me. We’d have a talk. I’m afraid two awful things have happened to me…»
«Sorry, I can’t. I’m dining at Prince Tyumenev’s. The Goryunovs will be there and she – my darling Lydia», he added in a whisper. «Why have you given up the prince? It’s such a gay house! So wealthy! And their country cottage! Buried in flowers! They’ve added a balcony to it – gothique. I understand they’re going to have dances there in the summer – tableaux vivants! You’ll be coming, won’t you?»
«No, I don’t think I will».
«Oh, what a splendid house! On their Wednesday at homes last winter there were never fewer than fifty people there – sometimes, indeed, there were as many as a hundred!»
«Good heavens, I can imagine how horribly boring it must have been».
«Boring! How can you say that? The more the merrier. Lydia, too, used to come, but I never noticed her there, then suddenly -
In vain to banish her from my mind I try,
And by reason, my passion to tame» —
he sang, and without thinking sat down in the arm-chair, but jumped up immediately and began dusting his clothes.
«How awfully dusty your room is!» he said.
«It’s all Zakhar’s fault!» Oblomov complained.
«Well, I must be off», said Volkov. «Must get those camelias for Misha’s bouquet. Au revoir».
«Come and have tea with me in the evening, after the ballet, and tell me all about it», Oblomov invited him.
«I’m sorry, I’ve promised to go to the Mussinskys’; it’s their At Home to-day. Won’t you come, too? I’ll introduce you».
«No, thank you. What should I do there?»
«At the Mussinskys’? Why, half the town is there! What should you do there? It’s a house where they talk about everything».
«That’s what I find so boring – talking about everything», said Oblomov.
«Well, why don’t you go to the Mezdrovs’?» Volkov interrupted him. «There they talk about one thing only – art. All you hear there is – the Venetian school, Bach and Beethoven, Leonardo da Vinci…»
«Always the same thing – how boring!» said Oblomov with a yawn. «Pedants, I suppose».
«There’s no pleasing you. Why, there are hundreds of houses you can go to. Everyone has definite visiting days now: the Savinovs have dinners on Thursdays, the Maklashins on Fridays, the Vyaznikovs on Sundays, Prince Tyumenev on Wednesdays. I’m engaged every day of the week», Volkov concluded with shining eyes.
«And don’t you find it exhausting to go rushing about day after day?»
«Exhausting? Good Lord, no! It’s great fun!» Volkov said happily. «In the morning I read the papers – one must be au courant with everything, know the news. Thank heavens my job in the Civil Service doesn’t require my presence at the office.
All I’m supposed to do is to have dinner twice a week with the head of my department. Then I go visiting people I haven’t seen some time – well, then – er – there’s always a new actress in the Russian or in the French theatre. The opera season will be opening soon and I shall book seats for it. And now I’m in love – summer is coming – Misha has been promised leave – we’ll go for a month to their estate for a change. We can do some shooting there. They have splendid neighbours who give bals champêtres. Lydia and I will go for walks in the woods, go boating, pick flowers – Oh!» and he spun round and round with delight. «However, I must be off. Good-bye», he said, trying in vain to have a good look at himself in the dusty mirror.
«Wait a moment», Oblomov tried to stop him. «I wanted to talk business with you».
«Sorry – I’m in a hurry», Volkov replied. «Another time! But won’t you come with me and have some oysters? You’ll be able to tell me all about it then. Come, Misha is treating us».
«No, thank you», said Oblomov.
«Good-bye, then».
He walked to the door and came back.
«Have you seen this?» he asked, showing him a hand in a marvellously fitting glove.
«What is it?» asked Oblomov, looking perplexed.
«The new lacets. You see how wonderfully they fit. You haven’t got to wrestle for two hours trying to button your glove. You just pull the lace and it’s done. It’s just arrived from Paris. Would you like me to bring you a pair to try?»
«All right, bring me a pair», said Oblomov.
«And have a look at this. Very charming, isn’t it?» he asked, picking out one of his trinkets. «A visiting-card with a corner turned down».
«Can’t make out the inscription».
«Pr. Prince M. Michel», Volkov said. «There was no room for the surname Tyumenev. He gave this to me instead of an Easter egg. – But good-bye – au revoir. I’ve another ten calls to make. Oh, how gay life is!»
And he vanished.
«Ten visits in one day – the poor wretch!» thought Oblomov. «And this is life!» he shrugged his shoulders. «What’s there left of the man? What is he wasting and frittering himself away for? No doubt it’s nice to look in at the theatre, and fall in love with some Lydia – she’s very charming! Pick flowers with her in the country, go shooting – there’s nothing wrong with that. But make ten calls in one day – poor wretch!» he concluded, turning over on his back, glad that he had no such empty thoughts and desires, that he did not rush about, but lay in bed, preserving his peace and his human dignity.
Another ring at the door interrupted his thoughts. A new visitor came in.
It was a man in a dark green frock-coat, with brass embossed buttons, his cleanly-shaven, worn-out face framed evenly by a pair of dark side-whiskers; he had tired, but calm and thoughtful, eyes, and a pensive smile.
«Good morning, Sudbinsky», Oblomov greeted him gaily. «So you’ve come at last to see your old colleague! Don’t come near – don’t come near – you’re straight from the cold street!»
«How are you, Oblomov? I’ve long been meaning to call on you», said the visitor, «but you know how devilishly busy I am. Look – I’m taking a caseful of official papers to the office to report on. And I’ve told the courier to come straight here if I should be asked for. I haven’t a moment to myself».
«You’re going to your office at this hour? Why so late?» asked Oblomov. «You used to be there at ten o’clock».
«I used to – yes. But now it’s different: I drive there at twelve». He emphasized the word «drive’.
„Oh, I see“, said Oblomov. „You’re head of a department! Since when?“
Sudbinsky nodded significantly.
„Since Easter“, he said. „But the amount of work – it’s dreadful! From eight to twelve at home, from twelve to five at the office, and more work in the evening. Never see anyone!“
„Well, well! Head of a department – so that’s it!“ said Oblomov. „Congratulations! What a fellow! And we used to be office clerks together. I shouldn’t be surprised if you were made a State Counsellor next year“.
„Good heavens, no. I should have been given the order of the Crown this year. I thought I’d receive an order for distinguished services – but now that I’ve been given my new post – you can’t be promoted twice in two years“.
„Come and have dinner with me; we’ll drink to your promotion“, said Oblomov.
„I’m sorry, but I’m dining with the vice-director to-day. I have to get my report ready for Thursday – hellish work! You can’t rely on the provincial reports. You have to check the lists yourself. Our vice-director is so particular, he insists on doing everything himself. So we shall sit down to it together after dinner“.
„Not after dinner, surely?“ asked Oblomov, incredulously.
„Why, what do you think? I’ll be lucky to get off early – I’ll have time to drive to Yekaterinhof. As a matter of fact, I came to ask if you wouldn’t go with me. I’d call for you“.
„I’m afraid I’m not feeling very well“, said Oblomov, frowning. „Besides, I’ve a lot to do – No, sorry, I can’t!“
„A pity“, said Sudbinsky. „It’s a lovely day. To-day is my only chance of getting some fresh air“.
„Well, any news at the office?“ asked Oblomov.
„Yes, all sorts of things. We don’t sign letters now, „Your humble servant“, but: „Accept our assurance of“. We’re no longer required to send in service lists in duplicate. Our department is to get three more sections and two more officials for special duties. Our committee has been closed. Lots of things!“
„Well, and what about our former colleagues?“
„Nothing special so far. Svinkin has lost a file of official documents“.
„No? What did the director do?“ Oblomov asked in a trembling voice. In spite of himself, he felt frightened from force of habit.
„He ordered to withhold his promotion till the file turns up. It’s an important case, concerning penalties. The director believes“, Sudbinsky added almost in a whisper, „that he has lost it on purpose“.
„I don’t believe it!“
„You’re quite right“, Sudbinsky affirmed importantly, with an air of condescension. „Svinkin is such a feather-brained fellow. He sometimes makes a mess of his figures and gets all his references muddled up. I’ve had such awful trouble with him, but I haven’t noticed anything of that kind – I mean, he wouldn’t do such a thing. He just wouldn’t. He must have mislaid the documents. They’ll turn up one day“.
„So that’s how you spend your time“, said Oblomov. „Always busy – working“.
„Oh, it’s dreadful, dreadful! But of course with a man like the vice-director of our department it’s a pleasure. He never fails to reward a good and conscientious official for faithful service, and he doesn’t forget those who don’t do any work, either. Those who have done their term of service he recommends for promotion; and for those who aren’t due for promotion or the conferment of an order he’ll try to get a bonus“.
„What salary do you get?“
„Oh, nothing much. One thousand two hundred salary, seven hundred and fifty for board, six hundred for lodgings, five hundred for travelling expenses, and up to a thousand in bonuses“.
„Good God!“ Oblomov exclaimed, jumping off the bed. „It isn’t singing you’re doing, is it? Why, you earn as much as an Italian opera singer!“
„Oh, that’s nothing! Peresvetov receives additional remuneration, and he does less work than I – and he can’t make head or tail of anything. But then of course he hasn’t the same reputation. They think very highly of me“, he added modestly, lowering his eyes. „The minister said the other day that I was a credit to the ministry“.
„Stout fellow!“ said Oblomov. „But working from eight to twelve, from twelve to five, and at home, too – well!“ He shook his head.
„But what should I do if I were not in the service?“ asked Sudbinsky.
„Lots of things! You could read, write..“. said Oblomov.
„But I do nothing but read and write now“.
„I don’t mean that. You could publish your writings“.
„Not everyone can be a writer. Look at you. You don’t write, do you?“ replied Sudbinsky.
„Ah, but I have an estate on my hands“, said Oblomov with a sigh. „I’m devising a new scheme, introducing all sorts of improvements. Worrying myself to death. But you’re doing other people’s work – not your own“.
„Well, that can’t be helped. One has to work, if one is paid. I’ll have a rest in the summer. My chief has promised to get me some special work which will take me out into the country. I’ll get travelling expenses to hire five horses, three roubles a day for my other expenses, and then promotion…“
„They have money to burn!“ Oblomov said enviously; then he sighed and fell into thought.
„I need money“, added Sudbinsky. „I’m getting married in the autumn“.
„Good Lord! Really? To whom?“ Oblomov cried sympathetically.
„Yes, indeed, to Miss Murashin.You remember they were staying next to me in the country during my summer holidays and had tea at my place? I believe you met her“.
„No, I don’t remember. Is she pretty?“ asked Oblomov.
„Yes, she’s a charming girl. If you like, we can go and have dinner with them“.
Oblomov looked embarrassed. „All right – only“ -
„Next week“, said Sudbinsky.
„Yes, yes, next week“, Oblomov agreed, feeling relieved. „My new suit isn’t ready yet. Tell me, is it a good match?“
„Oh yes, her father is a high-grade civil servant. He’s giving her ten thousand, and he has free Government quarters. He’s letting us have twelve rooms; furniture, heating, and lighting provided free. Not so bad“.
„Not so bad, indeed! You’re a lucky chap, Sudbinsky“, Oblomov added, not without envy.
„You must be my best man, Oblomov! Don’t forget“.
„Why, of course“, said Oblomov. „Well, and what about Kuznetzov, Vassilyev, Makhov?“
„Kuznetzov has been married for years, Makhov is now in my place, and Vassilyev has been transferred to Poland. Ivan Petrovich has received the Order of St Vladimir, and Oleshkin is „His Excellency“ now“.
„He’s a nice fellow“, said Oblomov.
„Yes, yes. He deserves it“.
„A very nice fellow indeed. Good-natured and even-tempered“.
„So obliging“, Sudbinsky added. „And, you know, never tries to curry favour, to make mischief, trip one up, get ahead of anyone – he does all he can for people“.
„An excellent fellow! I remember if I made a mess of some official report, left something out, expressed a wrong opinion, or quoted the wrong law in a memorandum, he didn’t mind; he’d merely tell someone else to put it right. An excellent fellow!“ Oblomov concluded.
„But our Semyon Semyonovich is incorrigible“, said Sudbinsky. „All he’s good for is to throw dust in people’s eyes. What do you think he did the other day? We received a demand from the provinces for putting up dog kennels near the buildings of our ministry, to guard against the depredation of Government property; our architect, a capable, experienced, and honest man, drew up a very moderate estimate; but Semyon Semyonovich thought it was too high and began making inquiries to find out how much the kennels would cost to build. He discovered someone who agreed to do it at thirty copecks less and at once sent in a memorandum about it…“
There was another ring at the front door.
„Good-bye“, said the civil servant. „I’m afraid I’ve been chatting too long to you. I may be wanted at the office…“
„Do stay a little longer“, Oblomov said, trying to detain him. „Besides, I’d like to ask your advice – two awful things have happened to me“.
„No, no, I’m sorry, old man, I’d better look you up again in a couple of days“, Sudbinsky said, leaving the room.
„My dear fellow, you’re up to your neck in it“, thought Oblomov, as he watched him go. „Blind, deaf, and dumb to everything else in the world. But he’ll be a big man one day, be put in charge of all sorts of important things, and reach a high rank in the service. This is what they call making a career, I suppose! But how little of the real man is wanted for such a career – intelligence, will, feelings are not wanted. What for? They’re a luxury! And so he’ll go on till he dies, and he’ll go through life without being aware of lots of things. And there he goes on working from twelve till five at his office and from eight till twelve at home – poor fellow!“
He felt a quiet satisfaction at the thought that he could stay in bed from nine till three and from eight till nine, and was proud that he had no reports to make nor papers to write and that there was ample scope both for his feelings and his imagination.
Oblomov was absorbed in his thoughts and did not notice a very thin dark man standing by his bed, a man whose face was practically invisible behind his whiskers, moustache, and imperial. He was dressed with studied negligence.
„Good morning, Oblomov!“
„Good morning, Penkin“, said Oblomov. „Don’t come near, don’t come near, you’re straight from the cold!“
„Oh, you funny fellow“, Penkin said. „Still the same incorrigible, care-free idler!“
„Yes, care-free!“ said Oblomov. „Let me show you the letter I received from my bailiff last night: I am racking my brains and you say: care-free! Where do you come from?“
„From a bookshop: I went to find out if the magazines were out. Have you read my article?“
„No“.
„I’ll send it to you. Read it“.
„What is it about?“ asked Oblomov, yawning heartily.
„About trade, the emancipation of women, the beautiful April weather we’ve been having, and about a newly invented fire extinguisher. How is it you don’t read the papers? Why, you find all about our daily life there. But most of all I’m agitating for the realistic movement in literature“.
„Have you plenty of work?“ asked Oblomov.
„Oh, quite a lot. Two articles a week for my paper, reviewing novels, and I’ve just written a short story“.
„What about?“
„About the mayor of a provincial town who boxes the ears of the local tradespeople“.
„Yes, that’s realism all right“, said Oblomov.
„Isn’t it?“ the literary gentleman said, looking pleased. „This is the main idea of my story and, mind you, I know7 it is new and daring. A traveller happened to sec the beating and he went and complained to the Governor about it. The Governor ordered a civil servant, who was going to the town on official business, to look into the matter and, generally, find out all he could about the mayor’s conduct and personality. The official called a meeting of the local tradespeople on the pretext of discussing their trade with them, and began questioning them about that, too. Well, what do you think those shopkeepers did? Why, they bowed and scraped and praised the mayor up to the skies. The official made some private inquiries and found that the trades“ men were awful rogues, sold rotten goods, gave short measure, cheated the Government, were utterly immoral, so that the beating was a well-deserved punishment!»
«So the mayor’s blows play the part of Fate in the ancient tragedies?» said Oblomov.
«Yes, indeed», Penkin was quick to agree. «You have a fine appreciation of literature, Oblomov. You ought to be a writer. You see, I’ve succeeded in showing up the mayor’s arbitrary disregard of the laws and the common people’s corrupt morals, the bad methods adopted by the subordinate officials, and the need for stern but legal measures. Don’t you think this idea of mine is – er – rather new?»
«Yes, especially to me», said Oblomov. «I read so little, you see».
«As a matter of fact», said Penkin, «one doesn’t see many books in your room, does one? But you must read one thing, a most excellent poem will be published shortly – A Corrupt Official’s Love for a Fallen Woman – I can’t tell you who the author is. It is still a secret».
«What is it about?»
«The whole mechanism of our social life is shown up, and all in a highly poetic vein. All the hidden wires are exposed, all the rungs of the social ladder are carefully examined. The author summons, as though for trial, the weak but vicious statesman and а whole swarm of corrupt officials who deceive him; and every type of fallen woman is closely scrutinized – Frenchwomen, German, Finnish – and everything, everything is so remarkably, so thrillingly true to life… I’ve heard extracts from it – the author is a great man! He reminds one of Dante and Shakespeare…»
«Good Lord!» cried Oblomov in surprise, sitting up. «Going a bit too far, aren’t you?»
Penkin suddenly fell silent, realizing that he had really gone too far.
«Read it and judge for yourself», he said, but with no enthusiasm this time.
«No, Penkin, I won’t read it».
«Why not? It’s creating a sensation, people are talking about it».
«Let them! Some people have nothing to do but talk. It is their vocation in life, you know».
«But why not read it, just out of curiosity?»
«Oh, what is there to be curious about?» said Oblomov. «I don’t know why they keep on writing – just to amuse themselves, I suppose».
«To amuse themselves! Why, it’s all so true to life! So laughably true! Just like living portraits. Whoever it is – a merchant, a civil servant, an army officer, a policeman – it’s as if the writers caught them alive!»
«But in that case why all this bother? Just for the fun of picking up some man and presenting him as true to life? As a matter of fact, there is no life in anything they do – no true understanding of it, no true sympathy, nothing of what one can call real humanity. Mere vanity – that’s what it is. They describe thieves and fallen women just as though they had caught them in the street and taken them to prison. What you feel in their stories is not „invisible tears“, but visible, coarse laughter and spitefulness».
«What more do you want? That’s excellent. You’ve said it yourself. Burning spite, bitter war on vice, contemptuous laughter at fallen human beings – everything’s there!»
«No, no, not everything», Oblomov cried, suddenly working himself up into a passion. «Depict a thief, a prostitute, a defrauded fool, but don’t forget that they, too, are human beings. Where’s your feeling of humanity? You want to write with your head only!» Oblomov almost hissed. «Do you think that to express ideas one doesn’t need a heart? One does need it – they are rendered fruitful by love; stretch out a helping hand to the fallen man to raise him, or shed bitter tears over him, if he faces ruin, but do not jeer at him. Love him, remember that he is a man like you, and deal with him as if he were yourself, then I shall read you and acknowledge you», he said, lying down again comfortably on the couch. «They describe a thief or a prostitute», he went on, «but forget the human being or are incapable of depicting him – what art and what poetic vein do you find in that? Expose vice and filth, but please don’t pretend that your exposures have anything to do with poetry».
«According to you, then, all we have to do is to describe nature – roses, nightingales, frosty mornings – while everything around us is in a continuous state of turmoil and movement? All we want is the bare physiology of society – we have no time for songs nowadays».
«Give me man – man!» Oblomov said. «Love him!»
«Love the money-lender, the hypocrite, the thieving or dull-witted official? Surely you can’t mean that? One can see at once that you’re not a literary person!» Penkin said heatedly. «No, sir, they must be punished, cast out from civil life, from society».
«Cast out from society?» Oblomov suddenly cried, as though inspired, jumping to his feet and facing Penkin. «That means forgetting that there was a living spirit in this unworthy vessel; that he is a depraved man, but a man none the less like yourself. Cast him out! And how do you propose to cast him out from human society, from nature, from the mercy of God!» he almost shouted, his eyes blazing.
«Going a bit too far, aren’t you?» Penkin said in his turn with surprise.
Oblomov realized, too, that he had overstepped the mark. He fell silent suddenly, stood still for a moment, yawned, and slowly lay down on the couch.
Both lapsed into silence.
«What do you read then?» asked Penkin.
«Me? Oh, books of travel mostly».
Again silence.
«But you will read the poem when it comes out, won’t you?» Penkin asked. «I’d bring it to you…»
Oblomov shook his head.
«Well, shall I send you my story?»
Oblomov nodded.
«I’m afraid I must really be off to the printers», said Penkin. «Do you know why I called? I came to ask you to go to Yekaterinhof with me. I have a carriage. I have to write an article to-morrow about the festival, and we could watch it together. You could point out to me what I failed to notice. It would be more jolly. Let’s go!»
«No, thank you, I don’t feel well», said Oblomov, frowning and pulling the blankets over himself. «I’m afraid of the damp. The ground hasn’t dried up yet. But why not come and have dinner with me to-day? We could have a talk. Two awful things have happened to me…"
«I’m sorry but the whole of our editorial staff dine at St George’s to-day. We shall go to the festival from there. And I must get my article ready during the night and send it off to the printers before the morning. Good-bye».
«Good-bye, Penkin».
«Writes articles at night», Oblomov mused. «When does he sleep? And yet he probably earns five thousand a year. It’s his bread and butter. But to keep on writing, wasting his mind and soul on trifles, to change his convictions, sell his intelligence and imagination, do violence to his nature, be in a perpetual state of excitement and turmoil, knowing no rest, always rushing about… And write and write, like a wheel or a machine – write tomorrow, write the day after – the holidays, summer will come – always writing, writing! When is he to stop and have a rest? Poor wretch!»
He turned his head towards the table, where everything was so bare, the ink dried up, and no pen to be seen, and he was glad that he lay as free of care as a new-born babe, without trying to do too many things at once, without selling anything.
«And the bailiff’s letter? And the flat?» he remembered suddenly, and sank into thought again.
But presently there was another ring at the front door.
«I seem to be holding a regular reception to-day», said Oblomov and waited to see who his new visitor was.
A man of indefinite age and of an indefinite appearance came into the room; he had reached the age when it was difficult to say how old he was; he was neither ugly nor handsome, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark; nature had not bestowed on him a single striking or outstanding characteristic, neither good nor bad. Some called him Ivan Ivanich, others Ivan Vassilyevich, and still others Ivan Mikhaylovich. People were also uncertain about his surname: some said it was Ivanov, some called him Vassilyev or Andreyev, and others thought he was Alexeyev. A stranger, meeting him for the first time and being told his name, immediately forgot it, as he forgot his face, and never noticed what he said. His presence added nothing to society and his absence took nothing away from it. His mind possessed no wit or originality or other peculiarities, just as his body possessed no peculiarities. He might have been able to tell everything he had seen or heard, and entertain people at least in that way, but he never went anywhere; he had been born in Petersburg and never left it, so that he merely saw and heard what others knew already. Is such a man attractive? Does he love or hate or suffer? It would seem that he ought to love and hate and suffer, for no one is exempt from that. But somehow or other he managed to love everyone. There are people in whom, however hard you try, you cannot arouse any feeling of hostility, revenge, etc. Whatever you do to them, they go on being nice to you. To do them justice, however, it is only fair to say that if you were to measure their love by degrees, it would never reach boiling point. Although such people are said to love everybody and are therefore supposed to be good-natured, they do not really love anybody and are good-natured simply because they are not ill-natured. If people were to give alms to a beggar in the presence of such a man, he, too, would give him a penny, and if they should scold the beggar or drive him away and laugh at him, he, too, would scold him or laugh at him. He cannot be called wealthy, because he is rather poor than rich; but he cannot be called poor either, if only because there are many people poorer than he. He has a private income of about 300 roubles a year, and, besides, has some unimportant post in the Civil Service, for which he receives a small salary; he is never in need, nor does he ever borrow money, nor, needless to say, would it ever occur to anyone to borrow money from him. He has no special or regular job in the service, because neither his superiors nor his colleagues could ever discover if there were any one thing he did better or worse in order to decide what he was particularly fit for. If he were told to do one thing or another, he did it in such a way that his superior was unable to say whether he had done it badly or well. He would just look at his work, read it through a few times and say: «Leave it, I’ll look it through later, and, anyway, it seems to be perfectly all right». No trace of worry or strong desire could be detected on his face, nor anything that would show that he was at that moment thinking of something; nor would you ever see him examining anything closely to show that he took a particular interest in it. If he happened to meet an acquaintance in the street and was asked where he was going, he would reply that he was going to his office or to a shop or to see some friend. But if his acquaintance asked him to go with him instead to the post office or to his tailor or just for a walk, he would go with him to the post office, the tailor, or for a walk, though it might mean going in the opposite direction.
It is doubtful if anyone except his mother noticed his advent into the world, and indeed very few people are aware of him while he lives, and it is quite certain that no one will miss him when he is gone. No one will inquire after him, no one will pity him, no one rejoice at his death. He has neither friends nor enemies, but lots of acquaintances. Quite likely only his funeral procession will attract the attention of a passer-by, who will for the first time honour this obscure individual by a show of respect, namely a low bow; and perhaps some curious fellow will run in front of the procession to find out the dead man’s name, and immediately forget it.
This Alexeyev, Andreyev, Vassilyev, or whatever his name is, seems to be a sort of incomplete and impersonal reminder of the human crowd, its dull echo, its pale reflection.
Even Zakhar, who in his candid talks with his cronies at the gate or in the shops gave all sorts of characterizations of his master’s visitors, always felt perplexed when they came to talk of this – let us say, Alexeyev. He would reflect a long time, trying to catch some prominent feature in the face, the looks or the manners or the character of this man, to which he might be able to hold on, and at last had to give it up with the words: «Oh, that one is neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring».
«Oh, that’s you, Alexeyev?» Oblomov greeted him. «Good morning. Where do you come from? Don’t come near – don’t come near, I won’t shake hands – you’re straight from the cold street!»
«Good Lord, it isn’t cold at all!» said Alexeyev. «I hadn’t intended to call on you to-day, but I met Ovchinin and he carried me off to his place. I’ve come to fetch you, Oblomov».
«Where to?»
«Why, to Ovchinin’s, of course. Matvey Andreyich Alyanov, Kasimir Albertovich Pkhailo, and Vassily Sevastyanych Kolymyagin are there».
«What are they doing there and what do they want me for?»
«Ovchinin invites you to dinner».
«Oh, to dinner», Oblomov repeated without enthusiasm.
«And then we’re all going to Yekaterinhof; they told me to ask you to hire a carriage».
«And what are we going to do there?»
«What do you mean? There’s a fête there to-day. Don’t you know? It’s the first of May».
«Sit down, please; we’ll think about it», said Oblomov.
«Do get up! It’s time you were dressed».
«Wait a little; we’ve plenty of time».
«Plenty of time! They are expecting us at twelve, we’ll have dinner early, at two o’clock, and go to the festival. Do hurry up! Shall I ask Zakhar to help you to dress?»
«Dress? I haven’t washed yet!»
«Well, wash, then!»
Alexeyev began pacing the room, then he stopped before a picture he had seen a thousand times before, cast a quick glance out of the window, picked up some knick-knack from the bookcase, turned it round in his hand, examined it thoroughly, put it back, and began pacing the room again, whistling to himself – so as not to interfere with Oblomov’s getting up and washing. Ten minutes passed in this way.
«What on earth are you doing?» Alexeyev suddenly asked Oblomov.
«Why?»
«But you’re still lying down!»
«Should I have got up, then?»
«Why, of course! They’re waiting for us. You wanted to go, didn’t you?»
«Go? Where? I didn’t want to go anywhere».
«But, my dear fellow, you’ve just been saying that we were going to dine at Ovchinin’s and then go to the festival».
«Go there in this damp weather?» Oblomov said lazily. «What do you expect to see there? It’s going to rain, too, it’s so dull outside».
«There’s not a cloud in the sky and you talk of rain! It looks so dull because your windows haven’t been cleaned for ages! Look at the dirt on them! You can’t see a thing here, and one curtain is almost closed».
«I daresay, but just try to say a word about it to Zakhar and he’ll at once suggest engaging charwomen and driving me out of the house for a whole day!»
Oblomov sank into thought, and Alexeyev sat at the table drumming on it with his finger-tips and gazing absent-mindedly at the walls and the ceiling.
«So what are we going to do?» he asked a few minutes later. «Are you going to dress or do you stay as you are?»
«Why?»
«What about Yekaterinhof?»
«What on earth are you so anxious about Yekaterinhof for – really!» Oblomov cried vexatiously. «Can’t you stay here? Are you cold here or is there a bad smell in the room that you’re so anxious to get out?»
«Why, no», said Alexeyev; «I’m not complaining. I’m always very happy here».
«Well, if you are, why are you so anxious to be somewhere else? Why not stay here with me for the day? We’ll have dinner and in the evening you may go where you like. Oh dear, I’ve forgotten: I can’t possibly go out! Tarantyev is coming to dinner: it’s Saturday».
«Well, of course, I don’t mind. I’ll do as you wish», said Alexeyev.
«I haven’t told you anything about my affairs, have I?» Oblomov asked quickly.
«What affairs? I don’t know anything», said Alexeyev, staring at him in surprise.
«Why do you think I haven’t got up all this time? You see, I’ve been lying here trying to find some way out of my troubles».
«What’s the matter?» asked Alexeyev, trying to look alarmed.
«Two misfortunes! I don’t know what to do».
«What misfortunes?»
«They’re driving me out of my flat. Just imagine it – I must move: the upset, the breakages-the mere thought of it frightens me – I have lived here for eight years, you know. My landlord has played a dirty trick on me. Hurry up and move, he says».
«Hurry up! That means he wants your flat badly. Moving is a great nuisance – a very troublesome business», said Alexeyev. «They’re sure to lose and break things – such an infernal nuisance! And you have such a nice flat… What rent do you pay?»
«Where am I to find another such flat?» Oblomov went on; «and in a hurry, too? Dry and warm; a nice quiet house; we’ve had only one burglary here. The ceiling, it is true, doesn’t look quite safe – the plaster is bulging – but it hasn’t come down yet».
«Fancy that!» said Alexeyev, shaking his head.
«I wonder if there is anything I could do so that I – needn’t move?» Oblomov remarked pensively, as though speaking to himself.
«Have you got your flat on a lease?» Alexeyev asked, examining the room from floor to ceiling.
«Yes, but the lease has expired: I’ve been paying the rent monthly for some time – don’t remember for how long».
«Well, what do you intend to do?» Alexeyev asked after a short pause. «Are you going to move or not?»
«I don’t intend to do anything», said Oblomov. «I don’t want even to think of it. Let Zakhar think of something».
«But, you know, some people like moving», said Alexeyev. «Changing flats seems to be their only pleasure in life».
«Well, let them move, then», Oblomov retorted. «For my part, I can’t stand any changes! But the flat’s nothing – you’d better have a look at what my bailiff writes to me! Here, I’ll show you his letter – where the devil is it? Zakhar! Zakhar!»
«Mother of God!» Zakhar wheezed to himself, jumping off his stove. «When will the good Lord put an end to my troubles?» He came in and looked dully at his master.
«Why haven’t you found the letter?»
«Where am I to find it, sir? I don’t even know which letter you want. I can’t read, can I?»
«Never mind, look for it», said Oblomov.
«You were reading some letter last night, sir», said Zakhar, «but I haven’t seen it since».
«Where is it then?» Oblomov asked with vexation. «I haven’t swallowed it, have I? I remember very well that you took it from me and put it somewhere. There it is – look!»
He shook the blanket and the letter fell on the floor out of its folds.
«Aye, I’m always the one what gets the blame for everything!»
«All right, all right», Oblomov and Zakhar shouted at each other at the same time. «Go-go!»
Zakhar went out, and Oblomov began reading the letter, which seemed to have been written in kvas on grey paper and sealed with brownish sealing-wax. Enormous pale letters followed in solemn procession, without touching each other, along an oblique line from the top to the bottom corner of the page. The procession was occasionally interrupted by a huge pale blot.
«Dear Sir», Oblomov began, «our father and benefactor» – Here he omitted several greetings and good wishes and went on from the middle: «I am glad to inform you, Sir, that everything on your estate is in good order. There has been no rain for five weeks and I daresay, Sir, the good Lord must be angry with us not to send us rain. The old men don’t remember such a drought, Sir. The spring crops have all been burnt up as if by a devouring fire; the winter crops have been ruined, some by the worm and some by early frost; we have ploughed it over for spring crops, but we can’t be sure if it will be any good. Let us hope, Sir, that merciful heaven will spare you; we do not care what happens to us – let us all starve to death. On St John’s Eve three more peasants ran away: Laptev, Balochov, and Vasska, the blacksmith’s son, who ran off by himself. I sent the women after their husbands, but they never came back, and are living at Cholki, I am told. A relative of mine went to CholkI from Verkhlyovo, the estate manager sent him there to inspect a foreign plough. I told him about the runaway peasants. He said he had been to see the police inspector who told him to send in a written statement, after which everything would be done to send the peasants back to their places of domicile. He said nothing except that, and I fell at his feet and begged him with tears in my eyes, but he bawled at me at the top of his voice: „Be off! Be off with you! I’ve told you it will be done if you send in your signed statement!“ But I never did send in the statement. There is no one I can hire here; all have gone to the Volga, to work on the barges – the people here have all become so stupid, Sir. There will be no linen of ours at the fair this year: I have locked up the drying and the bleaching sheds and put Sychuga to watch them day and night; he never touches a drop, and to make sure he don’t steal any of his master’s goods, I watch over him day and night. The other peasants drink a lot and they are all anxious to pay rent for their land instead of working on your land without any payment. Many of them have not paid up their arrears. This year, Sir, we will send you about two thousand less than last year, unless the drought ruins us completely, otherwise we shall send you the money as promised».
There followed expressions of loyalty and the signature: «Your bailiff and most humble slave, Sir, Prokofy Vytyagushkin, has put his hand to it with his own hand». Being illiterate he put a cross under the letter. «Written from the words of the said bailiff by his brother-in-law, Dyomka the One-Eyed».
Oblomov glanced at the end of the letter. «No month or year», he said. «I suppose the letter must have been lying about at the bailiff’s since last year – St John’s Eve and the drought! Just woken up to it!» He sank into thought. «Well?» he went on. «What do you make of it? He offers to send me about two thousand less – how much will that leave? How much do you think I received last year?» he asked, looking at Alexeyev. «I didn’t mention it to you at the time, did I?»
Alexeyev raised his eyes to the ceiling and pondered.
«I must ask Stolz when he comes», Oblomov continued. «Seven or eight thousand, I believe – I should have made a note of it!
So now he puts me down to six! Why, I shall starve! How can I live on it?»
«Why worry?» said Alexeyev. «A man must never give way to despair. It will all come right in the end».
«But did you hear what he said? He doesn’t send me the money – oh no! He doesn’t say anything to put my mind at rest. All he is thinking of is to cause me unpleasantness, and he does it deliberately! Every year the same story! I simply don’t know what to do! Two thousand less!»
«Yes, it’s a great loss!» said Alexeyev. «Two thousand is no joke! Alexey Login, I understand, also got twelve instead of seventeen thousand this year».
«Twelve thousand isn’t six thousand», Oblomov interrupted him. «The bailiff has thoroughly upset me! If all this is really true – I mean, the bad harvest and the drought, then why has he to worry me before the proper time?»
«Well, of course», Alexeyev began, «he shouldn’t have done that. But you can’t expect a peasant to have nice feelings, can you? That sort of man doesn’t understand anything».
«But what would you do in my place?» asked Oblomov, looking questioningly at Alexeyev in the vain hope that he might think of something to allay his fears.
«This requires careful thought», said Alexeyev. «It’s impossible to decide at once».
«Ought I to write to the Governor, I wonder?» Oblomov said, musingly.
«Who is your Governor?» asked Alexeyev.
Oblomov did not reply and sank into thought. Alexeyev fell silent and also pondered.
Crumpling the letter in his hands, Oblomov propped up his head on them and, resting his elbows on his knees, sat like that for some time, tormented by an onrush of profitless thoughts.
«I wish Stolz would hurry up and come», he said. «He writes to say he’s coming soon, meanwhile he’s rushing about goodness only knows where. He’d settle it all!»
He again stared sadly about him. They were both silent a long time. Oblomov was the first to rouse himself at last.
«That’s what has to be done», he said resolutely and almost got out of bed. «And it must be done as soon as possible. No use wasting any more time. First…»
At that moment there was a desperate ring at the front door, so that Oblomov and Alexeyev both gave a start and Zakhar at once jumped off the stove.

3
«At home?» someone in the hall asked loudly and gruffly.
«Where would he go at this hour?» Zakhar replied, more gruffly still.
A man of about forty came into the room. He was of massive build, tall, broad-shouldered, bulky, with a large head and big features, a short, thick neck, large protruding eyes, and full lips. A glance at him made one think of something coarse and untidy. It was clear that he made no attempt at dressing elegantly. It was not often that one saw him clean-shaven. But he did not seem to care; he was not ashamed of his clothes, and wore them with a kind of cynical dignity.
It was Mikhey Andreyich Tarantyev, a country neighbour of Oblomov.
Tarantyev looked at everything morosely, with ill-disguised contempt and open hostility towards the world at large; he was ready to abuse everyone and everything as though he had suffered some injustice or had been offended in his dignity, or like a man of strong character persecuted by destiny and submitting to it under protest and unwillingly. His gestures were bold and sweeping; he spoke in a loud voice, glibly and almost always angrily; listening to him from a distance one got the impression of three empty carts going over a bridge. He was never put out by anyone’s presence, was never at a loss for a word, and was generally rude to everyone, including his friends, as though making it clear that he bestowed a great honour on a person by talking to him or having dinner or supper at his place.
Tarantyev was a man of quick and cunning intelligence; no one could solve some practical question or some complicated legal problem better than he; he would at once devise his own theory of how it was best to act in the circumstances and would adduce very subtle arguments in favour of it, and in conclusion almost always be rude to the person who had asked his advice.
And yet, having obtained the job of a clerk in some government office twenty-five years before, he remained there in the same post till his hair began to turn grey. It never occurred to him or to anyone else that he might get higher up in the service.
The trouble was that Tarantyev was good only at talking; in words he settled everything simply and easily, especially where other people were concerned; but as soon as he had to move a finger or stir from his place – in short, apply his own theory in practice and show efficiency and expedition – he became an entirely different person; he was unable to rise to the occasion, he suddenly became dejected or unwell or awkward, or he found he had something else to do, which he did not do, either; or if he did, he made an unholy mess of it. He behaved just like a child: he overlooked something, or showed himself to be ignorant of the merest trifles, or was late for an appointment, or threw up the business half-way, or began at the wrong end and bungled it in such a way that it was quite impossible to put it right – and finally he would blame everybody but himself for his own incompetence.
His father, an old-fashioned provincial lawyer, had meant his son to inherit his skill and experience of looking after other people’s affairs and his professional ability at the Bar; but fate decided otherwise. The father, who was too poor to pay for a good education, did not want his son to lag behind the times and wished him to learn something besides the tricky business of legal practice. He sent him for three years to a priest to learn Latin.
The boy was gifted by nature, and in three years he mastered Latin grammar and syntax and had just begun to construe Cornelius Nepos when his father decided that he had already acquired enough knowledge to give him an enormous advantage over the older generation and that, indeed, any further studies might interfere with his practice in court.
Not knowing what to do with his Latin, the sixteen-year-old Mikhey began to forget it in his father’s house, but in the meantime, while waiting for the honour of attending the rural or the district court, he went to all his father’s merry parties, and in this school, amid the frank exchanges of opinions, the young man’s mind developed most thoroughly. He listened with the impressionability of youth to the stories told by his father and his cronies of various civil and criminal actions and of curious cases which passed through the hands of these old-fashioned lawyers. But all this led to nothing. Mikhey did not become a business man and a pettifogging lawyer in spite of his father’s efforts, which would of course have been successful had not fate ruined all his well-laid plans. Mikhey certainly mastered the whole theory on which his father’s talks were based; he had merely to put it into practice, but his father’s death prevented him from qualifying for the Bar and he was taken to Petersburg by some benefactor who found him a clerk’s job in a government office and then forgot all about him.
So Tarantyev remained a mere theoretician all his life. In his Petersburg office he had no use for Latin, or for his clever theory of twisting all cases, whether fairly or unfairly, as he liked; and yet he was conscious of a dormant force inside him, locked up through hostile circumstances without hope of ever breaking out, as the evil spirits in fairy-tales were deprived of their powers of doing harm by being imprisoned in enchanted dungeons. Quite likely it was this consciousness of the powers wasted within him which made Tarantyev so rude, malevolent, perpetually angry and abusive. He looked on his present occupation – the copying of papers, the filing of documents, etc. – with bitterness and contempt. He had only one last hope of improving his position in the distant future: to get a job in the spirit monopoly. This seemed to him the only profitable change from the occupation bequeathed to him by his father that he never succeeded in obtaining. And in expectation of this happy turn in his career, the ready-made theory of life and work created by his father, the theory of bribery and dishonest dealing, having failed to find its chief and worthy outlet in the provinces, was applied by him to all the trivial details of his paltry existence in Petersburg and, for lack of any official application, crept into his relations with his friends.
He was a bribe-taker at heart, on principle, and not having any official business with people, he contrived to take bribes from his colleagues and friends, goodness only knows for what services; he forced them either by bullying or cunning to entertain him whenever and wherever they could; he demanded to be treated with undeserved respect and constantly found fault with everybody. He was never ashamed of his threadbare clothes, but he could not help being worried if in the course of the day he could not look forward to an enormous dinner with a proper quantity of wines and spirits.
That was why among his friends he played the part of a big watchdog, which barks at everybody and allows no one to stir, but at the same time catches a piece of meat in the air, from whatever direction it may come.
Such were Oblomov’s two most assiduous visitors. Why did these two Russian proletarians come to him? They knew very well why: to eat, to drink, to smoke good cigars. They found a warm and comfortable place of refuge at his flat and met always with the same, if not cordial, then indifferent, reception.
But why did Oblomov let them come? That he could hardly tell himself. Quite possibly it was for the same reason that even to this day, in our remote Oblomovkas, every well-to-do house is crowded with the same sort of men and women, penniless, without a trade, with no abilities for any productive work, but with hungry mouths and almost always of some rank and standing.
There are still sybarites who need such accessories to life: they are bored without superfluous people. Who would hand them the snuff-box they had mislaid or pick up their handkerchief from the floor? To whom complain of their headache and from whom expect sympathy as a right, or tell a bad dream and demand an interpretation of it? Who would read a book to them at bedtime and help them go to sleep? And sometimes such a proletarian would be sent to the nearest town on an errand or put to help in the household – they could not be expected to bother with such tasks themselves, could they?
Tarantyev made a lot of noise and got Oblomov out of his immobility and boredom. He shouted, argued, and formed a sort of one-man show, making it unnecessary for his lazy host to speak or act. Into the room where sleep and peace reigned, Tarantyev brought life and movement and sometimes news from the outside world. Oblomov could listen and look, without lifting a finger, at something that was alive, moving and talking in front of him. Besides, he was still simple-minded enough to believe that Tarantyev could really give him some good piece of advice.
Oblomov put up with Alexeyev’s visits for another, no less important, reason. If he wanted to live in his own way – that is to say, lie without uttering a word, doze or pace the room – Alexeyev did not seem to be there at all; he, too, was silent, dozed or pretended to read a book, or looked lazily at the pictures and knick-knacks, yawning till tears came into his eyes. He could go on like that for three days on end. If, on the other hand, Oblomov tired of being by himself and felt the need for expressing his thoughts, for talking, reading, arguing, showing emotion – he had always at his side an obedient and ready listener who shared with equal willingness his silence, his conversation, his excitement, and his trend of thoughts, whatever it might be.
Other visitors came seldom and only for a short time, as the first three visitors had done; with all of them he was getting more and more out of touch. Sometimes Oblomov was interested in some piece of news, in a conversation lasting about five minutes, then, his curiosity satisfied, he fell silent. But they had to be entertained in turn – they expected him to take part in what interested them. They enjoyed being among a crowd of people; every one of them understood life in his own way, not as Oblomov understood it, and they kept dragging him into it: he resented it all, disliked it, and was antagonized by it.
There was one man only whom he was fond of; he, too, gave him no peace; he liked the latest news, and society, and learning, and life as a whole, but, somehow, more deeply and sincerely – and though Oblomov was kind to everyone, he loved only him and trusted him alone, perhaps because they were brought up, educated, and had lived together. This man was Andrey Karlovich Stolz. He was away, but Oblomov was expecting him back any moment.

4
«Morning, old man», said Tarantyev abruptly, holding out a hirsute hand to Oblomov. «Why are you lying like a log at this hour?»
«Don’t come near, don’t come near, you’re straight from the cold street», said Oblomov, covering himself up with a blanket.
«Good Lord, from the cold street!» Tarantyev roared. «There, take my hand, if I give it to you! It’ll soon be twelve o’clock and he’s still lounging about!»
He was going to drag Oblomov from the bed, but Oblomov forestalled him by putting his feet quickly on the floor and getting into both his slippers at once.
«I was just about to get up myself», he said, yawning.
«I know how you get up! You’d have lain there till dinner. Hey, there, Zakhar! Where are you, you old fool? Help your master to dress and be quick about it!»
«You’d better get a Zakhar of your own first, sir, and then start calling him names!» said Zakhar, coming into the room and looking spitefully at Tarantyev. «Look at the mess you’ve made on the floor – just like a hawker», he added.
«No backchat from you, my lad», said Tarantyev, lifting his foot to kick Zakhar as he walked past him; but Zakhar stopped, turned round, and scowled.
«Just try to touch me», he wheezed furiously. «What do you think you’re doing? I’ll go back», he said, walking back to the door.
«Good heavens, Tarantyev, what a cantankerous fellow you are! Why can’t you leave him alone?» said Oblomov. «Give me my clothes, Zakhar».
Zakhar came back and, looking askance at Tarantyev, darted past him.
Leaning on Zakhar, Oblomov reluctantly rose from his bed like a man who was very tired and as reluctantly walked to an arm-chair, sank into it, and sat still. Zakhar took the pomatum, a comb and brushes from a small table, greased Oblomov’s hair, parted it, and then brushed it.
«Will you wash now, sir?» he asked.
«I’ll wait a little», Oblomov replied. «You can go now».
«Oh, you’re here too, are you?» Tarantyev said suddenly to Alexeyev while Zakhar was brushing Oblomov’s hair. «I never saw you. Why are you here? What a swine that relative of yours is! I’ve been meaning to tell you…»
«What relative? I have no relative», Alexeyev said timidly, staring in surprise at Tarantyev.
«Why, that fellow – what do you call him? The fellow who’s in the Civil Service – Afanasyev. You don’t mean to say he’s no relative of yours? Of course he is!»
«But I’m not Afanasyev – I’m Alexeyev», said Alexeyev. «I have no relatives».
«What do you mean – no relative? Why, he’s just as poor a specimen as you are – and his name’s also Vassily Nikolayevich».
«I swear he’s no relation of mine. My name is Ivan Alexeyich».
«Makes no difference. He looks like you. But he’s a swine. You tell him so when you see him».
«I don’t know him», said Alexeyev, opening his snuff-box. «Never seen him».
«Let’s have a pinch of your snuff», said Tarantyev. «Why, yours is ordinary snuff, not French! Yes, so it is», he said, taking a pinch. «Why isn’t it French?» he added sternly. «I’ve never met a swine like that relative of yours», he went on. «I borrowed fifty roubles from him about two years ago. Fifty roubles – not such a big sum, is it? You might have expected him to forget it. But not at all – he remembered. A month later he began pestering me, asking me every time he met me: „What about that loan?“ I got sick and tired of the sight of him. And as if that wasn’t enough, he barged into my office yesterday. „I expect,“ he said, „you’ve got your salary to-day and can repay me now.“ My salary, indeed! I told him off properly in front of everybody and he was glad to get out, I can tell you. „I’m a poor man,“ he said, „I need the money!“ As if I didn’t need it! Who does he take me for? A rich man, to give him fifty roubles every time he asks for it? Let’s have a cigar, old man!»
«You’ll find the cigars in the box there», replied Oblomov, pointing to a bookcase.
He was sitting pensively in the arm-chair in his customary picturesquely lazy pose, not noticing what was happening round him or listening to what was being said. He was examining his small white hands and stroking them lovingly.
«I say, they’re still the same!» Tarantyev observed sternly, taking out a cigar and looking at Oblomov.
«Yes, they’re the same», Oblomov replied absent-mindedly.
«But didn’t I tell you to buy the others – foreign ones? So that’s how you remember what is said to you! Mind you get some by next Saturday or you won’t see me here for a long time. Good Lord, what horrible stuff!» he went on, lighting a cigar, and letting out one cloud of smoke into the room, he inhaled another. «Can’t smoke it».
«You’ve come early to-day, Tarantyev», said Oblomov, yawning.
«Why? You’re not getting tired of me, are you?»
«No, I just mentioned it. You usually come in time for dinner, and now it’s only just gone twelve».
«I’ve come earlier on purpose to find out what there is for dinner. Your food is so awful as a rule that I thought I’d better find out what you’ve ordered for to-day».
«You’d better ask in the kitchen», said Oblomov.
Tarantyev went out.
«Good heavens!» he said, returning. «Beef and veal! The trouble with you, old man, is that you don’t know how to live – a landowner, forsooth! What sort of a gentleman are you? You look like a shopkeeper – you’ve no idea how to treat a friend! Have you bought any Madeira at least?»
«Don’t know, you’d better ask Zakhar», said Oblomov, hardly listening to him. «I expect they must have some wine there».
«You mean the same wine as before – from the German? Really, my dear fellow, you ought to buy some in the English shop».
«Oh, it’ll have to do», said Oblomov. «Don’t want to send out for it».
«But look here, give me the money and I’ll fetch it. I have to go past the shop anyway. I’ve still to make another call».
Oblomov rummaged in the drawer and produced a red ten-rouble note.
«Madeira costs seven roubles, and this is ten», said Oblomov.
«Let’s have it all. Don’t be afraid – they’ll give me the change at the shop».
He snatched the note from Oblomov’s hand and quickly hid it in his pocket.
«Well», said Tarantyev, putting on his hat. «I’ll be back by five o’clock. I have a call to make: I’ve been promised a job in a spirits depot and they asked me to look in. By the way, my dear fellow, won’t you hire a carriage to go to Yekaterinhof to-day? You might take me with you».
Oblomov shook his head.
«Why not? Are you too lazy, or do you grudge the money? Oh, you sluggard!» he said. «Well, good-bye for the present».
«Wait, Tarantyev», Oblomov interrupted him. «I want to ask your advice».
«What is it? Come on, out with it! I’m in a hurry».
«Well, two misfortunes have befallen me, all at once. I have to move…»
«Serves you right. Why don’t you pay your rent?» said Tarantyev, turning to go.
«Good Lord, no! I always pay in advance. No, they’re going to convert this flat. Wait a moment. Where are you off to? Tell me what I am to do. They rush me. They want me to move within a week».
«What sort of advice do you expect me to give you? You needn’t imagine…»
«I don’t imagine anything», said Oblomov. «Don’t shout. Better think what I am to do. You’re a practical man…»
But Tarantyev was no longer listening to him. He was thinking of something.
«Well», he said, taking off his hat and sitting down. «All right, you may thank me and order champagne for dinner. Your business is settled».
«What do you mean?» asked Oblomov.
«Will there be champagne?»
«Perhaps, if your advice is worth it».
«Aye, but you’re not worth the advice. You don’t imagine I’ll give you advice for nothing, do you? There, you can ask him», he added, pointing to Alexeyev, «or his relative».
«All right, all right, tell me», Oblomov begged.
«Now, listen: you must move to-morrow».
«Good Lord, what an idea! I knew that myself».
«Wait, don’t interrupt», Tarantyev shouted. «To-morrow you will move to the flat of a good friend of mine in Vyborg».
«What nonsense is that! Vyborg! Why, they say wolves roam the streets there in winter!»
«Oh, well, they do come there sometimes from the islands, but what has that got to do with you?»
«But it’s such a dull place – a wilderness, no one lives there».
«Nonsense! A good friend of mine lives there. She has a house of her own with big kitchen gardens. She is a gentlewoman, a widow with two children. Her unmarried brother lives with her. He’s a clever fellow, not like that chap in the corner there», he said, pointing to Alexeyev. «He’s a damn sight more intelligent than you or I».
«What has that got to do with me?» Oblomov said impatiently. «I’m not going to move there».
«We shall see about that. No, sir, if you ask for my advice, you have to do as I tell you».
«I’m not going there», Oblomov said firmly.
«To hell with you, then», replied Tarantyev, and, pulling his hat over his eyes, walked to the door.
«You funny fellow», Tarantyev said, coming back. «Do you find it so pleasant here?»
«Pleasant? Why it’s so near to everything», Oblomov said. «To the shops, the theatre, my friends – it’s the centre of the city, everything…»
«Wha-at?» Tarantyev interrupted him. «And how long is it since you went out? Tell me that. How long is it since you went to a theatre? Who are the friends you visit? Why the hell do you want to live in the centre of the city, pray?»
«What do you mean, why? For lots of reasons».
«You see, you don’t know yourself. But there – why, think of it: you’ll live in the house of a gentlewoman, a good friend of mine, in peace and quiet. No one to disturb you – no noise, clean and tidy. Why, you live here just as at an inn – you, a gentleman, a landowner! But there everything is clean and quiet, and there’s always someone to talk to if you’re bored. Except me, no one will come to visit you there. Two children – play about with them to your heart’s content. What more do you want? And think what you will save! What do you pay here?»
«Fifteen hundred».
«Well, there you’d pay a thousand for almost a whole house! And such lovely bright rooms! She’s long been wanting a quiet, tidy lodger – so there you are!»
Oblomov shook his head absent-mindedly.
«Nonsense, you’ll move all right!» said Tarantyev. «Just consider: it’ll cost you half of what you’re spending here: you’ll save five hundred in rent alone. Your food will be twice as good and as clean; your cook and Zakhar won’t be able to steal…»
A growl was heard from the entrance hall.
«– and there’ll be more order too», Tarantyev went on. «Why, it’s dreadful to sit down to dinner at your place now. You want the pepper – it isn’t there; vinegar – they’ve forgotten to buy any, the knives have not been cleaned; you say you keep losing your linen – dust everywhere – it’s disgusting! And there a woman will be keeping house – neither you, nor that fool Zakhar…»
The growling in the entrance hall grew louder.
«– that old dog won’t have to bother about anything», Tarantyev went on. «You will be provided with board and lodgings. Why hesitate? Move – and that’s the end of it».
«But how could I – for no rhyme or reason – suddenly move to Vyborg?»
«What’s the use of talking to you?» Tarantyev said, wiping the perspiration from his face. «It’s summer time now: why, it’s as good as living in a country house. Why rot here in Gorokhovaya Street? There you would have the Bezbarodkin Gardens, Okhta is next door, the Neva within a few yards, your own kitchen garden – no dust, no stuffiness! Why waste time thinking? I’ll nip over to her now before dinner – you’ll let me have the cab fares – and to-morrow you can move…»
«What a man!» said Oblomov. «Suddenly he gets a crazy idea into his head and I have to move to Vyborg. I mean, it’s not difficult to think of such a plan. No, sir, you’d better think of something that would make it possible for me to stay here. I’ve lived here for eight years and I don’t want to change».
«It’s settled: you’re going to move. I’ll go and see my friend at once and call about my job another time».
He was about to go, but Oblomov stopped him.
«Wait, wait! Where are you off to? I’ve a much more important business to settle. Have a look at the letter I’ve received from my bailiff and tell me what to do about it».
«Dear me, you are a queer fish and no mistake», Tarantyev replied. «You can’t do anything by yourself. It’s always I who have to do things for you. Of what use is a man like you? But, then, you’re not a man: you’re just a stuffed dummy».
«Where’s that letter? Zakhar, Zakhar! He’s put it away somewhere again!» Oblomov said.
«Here’s the bailiff’s letter», said Alexeyev, picking up the crumpled letter.
«Yes, here it is», Oblomov repeated and began to read it aloud. «What do you say?» he asked when he had finished reading the letter. «What am I to do? Droughts, arrears…»
«You’re hopeless – hopeless!» said Tarantyev.
«But why am I hopeless?»
«Why, aren’t you hopeless?»
«Well, if I am, tell me what to do».
«And what will I get out of it?»
«I’ve promised you champagne – what more do you want?»
«Champagne was for finding you a flat. Why, I’ve done you a favour, and you don’t appreciate it – you argue about it – you’re ungrateful. Well, try and find a flat by yourself! And what a flat! The main thing is you’ll have absolute peace, just as if you were living at your own sister’s. Two children, an unmarried brother, I shall be calling every day…»
«All right, all right», Oblomov interrupted. «You’d better tell me now what I am to do about the bailiff».
«No, sir, not unless you add beer for dinner. I’ll tell you then».
«He wants beer now! Haven’t you had enough».
«Good-bye, then», said Tarantyev, again putting on his hat.
«Good heavens! here the bailiff writes that my income will be two thousand less, and he wants beer, too! All right, buy some beer».
«Let’s have some more money», said Tarantyev.
«But what about the change from the ten-rouble note?»
«And what about the cab fares to Vyborg?»
Oblomov took out another rouble and thrust it into his hand crossly.
«Your bailiff is a rogue – that’s what I think», Tarantyev began, putting the rouble in his pocket, «and you stand there with your mouth open and believe him. You see the sort of tall story he tells you! Drought, bad harvest, arrears, runaway peasants – it’s all a pack of lies! I’ve heard that in our district, on the Shumilov estate, the harvest last year was so good that they paid off all their debts. And Shumilov is only thirty-five miles from you: why haven’t the crops there been burnt up? Then there is something else he has invented – arrears! But what was he doing? Why did he neglect them? Why should there be arrears? Is there no work to be had in our district – no market for a peasant’s produce? Why, the thief – I’d teach him a lesson! And I daresay the peasants ran away because he got some money from them and then let them go, and he never complained to the police at all».
«I don’t believe it», said Oblomov. «Why, he actually quotes the police inspector’s answer in the letter and so authentically, too».
«Oh, you simpleton! You don’t know anything. All rogues write authentically – take my word for it. Here, for instance», he went on, pointing to Alexeyev, «sits an honest fellow who won’t hurt a fly – well, will he write an authentic letter? Never. But his relation, though a rogue and a swine, will. And you won’t write such a letter, either. Your bailiff therefore is a rascal just because he has written such a clever and authentic-sounding letter. You see how carefully he chose his words: „to send them back to their place of domicile“».
«What am I to do with him?» asked Oblomov.
«Sack him at once».
«But whom shall I appoint in his place? What do I know about the peasants? Another one might be worse. I haven’t been there for twelve years».
«Go to your estate yourself: that must be done. Spend the summer there and in the autumn come straight to the new flat. I’ll see that it’s all ready for you».
«Move to a new flat – go to the country – and all by myself! What desperate measures you suggest!» Oblomov said, looking displeased. «Nothing about avoiding extremes and suggesting some sort of compromise».
«Well, my dear fellow, you’re as good as done for. Why, in your place I’d have mortgaged the estate long ago and bought another or a house here in a good residential part of the town; that’s a damn sight better than that country place of yours. And then I’d have mortgaged the house and bought another. Let me have your estate and I’d soon make them sit up».
«Stop boasting and think of something so that I need not leave this flat or go to the country and so that everything should be settled satisfactorily», Oblomov remarked.
«But will you ever do anything?» said Tarantyev. «Have a good look at yourself. Why, you’re not good for anything. Of what use are you to your country? You can’t even go to your estate!»
«It’s a bit too soon for me to go there», replied Oblomov. «I must first finish my plan of the changes I intend to introduce on my estate… But, look here, Tarantyev», Oblomov said suddenly, «why shouldn’t you go instead? You know what the business is and you have a pretty good idea what the countryside is like in those parts – I would pay your expenses…»
«I’m not your manager, am I?» Tarantyev said haughtily. «Besides, I’ve lost the knack of dealing with peasants».
«What am I to do?» said Oblomov, pensively. «I’m hanged if I know».
«Well, write to the police inspector. Ask him if the bailiff has spoken to him about runaway peasants», Tarantyev advised, «and ask him to visit your estates too; then write to the Governor to order the police inspector to report on the bailiff’s conduct. „Will your Excellency be so good as to take a fatherly interest in me and cast a merciful eye upon the terrible and inevitable misfortune that threatens to overwhelm me as a result of my bailiff’s outrageous behaviour and the utter ruin which is bound to overtake me together with my wife and twelve little children who will be left unprovided for and starving“…»
Oblomov laughed.
«Where am I to get so many children if I am asked to produce them?» he said.
«Nonsense, man! Write: „Twelve children“. No one will pay any attention to it and no one will make inquiries, but it will sound „authentic“. The Governor will pass on the letter to his secretary, and you will write to the secretary at the same time – with an enclosure, of course – and he will give the necessary order. And ask your neighbours, too: whom have you got there?»
«Dobrynin lives near», said Oblomov. «I used to see him often here; he is in the country now».
«Well, write to him, too. Ask him nicely: „You will be doing me a great favour and oblige me as a Christian, a neighbour, and a friend.“ And add some Petersburg present to the letter – a box of cigars, for instance. That is what you should do, but you don’t seem to have any sense at all. You’re hopeless! I’d have made that bailiff sit up; I’d have shown him! When does the post go?»
«The day after to-morrow», said Oblomov.
«Very well. Sit down and write at once».
«But if it’s the day after to-morrow, why should I write now?» Oblomov remarked. «To-morrow will do. And, look here, old man», he added. «You may as well crown your „act of charity“, and I will add a fish or some bird for dinner».
«What now?»
«Sit down and write – it won’t take you long to scribble three letters. You put everything so „authentically“», he added, trying to conceal a smile, «and Alexeyev could copy it out».
«Good Lord, how do you like that!» Tarantyev replied. «Me write your letters? I haven’t written anything at the office for the last two days: the moment I sit down, my left eye begins to run. Must have caught a chill in it, and my head, too, begins to swim if I bend down. You’re lazy, my dear fellow, lazy. Hopeless, hopeless…»
«Oh, if only Andrey would hurry up and come!» said Oblomov. «He’d put everything straight!»
«Some good Samaritan you’ve found, I must say!» Tarantyev interrupted. «A damned German – a crafty rascal!»
Tarantyev had a sort of instinctive aversion to foreigners. To him a Frenchman, a German, or an Englishman were synonymous with swindler, impostor, rogue, or bandit. He made no distinction between nations: they were all alike in his eyes.
«Look here, Tarantyev», Oblomov said sternly, «I’d be glad if you would control your language, especially when speaking of an intimate friend of mine…»
«An intimate friend!» Tarantyev replied with hatred. «What sort of connexion is he of yours? A German – we all know what that is».
«He’s closer than any relation. I was brought up with him and we were educated together, and I shan’t allow any impertinence…»
Tarantyev turned purple with rage.
«Well», he said, «if you prefer the German to me, I shan’t set foot in your house again».
He put on his hat and walked to the door. Oblomov at once felt sorry.
«You ought to respect him as my friend and speak more carefully about him – that is all I ask», he said. «It isn’t much of a favour, is it?»
«To respect a German?» Tarantyev said with the utmost contempt. «Why should I?»
«But I’ve just told you – if for nothing else then because we grew up and went to the same school together».
«What does that matter? We all go to school with someone or other!»
«Well, if he’d been here», said Oblomov, «he’d long ago have solved my problems without asking for beer or champagne».
«Ah, so you blame me, do you? Well, to hell with you and with your beer and champagne I Here, take back your money! Where did I put it? Can’t remember what I did with the damned note!»
He pulled out a greasy scrap of paper covered with writing.
«No, that’s not it!» he said. «Where did I put it?»
He rummaged in his pockets.
«Don’t bother to look for it», said Oblomov. «I’m not blaming you, but merely ask you to speak with more respect of a man who is a close friend of mine and who has done so much for me». «So much!» Tarantyev said spitefully. «You wait, he’ll do even more for you – you do as he says!»
«Why do you say this to me?» asked Oblomov.
«I’m saying this so that you should know when that German of yours robs you of your last penny what it means to give up a neighbour of yours, a true Russian, for some tramp…»
«Listen, Tarantyev» – Oblomov began.
«I’m not going to listen, I’ve listened enough, you’ve given me enough trouble as it is. God knows the insults I’ve had to bear – I suppose in Germany his father was starving and he comes here and turns up his nose at us!»
«Leave the dead alone! How is his father to blame?»
«They are both to blame: father and son», Tarantyev said gloomily with a wave of his hand. «It’s not for nothing my father warned me to beware of the Germans – and he knew all sorts of people in his time!»
«But what have you against his father, pray?» asked Oblomov.
«What I have against him is that he came to our province in September with nothing but the clothes he had on and then left a fortune to his son – what does that mean?»
«He only left his son some forty thousand roubles. Some of it was his wife’s dowry and he made the rest by giving lessons and managing an estate: he received a good salary. You must admit the father didn’t do anything wrong. Now what about the son? What wrong has he done?»
«A nice fellow! All of a sudden he makes three hundred thousand out of his father’s forty and then becomes a Court Councillor, a man of learning – and now he is away travelling! The rogue has a finger in every pie! Would a good Russian, a real Russian, do all that? A Russian would choose one thing, and that, too, without rush or hurry, in his own good time, and carry on somehow or other – but this one – Good Lord! If he’d become a Government contractor, then at least one could understand how he had grown rich, but he did nothing of the kind – just got rich by some knavery! There’s certainly something wrong there! I’d prosecute a fellow like that! And now he’s knocking about goodness knows where!» Tarantyev went on. «What does he go knocking about in foreign parts for?»
«He wants to study, to see everything, to know!»
«To study! Hasn’t he been taught enough? What does he want to learn? He’s telling you lies, don’t believe him: he deceives you to your face like a small child. Do grown-up people study anything? Hear what he says! Would a Court Councillor want to study? You studied at school, but are you studying now? And does he», Tarantyev pointed to Alexeyev, «study? Does that relative of his study? Can you think of any decent man who is studying? Do you imagine he is sitting in a German school and doing his lessons? Rubbish! I’ve heard he’s gone to look at some machine and order one like it: I suppose it is a press for printing Russian money! I’d put him in jail. Some sort of shares – Oh, these shares – they make me sick!»
Oblomov burst out laughing.
«What are you laughing at?» said Tarantyev. «Isn’t it true what I say?»
«Let’s drop the subject», Oblomov interrupted him. «You’d better go about your business, and I’ll write the letters with Alexeyev and try to put down my plan on paper as quickly as possible – may as well do it all at once».
Tarantyev went out, but came back immediately.
«I’ve quite forgotten!» he began, not at all as brusquely as before. «I came to you on business this morning. I am invited to a wedding to-morrow: Rokotov is getting married. Lend me your frock-coat, old man. Mine, you can see, is rather shabby».
«But», said Oblomov, frowning at this new demand, «how can I? My coat won’t fit you».
«It will, of course it will!» Tarantyev interrupted. «You remember I tried it on once: it might have been made for me! Zakhar! Zakhar! Come here, you old brute!»
Zakhar growled like a bear, but did not come.
«Call him, old man», Tarantyev pleaded. «What a funny chap he is!»
«Zakhar!» Oblomov called.
«Oh, the devil take you!» Zakhar could be heard saying from his room as he jumped off the stove.
«Well, what do you want?» he asked, addressing Tarantyev.
«Fetch my black frock-coat», Oblomov ordered. «Mr Tarantyev wants to see if it fits him: he has to go to a wedding tomorrow».
«I won’t bring the coat, sir», Zakhar said firmly.
«How dare you, when your master orders you to?» Tarantyev shouted. «Why don’t you send him to the house of correction, old man?»
«That would be a nice thing to do: send an old man to the house of correction!» said Oblomov. «Don’t be obstinate, Zakhar, bring the coat».
«I won’t!» Zakhar answered coldly. «Let him first return your waistcoat and shirt: he’s had them for five months. He borrowed them to go to a birthday party and we’ve never seen them since. A velvet waistcoat, too, and a fine cambric shirt; cost twenty-five roubles. I won’t give him the coat».
«Well, good-bye and to hell with both of you!» Tarantyev said angrily, turning to go and shaking his fist at Zakhar. «Remember, old man, I’ll take the flat for you – do you hear?» he added.
«All right, all right», Oblomov said impatiently, just to get rid of him.
«And you write what I told you», Tarantyev went on, «and don’t forget to tell the Governor that you have twelve little children. And, mind, the soup is to be on the table at five sharp. Why haven’t you ordered a pie?»
But Oblomov did not reply; he had not been listening and, closing his eyes, was thinking of something else.
With Tarantyev’s departure a dead silence reigned in the room for about ten minutes. Oblomov was worried by the bailiff’s letter and the prospect of moving to another flat, and partly tired by Tarantyev’s loud chatter. At last he sighed.
«Why don’t you write?» Alexeyev asked quietly. «I’ll sharpen a pen for you».
«Do, and then please go away», said Oblomov. «I’ll do it myself and you can copy it out after dinner».
«Very good, sir», Alexeyev replied. «I was afraid I might be disturbing you. I’ll go now and tell them not to expect you in Yekaterinhof. Good-bye, Mr Oblomov».
But Oblomov was not listening to him; he almost lay down in the arm-chair, with his feet tucked under him, looking very dispirited, lost in thought or perhaps dozing.

5
Oblomov, a gentleman by birth and a collegiate secretary by rank, had lived in Petersburg without a break for the last twelve years.
At first, while his parents were still alive, he had lived more modestly, occupying two rooms, and was satisfied with the services of Zakhar, whom he had brought with him from the country; but after the death of his father and mother he became the sole owner of 350 serfs, whom he had inherited in one of the remote provinces almost on the borders of Asia. Instead of 5,000 he had received from 7,000 to 10,000 roubles a year, and it was then that the manner of his life became different and much grander. He took a bigger flat, added a cook to his domestic staff, and even kept a carriage and pair. He was still young then, and while it could not be said that he was lively, he was at all events livelier than now; he was still full of all sorts of aspirations, still hoped for something, and expected a great deal from the future and from himself; he was still preparing himself for a career, for the part he was going to play in life, and, above all, of course for the Civil Service, which was the main reason for his arrival in Petersburg. Later he also thought of the part he was going to play in society; finally, in the distant future, at the turning point of youth and mature age, the thought of family happiness filled his imagination with agreeable expectations.
But days and years passed – the soft down on his chin turned into a tough, stubbly growth, his eyes lost their brightness, his waist expanded, his hair had begun to thin out relentlessly, he turned thirty, and he had not advanced a step, but was still standing on the threshold of his career, just where he had been ten years before. Yet he was still hoping to start his life, he was still tracing in his mind the pattern of his future, but with every year that passed he had to change and rub out something in that pattern.
In his opinion, life was divided into two halves: one consisted of work and boredom – those words were synonymous for him – and the other of rest and quiet enjoyment. This was why his chief pursuit in life – his career as a civil servant – proved to be an unpleasant surprise to him from the outset.
Brought up in the wilds of the country, amid the gentle and kindly manners and customs of his native province, and passing for twenty years from the embraces of his parents to those of his friends and relations, he had become so imbued with the idea of family life, that his career in the Civil Service appeared to him as a sort of family occupation, such as, for instance, the unhurried writing down of income and expenditure in a note-book, which his father used to do. He thought that the civil servants employed in one department were one big, happy family, unremittingly concerned about one another’s peace and pleasure; that going to the office was not by any means a duty that must be performed day in and day out, and that rainy weather, heat, or a mere disinclination could always be given as a legitimate and sufficient excuse for not going to the office. One can easily imagine his disappointment when he discovered that nothing short of an earthquake could prevent a civil servant who was in good health from turning up at his office, and unfortunately there were no earthquakes in Petersburg; to be sure, a flood could also serve as an excuse, but even floods were rare occurrences. Oblomov grew still more worried when documents inscribed «Important» and «Very Important» began to flash before his eyes, when he was asked to make various inquiries, extracts from official documents, look through papers, write reports two inches thick, which were called, as though in jest, notes, and, what was even worse, everything had to be done in a hurry – everyone seemed to be rushing about without stopping to take breath; as soon as one case was finished, they threw themselves furiously upon another, as though that was the only thing that mattered, and when they had finished that, they forgot it and pounced upon a third – and so it went on and on! Twice he had been roused at night and made to write «notes»; a few times he was dragged out by a courier from visits to friends – always because of those notes. All this appalled him and bored him terribly. «But when am I going to live? When am I to live?» he kept repeating.
He had heard at home that the head of a department was a father to his subordinates and had therefore formed a most fanciful and homely idea of such a person. He imagined him to be something like a second father whose only concern was to reward his subordinates whether they deserved it or not, and to provide not only for their needs but also for their pleasures. Oblomov had thought that a superior was so eager to put himself in the place of his subordinate that he would inquire carefully how he had slept, why he was bleary-eyed, and whether he had a headache. But he was bitterly disappointed on his very first day at the office. With the arrival of the head of the department, the office was in a turmoil; they began rushing about, they looked harassed, they ran into one another, some pulling their uniforms straight for fear that they were not tidy enough to appear before their chief. This happened, as Oblomov observed afterwards, because certain heads of departments were apt to regard the stupidly frightened face of a subordinate rushing out to meet them as a sign not only of his respect for them, but also of his zeal and sometimes of his ability for the service. Oblomov had no need to be afraid of his chief, a kindly and agreeable person, who had never done any harm to anyone and whose subordinates were highly satisfied and wished for nothing better. No one had ever heard him utter an unpleasant word or raise his voice; he never demanded, but always asked. If it was a question of doing some work, he asked one of his subordinates to do it; if he wanted to invite one to his house, he asked him; if he wanted to put him under arrest, he asked him. He was never familiar with anyone; he treated all individually and collectively with the utmost respect. But somehow all his subordinates quailed before him; they answered his kind questions in a voice that was different from their own, such as they never used in speaking to other people. Oblomov, too, suddenly quailed, without himself knowing why, when his chief entered his office and he, too, began to lose his voice and to speak in a different tone – a high, horrible falsetto – as soon as his chief addressed him.
Oblomov was worn out with fear and anguish serving under a good and lenient chief; goodness only knows what would have become of him if he had had a stern and exacting one! He somehow or other managed to stay in the service for two years; he might have endured for a third and obtained a higher rank had not a particular incident forced him to send in his resignation. One day he sent an important paper to Arkhangelsk instead of to Astrakhan. The mistake was discovered and a search was made for the culprit. They all waited with interest for the chief to summon Oblomov and ask him coldly and calmly whether he had sent the paper to Arkhangelsk, and they all wondered in what kind of voice Oblomov would reply. Some surmised that he would not reply at all, that he would not be able to. Watching his colleagues, Oblomov became frightened himself, though like the others he knew that his chief would merely reprimand him; but his own conscience was much sterner than any reprimand. Oblomov did not wait for the punishment he deserved, but went home and sent in a medical certificate.
The certificate was as follows: «I, the undersigned, certify, and affix my seal hereto, that the collegiate secretary Ilya Oblomov suffers from an enlarged heart and a dilation of its left ventricle (Hypertrophia cordis cum dilatatione ejus ventriculi sinistri) and from a chronic pain in the liver (hetitis) which may endanger the patient’s health and life, the attacks, it may be presumed, being caused by his daily attendance at the office. Therefore, to prevent a repetition and an intensification of these morbid attacks, I consider it necessary that Mr Oblomov should stop going to the office for a time and, generally, prescribe an abstention from mental and any other activity».
But this helped for a time only; he had to become well again sooner or later, and then he would have to go to the office again every day. Oblomov could not stand it, and he sent in his resignation. That was the end of his work for the State, and it was never resumed again.
His social career seemed to be more successful at first. During his early years in Petersburg the tranquil features of his face were more frequently animated, his eyes used to glow for hours with the fire of life, they shone with light, hope, and strength. He was as animated as other people, was full of hope, rejoiced at trifles, and also suffered from the same trifles. But that was long ago, when he was still at the tender age when a man regards every other man as his best friend and falls in love with almost every woman, ready to offer her his hand and heart – which some indeed succeed in doing, often to their profound regret for the rest of their lives. In those blissful days Oblomov, too, had his share of not a few tender, soft, and even passionate glances from the crowd of beauties, a lot of promising smiles, two or three stolen kisses, and many more friendly handshakes, that made him suffer and brought tears to his eyes. Still, he never surrendered entirely to a pretty woman and never became her slave, or even a faithful admirer, if only because intimacy with a woman involves a great deal of trouble. Oblomov confined himself mostly to expressing his admiration from afar, from a respectable distance.
Very seldom did fate throw him together with a woman so closely that he could catch fire for a few days and imagine himself to be in love. That was why his love adventures never developed into love affairs; they stopped short at the very beginning, and in their simplicity, innocence, and purity equalled the love-stories of a schoolgirl. He particularly avoided the pale, melancholy maidens, mostly with black eyes which reflected «tormenting days and iniquitous nights», maidens with secret joys and sorrows, who always have something to confide, something to tell, and when they tell it, shudder, burst into tears, then suddenly throw their arms around their friend’s neck, gaze into his eyes, then at the sky, and declare that there is a curse on their life, and sometimes fall down in a faint. He avoided them fearfully. His soul was still pure and virginal; it was perhaps waiting for real love, for support, for overpowering passion, and then, as the years passed, seemed to have despaired of waiting.
Oblomov parted still more coldly from his many friends. Immediately after receiving his first letter from the bailiff with news of arrears and failure of crops, he replaced his best friend, the chef, by a woman cook, then sold his horses and, finally, dismissed his other «friends». There was hardly anything that attracted him in the town and he became more and more firmly attached to his flat. At first he found it a bit hard to remain dressed all day, then he felt too lazy to dine out except with intimate friends, mostly bachelors, who did not object to his divesting himself of his tie or unbuttoning his waistcoat, and even, if possible, lying down to have an hour’s sleep. Soon he got tired of parties, too: one had to put on a dress-suit and shave every day. He read somewhere that only morning mists were good for one and evening mists were bad, and he began to fear the damp. In spite of these eccentricities, his friend Stolz succeeded in making him go out and call on people; but Stolz often left Petersburg for Moscow, Nizhny-Novgorod, the Crimea, and latterly abroad, too, and without him Oblomov was plunged up to the neck in solitude and seclusion, from which he could be dragged only by something unusual, something out of the ordinary events of life; but nothing of the sort ever happened or was likely to happen.
Besides, as Oblomov grew older, he reverted to a sort of childish timidity, an expectation of danger and evil from everything that was outside the sphere of his daily experience, the result of getting out of touch with life. He was not afraid, for example, of the crack in his bedroom ceiling, he was used to it; nor did it ever occur to him that the stuffy atmosphere in the room and his constant sitting indoors was almost more perilous for his health than night dampness, that his daily over-indulgence at a meal was a kind of slow suicide, for he was used to it and felt no fear. He was not used to movement, to life, to crowds, and to bustle. He felt stifled in a crowd; he got into a boat fearing that he would not reach the other bank in safety; he drove in a carriage expecting the horse to bolt and smash it. Sometimes he had an attack of nerves; he was afraid of the stillness around him or for a reason he did not understand a cold shiver ran down his spine. Sometimes he looked apprehensively at a dark corner, dreading lest his imagination should trick him into seeing a ghost there.
That was what his social life had come to. He lazily dismissed all the youthful hopes that had betrayed him or been betrayed by him, all the bitter-sweet, bright memories that sometimes make even an old man’s heart beat faster.

6
WHAT did he do at home, then? Did he read or write or study? Yes, if he chanced to pick up a book or a newspaper, he read it. If he heard of some remarkable work, he would feel an urge to become acquainted with it. He tried to get the book, asked for it, and if it was brought to him soon, he began it and formed some idea of what it was about; another step and he would have mastered it, but instead he lay looking apathetically at the ceiling, with the book lying beside him unfinished and not properly understood. He grew indifferent much faster than he had grown interested: he never went back to a book he had abandoned. And yet he had been educated like other people, like everyone, in fact – that is to say, till the age of fifteen he had been in a boarding-school, then his old parents had decided, after a long struggle, to send their darling boy to Moscow, where willy-nilly he had to follow the course of his studies to the end. His timid, apathetic nature prevented him from giving full play to his laziness and caprices among strangers at school, where no exceptions were made for spoiled children. He had to sit straight in his schoolroom and listen to what the teachers were saying, because there was nothing else he could do, and he learned his lessons with much labour, with sighs, in the sweat of his brow. All that he regarded as a punishment sent by heaven for our sins.
He never looked beyond the line which the teacher marked with his nail in setting the lesson; he never asked any questions and never required any explanations. He was quite satisfied with what was written in his note-book and showed no tiresome curiosity even when he failed to understand all that he heard and learned. If he managed somehow or other to master a book on statecraft, history, or political economy, he was perfectly satisfied. When Stolz brought him books, which he had to read in addition to what he had learned, he used to look at him in silence for a long time.
«So you, too, Brutus, are against me?» he said with a sigh, as he sat down to read them.
Such immoderate reading seemed hard and unnatural to him. Of what use were all those note-books which had taken up so much time, paper, and ink? What is the use of text-books? And, last but not least, why waste six or seven years of your life being cooped up in a school? Why put up with all the strict discipline, the reprimands, the boredom of sitting over lessons, the bans on running about, playing, and amusing yourself, when life is still ahead of him?
«When am I to live?» he asked himself again. «When am I at last to put into circulation all this capital of knowledge, most of which will be of no use to me in life anyway? Political economy, for instance, algebra, geometry – what am I going to do with them in Oblomovka?»
History, too, depressed him terribly: you learn and read that at a certain date the people were overtaken by all sorts of calamities and were unhappy, then they summoned up their strength, worked, took infinite care, endured great hardships, laboured in preparation for better days. At last they came – one would think history might take a rest, but no, clouds gathered again, the edifice crashed down, and again the people had to toil and labour… The bright days do not remain, they fly, and life flows on, one crisis follows upon another.
Serious reading tired him. Philosophers did not succeed in awakening in him a passion for speculative thought. The poets, on the other hand, touched him to the quick: like everyone else, he became young again. He, too, reached the happy time of life, which never fails anyone and which smiles upon all, the time when one’s powers are at their height, when one is conscious of life and full of hope and desire to do good, to show one’s prowess, to work, when one’s heart beats faster and the pulses quicken, when one thrills with emotion, makes enthusiastic speeches, and sheds sweet tears. His heart and mind grew clear: he shook off his drowsiness and longed for activity. Stolz helped him to prolong that moment as long as was possible for such a nature as his friend’s. He took advantage of Oblomov’s love of the poets and kept him for sixteen months under the spell of thought and learning. He made use of the ecstatic flight of his young friend’s fancy to introduce aims other than pure delight in the reading of poetry, pointed out the distant goals of his own and his friend’s life, and carried him off into the future. Both grew excited, wept, and exchanged solemn promises to follow the path of reason and light. Oblomov was infected by the youthful ardour of Stolz, and he was aflame with the desire to work and to reach his distant, but fascinating goal.
But the flower of life opened up and bore no fruit. Oblomov sobered down, and only occasionally, on Stolz’s advice, read one book or another, though not at once, and without hurry or eagerness, lazily scanning the lines. However absorbing the passage that engaged his attention might be, if it was time to have dinner or to go to bed, he put the book face downwards and went to have dinner or blew out the candle and went to sleep. If he was given the first volume of some work, he did not, after finishing it, ask for the second, but if it were brought to him, he read it through slowly. Later on he found even the first volume too much for him and spent most of his leisure with his elbow on the table and his head on his elbow; sometimes, instead of his elbow, he used the book Stolz insisted that he should read.
So ended Oblomov’s career as a student. The date on which he heard his last lecture was the utmost limit of his learning. The principal’s signature on his certificate, like his teacher’s nail-mark on his book in the old days, was the line beyond which our hero did not think it necessary to extend the field of his knowledge. His head was a complicated depository of past deeds, persons, epochs, figures, religions, disconnected political, economic, mathematical and other truths, problems, principles, and so on. It was like a library composed entirely of odd volumes of various branches of knowledge. His studies had a strange effect on Oblomov; there was for him a gulf between life and learning which he never attempted to cross. To him life was one thing and learning another. He had studied all the existing and the no longer existing systems of law, he had been through the course of practical jurisprudence, but when after a burglary in his house he had to write to the police, he took a sheet of paper and pen, spent a long time thinking over it, and in the end sent for a clerk. His estate accounts were kept by the bailiff. «What has learning to do with it?» he asked himself in perplexity.
He returned to his seclusion without any store of knowledge which might have given a direction to his roving and idly slumbering thoughts. What did he do? Why, he went on drawing the pattern of his own life. He found in it, not without reason, so much wisdom and poetry that it provided him with an inexhaustible source of occupation even without any books and learning. Having given up the service and society, he began to solve the problem of existence in a different way; he began to ponder about the purpose of his life, and at last discovered that it was in himself that he had to look for its secret. He understood that family happiness and the care of the estate were his sole business in life. Till then he had no idea of the position of his affairs: Stolz sometimes looked after them for him. He did not know exactly what his income and expenditure were, he never drew up any budget – he did nothing.
Oblomov’s father left the estate to his son as he had received it from his father. Though he had spent all his life in the country, he never tried to be clever or racked his brains over different improvements as landowners do nowadays: how to discover new sources of productivity of the land or to enlarge and increase the old sources, and so on. The fields were cultivated in the same way as in his grandfather’s time, and the methods of marketing the agricultural produce were the same. The old man, to be sure, was very pleased if a good harvest or a rise in prices provided him with a larger income than the year before: he called it a divine blessing. He had merely an aversion to making money in all sorts of new-fangled and devious ways.
«Our fathers and forefathers were no stupider than we», he used to say in answer to what he regarded as harmful advice, «and yet they lived happily, and so shall we: God willing, we shall not starve».
Receiving, without various cunning shifts, an income from the estate that was sufficient to provide a good dinner and supper for his family and guests, he thanked God and thought it a sin to try to get more than that. If his steward brought him 2,000 roubles, having put another 1,000 in his own pocket, and tearfully blamed the hail, drought, or bad harvest for it, old Oblomov crossed himself and said also with tears:
«God’s will be done. I shall not argue with God. We must thank God for what there is».
Since the death of Oblomov’s parents the affairs on the estate had not improved; on the contrary, as was evident from the bailiff’s letter, they had grown worse. It was obvious that Oblomov had to go there himself and find out on the spot the reason for the gradual decline in his income. He intended to do so, but kept delaying, partly because such a journey meant almost a new and unknown feat for him. In all his life he had made only one journey – in a big, old-fashioned coach, amidst featherbeds, chests, trunks, hams, loaves, all sorts of roasted and cooked beef and poultry, and accompanied by several servants. That was how he had made his only journey from the estate to Moscow, and this journey he took as the standard for all journeys. And now, he was told, one no longer journeyed like that: one travelled at breakneck speed. Again, Oblomov put off his journey because he was not yet ready to put his affairs in order. He was certainly not like his father and grandfather. He had studied and lived in the world: all that suggested all sorts of ideas that were new to him. He understood that acquisition was not a sin, but that it was the duty of every citizen to help to raise the general welfare by honest labour. That was why the greatest part of the pattern of life which he drew in his seclusion was devoted to a fresh plan for re-organization of the estate and dealing with the peasants in accordance with the needs of the times. The fundamental idea of the plan, its arrangement and its main parts had long been ready in his head; only the details, the estimates and the figures remained. He worked untiringly on the plan for several years, thinking it over continually as he was pacing his room or lying down or visiting friends; he kept adding to it or changing various items, recalling what he had thought of the day before and forgotten during the night; and sometimes a new, unexpected idea would flash like lightning through his mind and set it simmering – and the work would start all over again. He was not some petty executor of somebody else’s ready-made notions; he had himself created his own ideas and he was going to carry them out.
As soon as he got up in the morning and had taken his breakfast, he lay down at once on the sofa, propped up his head on his hand and plunged into thought without sparing himself till at last his head grew weary from the hard work and his conscience told him that he had done enough for the common welfare. Only then did he permit himself to rest from his labours and change his thoughtful pose for another less stern and business-like and a more comfortable one for languorous day-dreaming. Having done with the cares of business, Oblomov liked to withdraw into himself and live in the world of his own creation. He was not unacquainted with the joys of lofty thoughts; he was not unfamiliar with human sorrows. Sometimes he wept bitterly in his heart of hearts over the calamities of mankind and experienced secret and nameless sufferings and anguish and a yearning for something far away, for the world, perhaps, where Stolz used to carry him away. … Sweet tears flowed from his eyes.
It would also happen that sometimes he would be filled with contempt for human vice, lies, and slanders, for the evil that was rife in the world, and he was consumed by a desire to point out to man his sores, and suddenly thoughts were kindled in him, sweeping through his head like waves of the sea, growing into intentions, setting his blood on fire, flexing his muscles, and swelling his veins; then his intentions turned to strivings; moved by a spiritual force, he would change his position two or three times in one minute, and half-rising on his couch with blazing eyes, stretch forth his hand and look around him like one inspired… In another moment the striving would turn into an heroic act – and then, heavens! What wonders, what beneficent results might one not expect from such a lofty effort!
But the morning passed, the day was drawing to its close, and with it Oblomov’s exhausted energies were crying out for a rest: the storms and emotions died down, his head recovered from the spell of his reverie, and his blood flowed more slowly in his veins. Oblomov turned on his back quietly and wistfully and, fixing a sorrowful gaze at the window and the sky, mournfully watched the sun setting gorgeously behind a four-storied house. How many times had he watched the sun set like that!
Next morning there was life once more, new excitements and dreams! He liked to imagine himself sometimes as some invincible general, compared with whom not only Napoleon, but also Yeruslau Lazarevich dwindled into insignificance; he invented a war and a cause for it, such as, for instance, an invasion of Europe by the peoples of Africa, or he organized new crusades, and fought to settle the fate of nations, devastating cities, showing mercy, putting to death, performing deeds of goodness and magnanimity. Or he would choose to be a thinker or a great artist: everyone worshipped him, he was crowned with laurels, the crowd ran after him, shouting: «Look, look, here comes Oblomov, our famous Ilya Ilyich!» At bitter moments he suffered greatly, tossed from side to side, lay face downwards, and sometimes lost heart completely; then he rose from his bed, knelt down and began to pray ardently, zealously, imploring heaven to avert the storm that threatened him. After entrusting the care of his future to Providence, he grew calm and indifferent to everything in the world – let the storm do its worst!
This was how he used his spiritual powers, after spending days in a state of agitation and only recovering with a deep sigh from an enchanting dream or an agonizing anxiety when the day was drawing to a close and the sun began to set gorgeously in an enormous ball behind the four-storied house. Then he once more watched it with a wistful look and a sorrowful smile and rested peacefully from his emotional exertions.
No one saw or knew this inner life of Oblomov; they all thought that there was nothing special about him, that he just lay about and enjoyed his meals, and that that was all one could expect from him; that it was doubtful whether he was able to form any coherent thoughts in his head. That was what the people who knew him said about him. Only Stolz knew and could testify as to his abilities and the volcanic work that was going on inside his ardent head and humane heart; but Stolz was hardly ever in Petersburg.
Only Zakhar, whose whole life centred round his master, knew his inner life even better than Stolz; but he was convinced that both he and his master were doing useful work and living a normal life, as they should, and that they could not possibly live otherwise.

7
Zakhar was over fifty. He no longer belonged to the direct descendants of those Russian Calebs, the knights of the servants’ hall without fear and without reproach, who were full of selfless loyalty to their masters and who had all the virtues and no vices. This knight was with fear and with reproach. He belonged to two different epochs, and each of them had left its mark on him. From one he had inherited his boundless loyalty to the Oblomov family, and from the other, the later one, refinement and corrupt morals. Passionately devoted to his master, not a day passed without his telling him a lie. In the old days a servant would have restrained his master from extravagance and intemperance, but Zakhar was himself fond of having a drink with his cronies at his master’s expense; an old-fashioned servant was chaste as a eunuch, but this one kept running to a lady friend of doubtful character. The one guarded his master’s money better than any safe, but Zakhar always tried to cheat his master of ten copecks over some purchase and never failed to appropriate any coppers that were left lying on the table. In the same way, if Oblomov forgot to ask Zakhar for the change, he would never see it again. He did not steal bigger sums because he measured his needs in coppers and ten-copeck pieces, or because he was afraid of being found out – certainly it was not because he was too honest. An old-fashioned Caleb, like a well-trained gun-dog, would rather die than touch the food entrusted to his care; but Zakhar was always watching out for an opportunity to eat and drink something he had been told not to touch; the one was anxious that his master should eat as much as possible and felt upset when he did not eat; the other felt upset if his master ate up all that had been put on his plate.
Moreover, Zakhar was a gossip. In the kitchen, in the shop, and at all the meetings at the gate he complained every day of his hard life. He claimed that there had never been a worse master, that Oblomov was capricious, stingy, and bad-tempered, that there was no pleasing him – that, in short, he would rather be dead than go on living with him. Zakhar did these things not out of malice and not out of a desire to injure his master, but just because he had inherited from his father and grandfather the habit of abusing the master at every favourable opportunity.
Sometimes he told some cock-and-bull story about Oblomov out of sheer boredom or lack of a subject for conversation or out of a desire to impress his listeners.
«My master», he wheezed quietly in a confidential whisper, «has taken to visiting that widow. Wrote a note to her yesterday, he did». Or he would declare that his master was the greatest gambler and drunkard in the world, that he played cards and drank all night long. There was not a word of truth in it: Oblomov paid no visits to the widow, he spent his nights sleeping peacefully and did not touch cards.
Zakhar was slovenly. He seldom shaved and though he washed his hands and face, it was more for show; besides, no soap could wash off the dirt. After a visit to the bath-house his hands turned red instead of black for a couple of hours, and then became black again. He was very clumsy; when he opened the doors or the gates, one half would shut while he was opening the other, and as he ran to the second half, the first one would shut. He could never pick up a handkerchief or anything else from the floor at once, but always bent down about three times, as though he were trying to catch it, and only got hold of it at the fourth attempt, and even then he was liable to drop it again. If he carried a number of plates or some other crockery across the room, those on the top began to decamp to the floor at the first step he took. First one fell off; he suddenly made a belated and use less attempt to stop it, and dropped another two. As he stood gaping with surprise at the falling plates, paying no attention to those he still held in his hands and holding the tray aslant, the plates continued to drop on the floor; by the time he reached the other end of the room there was sometimes only one plate or wine-glass left on the tray, and, cursing and swearing, he very often deliberately flung down the last things that still remained in his hands. Walking across the room he invariably caught his side or his feet against a table or a chair; he rarely passed through the open half of the door without knocking his shoulder against the other half, swearing at both, at the landlord, and at the carpenter who made them. In Oblomov’s study almost all articles, especially the small ones which required careful handling, were either broken or damaged, and all thanks to Zakhar. This talent for handling things he applied equally to all articles, making no distinction in his method of treating them. He was, for instance, told to snuff a candle or pour out a glass of water: to do that he used as much force as was needed to open the gates. But the real danger came when Zakhar, inspired by a sudden zeal to please his master, took it into his head to tidy everything, clean and put everything in its proper place quickly, at once! There was no end of trouble and breakages; an enemy soldier, rushing into the house, could not have done so much mischief. Things fell down and broke, crockery was smashed, chairs turned over. In the end he had to be driven out of the room, or he went away, swearing and cursing, of his own accord. Fortunately, he was rarely inspired with such zeal.
All that, of course, happened because Zakhar had been brought up and acquired his manners not in the dark and narrow, but fastidiously furnished, drawing-rooms and studies, cluttered up with all sorts of fancy articles, but in the country, where there was plenty of room to move about. There he was accustomed to work without being cramped and to handle things of solid dimensions and massive weight, such as a spade, a crowbar, iron door clamps, and chairs of such size that he could shift them only with difficulty.
Some article, such as a candlestick, a lamp, a transparency, a paper-weight, remained undamaged for three or four years, but as soon as Zakhar picked it up, it broke.
«Oh», he sometimes used to say to Oblomov when this happened, «look, sir, what an extraordinary thing: I just picked it up and it came to pieces in my hands».
Or he said nothing at all, but would put it back secretly and afterwards assured his master that he had broken it himself; and sometimes he excused himself by saying that even an iron article must get broken sooner or later since it could not possibly last for ever. In the first two instances one could still argue with him, but when, driven into a corner, he armed himself with the last argument, every objection was useless and nothing in the world could convince him that he was wrong.
Zakhar had drawn up a definite programme of activity which he never varied, if he could help it. In the morning he set the samovar, cleaned the boots and clothes his master asked for, but not those he did not ask for, though they might be hanging in the wardrobe for ten years. Then he swept – not every day, though – the middle of the room without touching the comers and dusted only the table that had nothing on it, to save himself the trouble of moving anything. After this he considered that he had a right to snooze on the stove or chatter with Anisya in the kitchen or with the servants at the gates. If he was ordered to do something else besides, he did it only reluctantly after long arguments to show that what was asked of him was useless or impossible. It was quite impossible to make him introduce any permanent new item into his programme of daily tasks. If he was told to clean or wash some article, or fetch something or take something away, he carried out the order with his usual growling, but Oblomov could never make him do that regularly and without being told. The next day or the day after he had to be told to do it again with a resumption of the same unpleasant arguments.
In spite of the fact that Zakhar liked to drink and gossip, took Oblomov’s coppers and silver ten-copeck pieces, smashed the crockery and damaged the furniture, and shirked his work, he was nevertheless deeply devoted to his master. He would gladly have jumped into fire or water for him without a moment’s hesitation and without thinking it heroic or worthy of any admiration or reward. He thought it a natural thing, as something that could not be otherwise, or rather he did not think at all, but acted without any reflection. He had no theories on the subject. It never occurred to him to analyse his feelings towards Oblomov; he had not invented them; they had descended to him from his father, his grandfather, his brothers, and the servants among whom he was brought up, and had become part of his flesh and blood. Zakhar would have died instead of his master, since he considered it as his bounden duty, and even without thinking about it he would have rushed to his death just as a dog rushes at a wild beast in the forest, without thinking why it, and not its master, should rush upon it. But if, on the other hand, he had had to keep awake by his master’s bedside all night because his master’s health and even life depended on it, Zakhar would most certainly have fallen asleep.
Outwardly he did not show any servility to his master, he even treated him familiarly and rudely, was angry with him in good earnest over every trifle and even, as already said, told tales about him at the gate; but all this merely pushed into the background for a time, but not by any means diminished, his inborn and intimate feeling of devotion not to Oblomov as such, but to everything that bore the name of Oblomov and that was close, dear, and precious to him. It is possible even that this feeling was opposed to Zakhar’s own opinion of Oblomov personally; it is possible that a close study of his master’s character gave Zakhar a far from flattering opinion of him. Quite probably Zakhar would have objected if the degree of his devotion to Oblomov had been explained to him.
Zakhar loved Oblomovka as a cat loves its attic, a horse its stable, and a dog the kennel in which it has been born and grown up. Within the sphere of this attachment he developed certain personal impressions. For instance, he liked the Oblomov coachman better than the cook, the dairy-maid Varvara better than either of them, and Oblomov himself least of all; but still, the Oblomovka cook was in his eyes better than any other cook in the world, and Oblomov better than all other landowners. He could not stand Taras the butler, but he would not exchange even him for the best man in the world simply because Taras was an Oblomov servant. He treated Oblomov familiarly and rudely just as a medicine-man treats his idol: he dusts it, drops it, sometimes even strikes it in vexation, but nevertheless at heart he is always conscious of the idol’s superiority to himself. The slightest occasion was sufficient to call forth this feeling from the very depths of Zakhar’s soul and make him look at his master with reverence, and sometimes even burst into tears with emotion. He would never dream of regarding any other gentleman as being in any way better than his master – or even equal to his master. And God help any man who dared compare his master to his disadvantage with anyone else!
Zakhar could not help looking down on the gentlemen who came to visit Oblomov; he served them, handed them tea and so on, with a kind of condescension, as though making them feel the honour his master bestowed on them by receiving them. He turned them away rather rudely: «Master’s asleep», he would say, looking the visitor up and down haughtily. Sometimes, instead of telling tales about Oblomov and abusing him, he would extol him immoderately at the shops and the meetings at the gate, and there was no end to his enthusiasm. He would suddenly begin to enumerate his master’s virtues, his intelligence, dexterity, generosity, good nature; and if his master’s fine qualities were not sufficient to merit his panegyrics, he borrowed them from others and declared Oblomov to be a person of high rank, wealth, and extraordinary influence. If he had to put the fear of God into the caretaker, the landlord’s agent, or even the landlord himself, he always threatened them with Oblomov. «You wait», he would say menacingly, «I’ll tell my master and then you’ll catch it». He did not expect there could be a higher authority in the whole world.
Outwardly, however, Oblomov’s relations with Zakhar were always rather hostile. Living together, they got on each other’s nerves. A close, daily intimacy between two people has to be paid for: it requires a great deal of experience of life, logic, and warmth of heart on both sides to enjoy each other’s good qualities without being irritated by each other’s shortcomings and blaming each other for them. Oblomov knew at least one inestimable virtue in Zakhar – his devotion to himself – and was used to it, believing, too, that it couldn’t and shouldn’t be otherwise; but having grown used to the virtue once and for all, he could no longer enjoy it; at the same time, however, he could not, in spite of his indifference to everything, patiently put up with Zakhar’s innumerable shortcomings. If Zakhar, while being greatly devoted to his master, differed from the old-fashioned servants by his modem shortcomings, Oblomov, too, much as he appreciated his servant’s loyalty, differed from the masters of former times in not cherishing the same friendly and almost affectionate feelings towards Zakhar that they had had for their servants. Occasionally, indeed, he had rows with Zakhar.
Zakhar, too, was often tired of his master. Having served his term as a footman in his youth, Zakhar had been appointed to look after the young master; from that day he began to regard himself as an article of luxury, an aristocratic accessory of the house, whose duty it was to keep up the prestige and splendour of an old family and not to be of any real use. That was why, having dressed the young master in the morning and undressed him in the evening, he spent the rest of the day doing nothing at all. Lazy by nature, he became even more so by his upbringing as a flunkey. He gave himself airs before the servants, did not take the trouble to set the samovar or sweep the floors. He either dozed in the hall or went to have a chat in the servants’ hall or the kitchen; or he did neither, but just stood for hours at the gates, his arms crossed, and looked dreamily about him. And after such a life, he was suddenly burdened with the heavy task of doing the work of a whole household single-handed! He had to look after his master, sweep and clean, and run errands! No wonder he became morose, bad-tempered, and rude; no wonder he growled every time his master’s voice forced him to leave the stove. In spite, however, of his outward sullenness and unsociableness, Zakhar possessed a soft and kind heart. He even liked to spend his time with children. He was often seen with a crowd of children in the courtyard or by the gate. He settled their quarrels, teased them, organized games, or simply sat with one child on each knee, while another little rascal would throw his arms round his neck from behind or pull at his whiskers.
And so Oblomov interfered with Zakhar’s life by constantly demanding his services and his presence, while Zakhar’s heart, his talkative nature, his love of idleness, and a perpetual, never-ceasing need for munching something drew him to the gate, or to his lady-friend, to the shop, or to the kitchen.
They had known each other and lived together for a very long time. Zakhar had dandled little Oblomov in his arms, and Oblomov remembered him as a quick and sly young man with a prodigious appetite. Nothing in the world could sever the old ties between them. Just as Oblomov could not get up or go to bed, brush his hair, put on his shoes, or have his dinner without Zakhar, so Zakhar could imagine no other master than Oblomov and no other existence than that of dressing him, feeding him, being rude to him, cheating him, lying to him and, at the same time, inwardly revering him.

8
Having 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.

9

OBLOMOV’S DREAM
WHERE ARE WE? In what blessed little corner of the earth has Oblomov’s dream transferred us? What a lovely spot!
It is true there is no sea there, no high mountains, cliffs or precipices, no virgin forests – nothing grand, gloomy, and wild. But what is the good of the grand and the wild? The sea, for instance? Let it stay where it is! It merely makes you melancholy: looking at it, you feel like crying. The heart quails at the sight of the boundless expanse of water, and the eyes grow tired of the endless monotony of the scene. The roaring and the wild pounding of the waves do not caress your feeble ears; they go on repeating their old, old song, gloomy and mysterious, the same since the world began; and the same old moaning is heard in it, the same complaints as though of a monster condemned to torture, and piercing, sinister voices. No birds twitter around; only silent sea-gulls like doomed creatures, mournfully fly to and fro near the coast and circle over the water.
The roar of a beast is powerless beside these lamentations of nature, the human voice, too, is insignificant, and man himself is so little and weak, so lost among the small details of the vast picture! Perhaps it is because of this that he feels so depressed when he looks at the sea. Yes, the sea can stay where it is! Its very calm and stillness bring no comfort to a man’s heart; in the barely perceptible swell of the mass of waters man still sees the same boundless, though slumbering, force which can so cruelly mock his proud will and bury so deeply his brave schemes, and all his labour and toil.
Mountains and precipices, too, have not been created for man’s enjoyment. They are as terrifying and menacing as the teeth and claws of a wild beast rushing upon him; they remind us too vividly of our frailty and keep us continually in fear of our lives. And the sky over the peaks and the precipices seems so far and unattainable, as though it had recoiled from men.
The peaceful spot where our hero suddenly found himself was not like that. The sky there seems to hug the earth, not in order to fling its thunderbolts at it, but to embrace it more tightly and lovingly; it hangs as low overhead as the trustworthy roof of the parental house, to preserve, it would seem, the chosen spot from all calamities. The sun there shines brightly and warmly for about six months of the year and withdraws gradually, as though reluctantly, as though turning back to take another look at the place it loves and to give it a warm, clear day in the autumn, amid the rain and slush.
The mountains there seem to be only small-scale models of the terrifying mountains far away that frighten the imagination. They form a chain of gently sloping hillocks, down which it is pleasant to slide on one’s back in play, or to sit on watching the sunset dreamily.
The river runs gaily, sporting and playing; sometimes it spreads into a wide pond, and sometimes it rushes along in a swift stream, or grows quiet, as though lost in meditation, and creeps slowly along the pebbles, breaking up into lively streams on all sides, whose rippling lulls you pleasantly to sleep.
The whole place, for ten or fifteen miles around, consists of a series of picturesque, smiling, gay landscapes. The sandy, sloping banks of the clear stream, the small bushes that steal down to the water from the hills, the twisting ravine with a brook running at the bottom, and the birch copse – all seem to have been carefully chosen and composed with the hand of a master.
A heart worn out by tribulations or wholly unacquainted with them cries out to hide itself in that secluded spot and live there happily and undisturbed. Everything there promises a calm, long life, till the hair turns white with age and death comes unawares, like sleep.
The year follows a regular and imperturbable course there. Spring arrives in March, according to the calendar, muddy streams run down the hills, the ground thaws, and a warm mist rises from it; the peasant throws off his sheepskin, comes out into the open only in his shirt and, shielding his eyes with a hand, stands there enjoying the sunshine and shakes his shoulders with pleasure; then he pulls the overturned cart first by one shaft, then by the other, or examines and kicks with his foot at the plough that lies idle in the shed, getting ready for his usual labours. No sudden blizzards return in the spring, covering the fields or breaking down the trees with snow. Like a cold and unapproachable beauty, winter remains true to its character till the lawfully appointed time for warmth; it does not tease with sudden thaws or bend one double with unheard of frosts; everything goes on in the usual way prescribed by nature. In November snow and frost begin, and by Twelfth- day it grows so cold that a peasant leaving his cottage for a minute returns with hoar-frost on his beard; and in February a sensitive nose already feels the soft breath of approaching spring in the air. But the summer – the summer is especially enchanting in that part of the country. The air there is fresh and dry; it is not filled with the fragrance of lemons and laurels, but only with the scent of wormwood, pine, and wild cherry; the days are bright with slightly burning but not scorching sunshine, and for almost three months there is not a cloud in the sky. As soon as clear days come, they go on for three or four weeks; the evenings are warm and the nights are close. The stars twinkle in such a kindly and friendly way from the sky. If rain comes, it is such a beneficent summer rain! It falls briskly, abundantly, splashing along merrily like the big, warm tears of a man overcome with sudden joy; and as soon as it stops the sun once more looks down with a bright smile of love on the hills and fields and dries them; and the whole countryside responds to the sun with a happy smile. The peasant welcomes the rain joyfully. «The rain will wet me and the sun will dry me», he says, holding up delightedly his face, shoulders, and back to the warm shower. Thunderstorms are not a menace but a blessing there; they always occur at the appointed tunes, hardly ever missing St Elijah’s day on the second of August, as though to confirm the well-known legend among the people. The strength and number of thunder-claps also seem to be the same each year, as though a definite amount of electricity had been allotted annually for the whole place. Terrible storms, bringing devastation in their wake, are unheard-of in those parts, and no report of them has ever appeared in the newspapers. And nothing would ever have been published about that thrice-blessed spot had not a twenty- eight-year-old peasant widow, Marina Kulkov, given birth to quadruplets, an event the Press could not possibly have ignored.
The Lord has never visited those parts either by Egyptian or ordinary plagues. No one of the inhabitants has ever seen or remembered any terrible heavenly signs, fiery balls, or sudden darkness; there are no poisonous snakes there; locusts do not come; there are no roaring lions, nor growling tigers, nor even bears nor wolves, because there are no forests. Only ruminating cows, bleating sheep, and cackling hens walk about the villages and fields in vast numbers.
It is hard to say whether a poet or a dreamer would have been pleased with nature in this peaceful spot. These gentlemen, as everyone knows, love to gaze at the moon and listen to the song of the nightingale. They love the coquette-moon when she dresses up in amber clouds and peeps mysteriously through the branches or flings sheaves of silvery beams into the eyes of her admirers. But in that country no one has even heard of the moon being anything but an ordinary moon. It stares very good- naturedly at the villages and the fields, looking very like a polished brass basin. The poet would have looked at her in vain with eyes of rapture; she gazes as good-naturedly at a poet as does a round-faced village beauty in response to the eloquent and passionate glances of a city philanderer.
There are no nightingales in those parts, either – perhaps because there are no shady nooks and roses there. But what an abundance of quail! At harvest time in the summer boys catch them with their hands. Do not imagine, however, that quail are regarded there as a gastronomic luxury – no, the morals of the inhabitants had not been corrupted to that extent: a quail is a bird which is not mentioned in the dietary rules. In that part of the country it delights the ear with its singing; that is why almost every house has a quail in a string cage under the roof.
The poet and dreamer would have remained dissatisfied by the general appearance of that modest and unpretentious district. They would never have succeeded in seeing an evening in the Swiss or Scottish style, when the whole of nature – the woods, the river, the cottage walls, and the sandy hills – is suffused by the red glow of the sunset, against which is set off a cavalcade of gentlemen, riding on a twisting, sandy road after having escorted a lady on a trip to some gloomy ruin and now returning at a smart pace to a strong castle, where an ancient native would tell them a story about the Wars of the Roses and where, after a supper of wild goat’s meat, a young girl would sing them a ballad to the accompaniment of a lute – scenes with which the pen of Walter Scott has so richly filled our imagination. No, there is nothing like that in our part of the country.
How quiet and sleepy everything is in the three or four villages which compose this little plot of land! They lie close to one another and look as though they had been flung down accidentally by a giant’s hand and scattered about in different directions, where they had remained to this day. One cottage, dropped on the edge of a ravine, has remained hanging there since time immemorial, half of it suspended in the air and propped up by three poles. People have lived quietly and happily there for three or four generations. One would think that a hen would be afraid to go into it, and yet Onisim Suslov, a steady man, who is too big to stand up in his own cottage, lives there with his wife. Not everyone would be able to enter Onisim’s cottage, unless, indeed, the visitor persuaded it to stand with its back to the forest and its front to him. For its front steps hang over the ravine, and in order to enter it one has to hold on to the grass with one hand and its roof with the other, and then lift one’s foot and place it firmly on the steps.
Another cottage clings precariously to the hillside like a swallow’s nest; three other cottages have been thrown together accidentally not far away, and two more stand at the very bottom of the ravine.
Everything in the village is quiet and sleepy: the doors of the silent cottages are wide open; not a soul is to be seen; only the flies swarm in clouds and buzz in the stuffy air. On entering a cottage, you will call in vain in a loud voice: dead silence will be your answer; very seldom will some old woman, who is spending her remaining years on the stove, reply with a painful sigh or a sepulchral cough; or a three-year-old child, long-haired, barefoot, and with only a torn shirt on, will appear from behind a partition, stare at you in silence, and hide himself again.
In the fields, too, peace and a profound silence reign; only here and there a ploughman can be seen stirring like an ant on the black earth – and, scorched by the heat and bathed in perspiration, pitching his plough forward. The same imperturbable peace and quiet prevail among the people of that locality. No robberies, murders, or fatal accidents ever happened there; no strong passions or daring enterprises ever agitated them. And, indeed, what passions or daring enterprises could have agitated them? Everyone there knew what he was capable of. The inhabitants of those villages lived far from other people. The nearest villages and the district town were twenty and twenty-five miles away. At a certain time the peasants carted their com to the nearest landing-stage of the Volga, which was their Colchis or Pillars of Hercules, and some of them went to the market once a year, and that was all the intercourse they had with the outside world. Their interests were centred upon themselves and they never came into contact with or ran foul of any one else’s. They knew that the administrative city of the province was sixty miles away, but very few of them ever went there; they also knew that farther away in the same direction was Saratov or Nizhny-Novgorod; they had heard of Petersburg and Moscow, and that French and Germans lived beyond Petersburg, and the world farther away was for them as mysterious as it was for the ancients – unknown countries, inhabited by monsters, people with two heads, giants; farther away still there was darkness, and at the end of it all was the fish which held the world on its back. And as their part of the country was hardly ever visited by travellers, they had no opportunity of learning the latest news of what was going on in the world: the peasants who supplied them with their wooden vessels lived within fifteen miles of their villages and were as ignorant as they. There was nothing even with which they could compare their way of living and find out in this way whether they lived well or no, whether they were rich or poor, or whether there was anything others had that they, too, would like.
These lucky people imagined that everything was as it should be and were convinced that everyone else lived like them and to live otherwise was a sin. They would not believe it if someone told them that there were people who had other ways of ploughing, sowing, harvesting, and selling. What passions and excitements could they possibly have? Like everyone else, they had their worries and weaknesses, rent and taxes, idleness and sleep; but all this did not amount to a great deal and did not stir their blood. For the last five years not one of the several hundred peasants of that locality had died a natural, let alone a violent, death. And when someone had gone to his eternal sleep either from old age or from some chronic illness, the people there had gone on marvelling at such an extraordinary event for months. And yet it did not surprise them at all that, for instance, Taras the blacksmith had nearly steamed himself to death in his mud hut so that he had to be revived with cold water. The only crime that was greatly prevalent was the theft of peas, carrots, and turnips from the kitchen gardens, and on one occasion two sucking pigs and a chicken had suddenly disappeared – an event which outraged the whole neighbourhood and was unanimously attributed to the fact that carts with wooden wares had passed through the village on their way to the fair. But, generally speaking, accidents of any kind were extremely rare.
Once, however, a man had been found lying in a ditch by the bridge outside a village, evidently a member of a co-operative group of workmen who had passed by on their way to the town. The boys were the first to discover him, and they ran back terrified to the village with the news that some terrible serpent or werewolf was lying in a ditch, adding that he had chased them and nearly eaten Kuzka. The braver souls among the peasants armed themselves with pitchforks and axes and went in a crowd to the ditch.
«Where are you off to?» The old men tried to stop them. «Think yourselves stout fellows, do you? What do you want there? Leave it alone, no one’s driving you».
But the peasants went, and about a hundred yards from the spot began calling to the monster in different voices, and as there was no reply, they stopped, then moved on again. A peasant lay in the ditch, leaning his head against its side; a bundle and a stick with two pairs of bast-shoes tied on it, lay beside him. They did not venture near him or touch him.
«Hey you, there!» they shouted in turn, scratching their heads or their backs. «What’s your name? Hey, you! What do you want here?»
The stranger tried to raise his head but could not; evidently he was either ill or very tired. One peasant nearly brought himself to touch him with his pitchfork.
«Don’t touch him! Don’t touch him!» many of the others cried. «How do we know what sort of a man he is? He hasn’t said a word. He may be one of them – don’t touch him, lads!»
«Let’s go», some said. «Come on now: he isn’t one of ours, is he? He’ll only bring us trouble!»
And they all went back to the village, telling the old men that a stranger was lying there who would not speak and goodness only knows what he was up to.
«Don’t have anything to do with him if he is a stranger», the old men said, sitting on the mound of earth beside their cottages, with their elbows on their knees. «Let him do as he likes! You shouldn’t have gone at all!»
Such was the spot where Oblomov suddenly found himself in his dream. Of the three or four villages scattered there, one was Sosnovka and another Vavilovka, about a mile from each other. Sosnovka and Vavilovka were the hereditary property of the Oblomov family and were therefore known under the general name of Oblomovka. The Oblomov country seat was in Sosnovka. About three and a half miles from Sosnovka lay the little village of Verkhlyovo, which had once belonged to the Oblomov family but which had long since passed into other hands, and a few more scattered cottages which went with it. This village belonged to a rich landowner who was never to be seen on his estate, which was managed by a German steward.
Such was the whole geography of the place.
Oblomov woke up in the morning in his small bed. He was only seven. He felt light-hearted and gay. What a pretty, red-cheeked, and plump boy he was! He had such sweet, round cheeks that were the envy of many a little rogue who would blow up his own on purpose, but could never get cheeks like that. His nurse was waiting for him to wake up. She began putting on his stockings, but he did not let her; he played about, dangling his legs. His nurse caught him, and they both laughed. At last she succeeded in making him get up. She washed his face, combed his hair, and took him to his mother. Seeing his mother, who had been dead for years, Oblomov even in his sleep thrilled with joy and his ardent love for her; two warm tears slowly appeared from under his eyelashes and remained motionless. His mother covered him with passionate kisses, then looked at him anxiously to see if his eyes were clear, if anything hurt him, asked the nurse if he had slept well, if he had waked in the night, if he had tossed in his sleep, if he had a temperature. Then she took him by the hand and led him to the ikon. Kneeling down and putting her arm round him, she made him repeat the words of a prayer. The boy repeated them after her absent-mindedly, gazing at the window, through which the cool of the morning and the scent of lilac poured into the room.
«Are we going for a walk to-day, Mummy?» he suddenly asked in the middle of the prayer.
«Yes, darling», she replied hurriedly, without taking her eyes off the ikon and hastening to finish the holy words.
The boy repeated them listlessly, but his mother put her whole soul into them. Then they went to see his father, and then they had breakfast.
At the breakfast table Oblomov saw their aunt, an old lady of eighty; she was constantly grumbling at her maid, who stood behind her chair waiting on her and whose head shook with age. Three elderly spinsters, his father’s distant relations, were also there, as well as his father’s slightly mad brother, and a poor landowner by the name of Chekmenev, the owner of seven serfs, who was staying with them, and several old ladies and old gentlemen. All these members of the Oblomov retinue and establishment picked up the little boy and began showering caresses and praises on him; he had hardly time to wipe away the traces of the unbidden kisses. After that they began stuffing him with rolls, biscuits, and cream. Then his mother hugged and kissed him again and sent him for a walk in the garden, the yard, and the meadow, with strict instructions to his nurse not to leave the child alone, not to let him go near the horses, the dogs, and the goat or wander too far from the house, and, above all, not to let him go to the ravine, which had a bad name as the most terrible place in the neighbourhood. Once they found a dog there which was reputed to be mad only because it ran away and disappeared behind the hills when attacked with pitchforks and axes; carcasses were thrown into the ravine, and wolves and robbers and other creatures which did not exist in those parts or anywhere else in the world were supposed to live there.
The child did not wait for his mother to finish her warnings; he was already out in the yard. He examined his father’s house and ran round it with joyful surprise, as though he had never seen it before: the gates which leaned to one side; the wooden roof which had settled in the middle and was overgrown with tender green moss; the rickety front steps; the various outbuildings and additions built on to it, and the neglected garden. He was dying to climb on to the projecting gallery which went all round the house and to have a look at the stream from there; but the gallery was very old and unsafe, and only the servants were allowed to go there – nobody else used it. He didn’t heed his mother’s prohibition and was already running to the inviting steps when his nurse appeared and succeeded in catching him. He rushed away from her to the hay-loft, intending to climb up the steep ladder leading to it, and she had no sooner reached the hay-loft than she had to stop him climbing up the dovecote, getting into the cattle yard and – Lord forbid – the ravine.
«Dear me, what an awful child – what a fidget, to be sure!» his nurse said. «Can’t you sit still for a minute, sir? Fie, for shame!»
The nurse’s days – and nights – were one continuous scurrying and dashing about: one moment in agony, another full of joy, afraid that he might fall and hurt himself, deeply moved by his unfeigned childish affection, or vaguely apprehensive about his distant future – this was all she lived for, these agitations warmed the old woman’s blood and sustained her sluggish existence which might otherwise have come to an end long before.
The child, however, was not always so playful; sometimes he suddenly grew quiet and gazed intently at everything as he sat beside his nurse. His childish mind was observing closely all that was going on around him; these impressions sank deeply into his soul, and grew and matured with him.
It was a glorious morning; the air was cool; the sun was still low. Long shadows fell from the house, the trees, the dovecote, and the gallery. The garden and the yard were full of cool places, inviting sleep and day-dreaming. Only the rye-fields in the distance blazed and shimmered, and the stream sparkled and glittered in the sun so that it hurt one’s eyes to look at it.
«Why, Nanny, is it so dark here and so light there, and why will it be light here soon as well?»
«Because the sun is going to meet the moon, my dear, and frowns when it can’t find it, but as soon as it sees it in the distance it grows brighter».
The little boy grew thoughtful and went on looking all about him: he saw Antip going to get water and another Antip, ten tunes bigger than the real one, walking beside him along the ground, and the water-barrel looked as big as a house, and the horse’s shadow covered the whole of the meadow, and after taking only two steps across the meadow, it suddenly moved across the hill, and Antip had had no time to leave the yard. The child, too, took two steps – another step and he would be on the other side of the hill. He would like to have gone there to see where the horse had disappeared to. He ran to the gate, but his mother’s voice could be heard from the window:
«Nurse, don’t you see that the child has run out in the sun! Take him where it’s cool. If his head gets hot, he’ll be sick and lose his appetite. If you’re not careful, he’ll run to the ravine».
«Oh, you naughty boy!» the nurse grumbled softly as she took him back to the house.
The boy watched with his keen and sensitive eyes what the grown-ups were doing and how they were spending the morning. Not a single detail, however trifling, escaped the child’s inquisitive attention; the picture of his home-life was indelibly engraved on his memory; his malleable mind absorbed the living examples before him and unconsciously drew up the programme of his life in accordance with the life around him.
The morning could not be said to be wasted in the Oblomov house. The clatter of knives chopping meat and vegetables in the kitchen could be heard as far as the village. From the servants’ hall came the hum of the spindle and the soft, thin voice of a woman: it was difficult to say whether she was crying or improvising a melancholy song without words. As soon as Antip returned to the yard with the barrel of water, the women and the coachmen came trudging towards it from every direction with pails, troughs, and jugs. Then an old woman carried a basinful of flour and a large number of eggs from the storehouse to the kitchen; the cook suddenly threw some water out through the window and splashed Arapka, which sat all morning with its eyes fixed on the window, wagging its tail and licking its chops.
Oblomov’s father was not idle, either. He sat at the window all morning, keeping a wary eye on all that was going on in the yard.
«Hey, Ignashka, what are you carrying there, you fool?» he would ask a servant walking across the yard.
«I’m taking the knives to be sharpened, sir», the man would answer, without looking at his master.
«Very well, and mind you sharpen them properly».
Then he would stop a peasant woman.
«Hey, my good woman, where have you been?»
«To the cellar, sir», she would stop and reply, shielding her eyes and gazing at the window. «Been to fetch some milk for dinner».
«All right, go, go», her master would reply. «And mind you don’t spill the milk. And you, Zakharka, where are you off to again, you rogue?» he shouted later. «I’ll show you how to run! It’s the third time I’ve seen you. Back to the hall with you!»
And Zakharka went back to the hall to doze.
If the cows came back from the fields, Oblomov’s father would be the first to see that they were watered; if he saw from the window that the dog was chasing a hen, he would at once take stern measures to restore order.
His wife, too, was very busy: she spent three hours explaining to Averka, the tailor, how to make a tunic for Oblomov out of her husband’s jacket, drawing the pattern in chalk and watching that Averka did not steal any cloth; then she went to the maids’ room to tell each girl what her daily task of lace-making was; then she called Nastasya Ivanovna, or Stepanida Agapovna, or someone else from her retinue for a walk in the garden with the practical purpose of seeing how ripe the apples were, if the one that was ripe the day before had fallen off the tree, to do some grafting or pruning, and so on. Her chief concern, however, was the kitchen and the dinner. The whole household was consulted about the dinner: the aged aunt, too, was invited to the council. Everyone suggested a dish: giblet soup, noodles, brawn, tripe, red or white sauce. Every advice was taken into consideration, thoroughly discussed, and then accepted or rejected in accordance with the final decision of the mistress of the house. Nastasya Petrovna or Stepanida Ivanovna was constantly being sent to the kitchen to remind the cook of something or other, to add one dish or cancel another, to take sugar, honey, wine for the cooking, and see whether the cook had used all that he had been given.
Food was the first and foremost concern at Oblomovka. What calves were fattened there every year for the festival days! What birds were reared there! What deep understanding, what hard work, what care were needed in looking after them! Turkeys and chickens for name-days and other solemn occasions were fattened on nuts. Geese were deprived of exercise and hung up motionless in a sack a few days before a festival so that they should get covered with fat. What stores of jams, pickles, and biscuits! What meads, what kvases, were brewed, what pies baked at Oblomovka!
And so up to midday everyone was busy, everyone was living a full, conspicuous, ant-like life. These industrious ants were not idle on Sundays and holidays, either: on those days the clatter of knives in the kitchen was louder than ever; the kitchen-maid journeyed a few times from the barn to the kitchen with a double quantity of flour and eggs; in the poultry yard there was a greater uproar and more bloodshed than ever. An enormous pie was baked, which was served cold for dinner on the following day; on the third and fourth day its remnants were sent to the maids’ room, where it lasted till Friday, when one stale end of it without stuffing descended by special favour to Antip, who, crossing himself, proudly and fearlessly demolished this interesting fossil, enjoying the consciousness that it was his master’s pie more than the pie itself, like an archaeologist who will enjoy drinking some wretched wine out of what remains of some vessel a thousand years old.
The child kept observing and watching it all with his childish mind, which did not miss anything. He saw how often a usefully and busily spent morning was followed by midday and dinner.
At midday it was hot; not a cloud in the sky. The sun stood motionless overhead scorching the grass. There was not the faintest breeze in the motionless air. Neither tree nor water stirred; an imperturbable stillness fell over the village and the fields, as though everything were dead. The human voice sounded loud and clear in the empty air. The flight and the buzzing of a beetle could be heard a hundred yards away, and from the thick grass there came the sound of snoring, as if someone were fast asleep there. In the house, too, dead silence reigned. It was the hour of after-dinner sleep. The child saw that everyone – father, mother, the old aunt, and their retinue – had retired to their rooms; and those who had no rooms of their own went to the hay-loft, the garden, or sought coolness in the hall, while some, covering their faces from the flies with a handkerchief, dropped off to sleep where the heat and the heavy dinner had overcome them. The gardener stretched himself out under a bush in the garden beside his mattock, and the coachman was asleep in the stables. Oblomov looked into the servants’ quarters: there everyone was lying stretched out side by side on the floor, on the benches, and in the passage, and the children, left to their own devices, were crawling about and playing in the sand. The dogs, too, stole into their kennels, there being no one to bark at. One could walk through the house from one end to the other without meeting a soul; it would have been easy to steal everything and take it away in carts, if there were any thieves in those parts, for no one would have interfered with them. It was a sort of all-absorbing and invincible sleep, a true semblance of death. Everything was dead, except for the snoring that came in all sorts of tones and variations from every comer of the house. Occasionally someone would raise his head, look round senselessly, in surprise, and turn over, or spit without opening his eyes, and munching his lips or muttering something under his breath, fall asleep again. Another would suddenly, without any preliminary preparations, jump up from his couch, as though afraid of losing a precious moment, seize a mug of kvas, and blowing away the flies that floated in it, which made the hitherto motionless flies begin to move about in the hope of improving their position, have a drink, and then fall back on the bed as though shot dead.
The child went on watching and watching. He ran out into the open with his nurse again after dinner. But in spite of the strict injunctions of her mistress and her own determination, the nurse could not resist the fascination of sleep. She, too, was infected by the epidemic that raged in Oblomovka. At first she looked sedulously after the child, did not let him go far from her, scolded him for being naughty; then, feeling the symptoms of the infection, she begged him not to go out of the gate, not to tease the goat, and not to climb on the dovecote or the gallery. She herself sat down in some shady nook – on the front steps, at the entrance to the cellar, or simply on the grass, with the apparent intention of knitting a sock and looking after the child. But soon her admonitions grew more sluggish and she began nodding. «Oh dear», she thought, falling asleep, «that fidget is sure to climb on the gallery or – run off to – the ravine…» At this point the old woman’s head dropped forward and the sock fell out of her hands; she lost sight of the child and, opening her mouth slightly, began to snore softly.
The child had been waiting impatiently for that moment, with which his independent life began. He seemed to be alone in the whole world; he tiptoed past his nurse and ran off to see where everybody was asleep; he stopped and watched intently if someone woke for a minute, spat and mumbled in his sleep, then, with a sinking heart, ran up on the gallery, raced round it on the creaking boards, climbed the dovecote, penetrated into the remotest corners of the garden, where he listened to the buzzing of a beetle and watched its flight in the air for a long time; he listened to the chirring in the grass and tried to catch the disturbers of peace; caught a dragon-fly, tore off its wings to see what it would do, or stuck a straw through it and watched it fly with that appendage; observed with delight, holding his breath, a spider sucking a fly and the poor victim struggling and buzzing in its clutches. In the end the child killed both the victim and its torturer. Then he went to a ditch, dug up some roots, peeled them, and enjoyed eating them more than the jams and apples his mother gave him. He ran out of the gate, too: he would like to go to the birch-wood, which seemed to him so near that he was sure he would get there in five minutes, not by the road, but straight across the ditch, the wattle fences, and the pits; but he was afraid, for he had been told that there were wood demons and robbers and terrible beasts there. He wanted to go to the ravine, too, for it was only about a hundred yards from the garden; he ran to the very edge of it, to peer into it as into the crater of a volcano, when suddenly all the stories and legends about the ravine rose before his mind’s eye; he was thrown into a panic, and rushed more dead than alive back to his nurse trembling with fear, and woke the old woman. She awoke with a start, straightened the kerchief on her head, pushed back the wisps of grey hair under it with a finger, and, pretending not to have been asleep at all, glanced suspiciously at Oblomov and at the windows of her master’s house and, with trembling fingers, began clicking with the knitting-needles of the sock that lay on her lap.
Meanwhile the heat had begun to abate a little; everything in nature was getting more animated; the sun had moved towards lie the woods. In the house, too, the silence was little by little broken; a door creaked somewhere; someone could be heard walking in the yard; someone else sneezed in the hay-loft. Soon a servant hurriedly brought an enormous samovar from the kitchen, bending under its weight. The company began to assemble for tea; one had a crumpled face and swollen eyelids; another had a red spot on the cheek and on the temple; a third was still too sleepy to speak in his natural voice. They wheezed, groaned, yawned, scratched their heads, stretched themselves, still barely awake. The dinner and the sleep had made them terribly thirsty. Their throats were parched; they drank about twelve cups of tea each, but this did not help; they moaned and groaned; they tried cranberry water, pear water, kvas, and some medicinal drinks to quench their thirst. All sought deliverance from it as though it were some punishment inflicted on them by God; all rushed about, panting for a drink, like a caravan of travellers in the Arabian desert looking in vain for a spring of water.
The little boy was there beside his mother, watching the strange faces around him and listening to their languid and sleepy conversation. He enjoyed looking at them, and thought every stupid remark they made interesting. After tea they all found something to do: one went down to the river and walked slowly along the bank, kicking the pebbles into the water; another sat by the window watching everything that went on outside; if a cat ran across the yard or a magpie flew by, he followed it with his eyes and the tip of his nose, turning his head to right and left. So dogs sometimes like to sit for a whole day on the window-sill, basking in the sun and carefully examining every passer-by. Oblomov’s mother would put his head on her lap and slowly comb his hair, admiring its softness and making Nastasya Ivanovna and Stepanida Tikhonovna admire it too. She talked to them of his future, conjuring up a vision of him as the hero of some brilliant exploit, while they predicted great riches for him.
But presently it was getting dark, again a fire crackled in the kitchen and again there was a loud clatter of knives; supper was being prepared. The servants had gathered at the gates; sounds of the balalaika and of laughter were heard there. They were playing catch.
The sun was setting behind the woods; its last few warm rays cut straight across the woods like shafts of fire, brightly gilding the tops of the pines. Then the rays were extinguished one by one, the last one lingering for a long time and piercing the thicket of branches like a thin quill; but it, too, was extinguished. Objects lost their shapes: at first everything was merged into a grey, and then into a black, mass. The birds gradually stopped singing; soon they fell silent altogether, except one, which, as though in defiance of the rest, went on chirping monotonously amid the general silence and at intervals which were getting longer and longer till, finally, it gave one last low whistle, slightly rustled the leaves round it, and fell asleep. All was silent. Only the grasshoppers chirped louder than ever. White mists rose from the ground and spread over the meadows and the river. The river, too, grew quieter; a few more moments and something splashed in it for the last time, and it grew motionless. There was a smell of damp in the air. It grew darker and darker. The trees began to look like groups of monsters; the woods were full of nameless terrors; someone suddenly moved about there with a creaking noise, as though one of the monsters shifted from one place to another, a dead twig cracking under its foot. The first star, like a living eye, gleamed brightly in the sky, and lights appeared in the windows of the house.
It was the time of solemn and universal stillness in nature, a time when the creative mind is most active, when poetic thoughts are fanned into flames, when passion burns more brightly or anguish is felt more acutely in the heart, when the seed of a criminal design ripens more imperturbably and more strongly in the cruel heart, and when everybody in Oblomovka is once more peacefully and soundly asleep.
«Let’s go for a walk, Mummy», said Oblomov.
«Good heavens, child», she replied, «go for a walk at this hour! It’s damp, you’ll get your feet wet, and it’s so frightening: the wood-demon is walking about in the woods now, carrying off little children».
«Where to? What is he like? Where does he live?» the little boy asked.
And his mother gave full rein to her unbridled fancy. The boy listened to her, opening and closing his eyes, till at last he was overcome by sleep. The nurse came and, taking him from his mother’s lap, carried him off to bed asleep, his head hanging over her shoulder.
«Well, thank goodness, another day gone», the Oblomovka inhabitants said, getting into bed, groaning, and crossing themselves. «We’ve lived through it safely, God grant it may be the same to-morrow! Praise be unto thee, о Lord!»
Then Oblomov dreamt of another occasion: one endless winter evening he was timidly pressing closely to his nurse, who was whispering a fairy-story to him about some wonderful country where there was no night and no cold, where all sorts of miracles happened, where the rivers flowed with milk and honey, where no one did a stroke of work all the year round, and fine fellows, like Oblomov, and maidens more beautiful than words can tell did nothing but enjoy themselves all day long. A fairy godmother lived there, who sometimes took the shape of a pike and who chose for her favourite some quiet and harmless man – in other words, some loafer, ill-treated by everyone, and for no reason in the world, bestowed all sorts of treasures on him, while he did nothing but eat and drink and dressed in costly clothes, and then married some indescribable beauty, Militrissa Kirbityevna. The little boy listened breathlessly to the story, pricking up his ears, and his eyes glued to his nurse’s face. The nurse or the traditional tale so artfully avoided every reference to reality that the child’s imagination and intellect, having absorbed the fiction, remained enslaved by it all his life. The nurse told him good-humouredly the story of Yemelya-the-Fool, that wickedly insidious satire on our forefathers and, perhaps, on ourselves too. Though when he grew up Oblomov discovered that there were no rivers flowing with milk and honey, nor fairy godmothers, and though he smiled at his nurse’s tales, his smile was not sincere, and it was accompanied by a secret sigh: the fairy-tale had become mixed up with real life in his mind, and sometimes he was sorry that fairy-tale was not life and life was not fairy-tale. He could not help dreaming of Militrissa Kirbityevna; he was always drawn to the land where people do nothing but have a good time and where there are no worries or sorrows; he preserved for the rest of his life a predisposition for doing no work, walking about in clothes that had been provided for him, and eating at the fairy godmother’s expense.
Oblomov’s father and grandfather, too, had heard as children the same fairy stories, handed down for centuries and generations in their stereotyped form by their nurses.
In the meantime the nurse was drawing another picture for the little boy’s imagination. She was telling him about the heroic exploits of our Achilles and Ulysses, about the great bravery of Ilya Muromets, Dobryna Nikitich, Alyosha Popovich, Polkan the Giant, Kolechishche the Traveller, about how they had journeyed all over Russia, defeating numberless hosts of infidels, how they vied with each other in drinking big goblets of wine at one gulp without uttering a sound; she then told him of wicked robbers, sleeping princesses, towns and people turned to stone; finally, she passed on to our demonology, dead men, monsters, and werewolves.
With Homer’s simplicity and good humour and his eye for vivid detail and concrete imagery, she filled the boy’s memory and imagination with the Iliad of Russian life, created by our Homers in the far-off days when man was not yet able to stand up to the dangers and mysteries of life and nature, when he trembled at the thought of werewolves and wood-demons and sought Alyosha Popovich’s help against the adversities threatening him on all sides, and when the air, water, forests, and plains were full of marvels. Man’s life in those days was insecure and terrible; it was dangerous for him to go beyond his own threshold; a wild beast might fall upon him any moment, or a robber might kill him, or a wicked Tartar rob him of all his possessions, or he might disappear without a trace. Or else signs from heaven might appear, pillars or balls of fire; or a light might glimmer above a new grave; or some creature might walk about in the forest as though swinging a lantern, laughing terribly and flashing its eyes in the dark. And so many mysterious things happened to people, too: a man might live for years happily without mishap, and all of a sudden he would begin to talk strangely or scream in a wild voice, or walk in his sleep; another would for no reason at all begin to writhe on the ground in convulsions. And before it happened, a hen had crowed like a cock or a raven had croaked over the roof. Man, weak creature that he is, felt bewildered, and tried to find in his imagination the key to his own being and to the mysteries that encompassed him. And perhaps it was the everlasting quiet of a sleepy and stagnant life and the absence of movement and of any real terrors, adventures, and dangers that made man create amidst the real life another fantastic one where he might find amusement and true scope for his idle imagination or an explanation of ordinary events and the causes of the events outside the events themselves. Our poor ancestors groped their way through life, they neither controlled their will nor let it be inspired, and then marvelled naively or were horrified at the discomforts and evils of life, and sought for an explanation of them in the mute and obscure hieroglyphics of nature. A death, they thought, was caused by the fact that, shortly before, a corpse had been carried out of the house head and not feet foremost, and a fire because a dog had howled for three nights under the window; and they took great care that a corpse should be carried out feet foremost, but went on eating the same food and sleeping on the bare grass as before; a barking dog was beaten or driven away, but still they shook the sparks from a burning splinter down the cracks of the rotten floor. And to this day the Russian people, amid the stark and commonplace realities of life, prefer to believe in seductive legends of the old days, and it may be a long, long time before they give up this belief.
Listening to his nurse’s stories of our Golden Fleece – the Fire Bird – of the obstacles and secret passages in the enchanted castle, the little boy plucked up courage, imagining himself the hero of some great exploit – and a shiver ran down his back, or he grieved over the misfortunes of the brave hero of the tale. One story followed another. The nurse told her stories picturesquely, with fervour and enthusiasm, sometimes with inspiration, because she half-believed them herself. Her eyes sparkled, her head shook with excitement, her voice rose to unaccustomed notes. Overcome by a mysterious terror, the boy clung to her with tears in his eyes. Whether she spoke of dead men rising from their graves at midnight, or of the victims of some monster, pining away in captivity, or of the bear with the wooden leg walking through large and small villages in search of the leg that had been cut off – the boy’s hair stood on end with horror; his childish imagination was paralysed and then worked feverishly; he was going through an agonizing, sweet, and painful experience; his nerves were taut like chords. When his nurse repeated the bear’s words grimly: «Creak, creak, limewood leg; I’ve walked through large villages, I’ve walked though a small village, all the women are fast asleep, but one woman does not sleep, she is sitting on my skin, she is cooking my flesh, she is spinning my own fur», and so on, when the bear entered the cottage and was about to seize the woman who had robbed him of his leg, the little boy could stand it no longer: he flung himself shrieking into his nurse’s arms, trembling all over; he cried with fright and laughed with joy because he was not in the wild beast’s claws, but on the stove beside his nurse. The little boy’s imagination was peopled with strange phantoms; fear and anguish struck root in his soul for years, perhaps for ever. He looked sadly about him, and seeing only evil and misfortune everywhere in life, dreamt constantly of that magic country where there were no evils, troubles, or sorrows, where Militrissa Kirbityevna lived, where such excellent food and such fine clothes could be had for nothing…
Fairy-tales held sway not only over the children in Oblomovka, but also over the grown-ups to the end of their lives. Everyone in the house and the village, from the master and mistress down to the burly blacksmith Taras, was afraid of something on a dark night: every tree was transformed into a giant and every bush into a den of brigands. The rattling of a shutter and the howling of the wind in the chimney made men, women and children turn pale. At Epiphany no one went out of the gate by himself at ten o’clock at night; on Easter night no one ventured into the stables, afraid of meeting the house-demon there. They believed in everything at Oblomovka: in ghosts and werewolves. If they were told that a stack of hay walked about the field, they believed it implicitly; if someone spread a rumour that a certain ram was not really a ram but something else, or that a certain Marfa or Stepanida was a witch, they were afraid of both the ram and Marfa; it never occurred to them to ask why the ram was not a ram or why Marfa had become a witch, and, indeed, they would attack anyone who dared to doubt it – 80 strong was their belief in the miraculous at Oblomovka!
Oblomov realized afterwards that the world was a very simple affair, that dead men did not rise from their graves, that as soon as there were any giants about, they were put in a sideshow, and robbers were clapped into jail; but if his belief in phantoms disappeared, there remained a sort of sediment of fear and a vague feeling of anguish. Oblomov discovered that no misfortunes were caused by monsters, and he scarcely knew what misfortunes there were, and yet he expected something dreadful to happen any moment and he could not help being afraid. Even now, if he were left in a dark room or if he saw a corpse, he would still be frightened because of the sinister feeling of anguish sown in his mind as a child; laughing at his fears in the morning, he could not help turning pale again in the evening.
Then Oblomov saw himself as a boy of thirteen or fourteen. He was going to school at Verkhlyovo, about three miles from Oblomovka. The steward of the estate, a German by the name of Stolz, had started a small boarding-school for the children of the local gentry. He had a son, Andrey, who was almost of the same age as Oblomov, and there was another boy, who hardly ever worked at all. He was scrofulous and spent all his childhood with his eyes or ears in bandages, and was always weeping surreptitiously because he lived with wicked strangers and not with his grandmother and had no one to fondle him and make him his favourite pasty. So far there were no other children at the school.
There was nothing for it: Oblomov’s father and mother decided to send their darling child to school. The boy protested violently at first, shrieking, crying, and being as unreasonable about it as he possibly could, but in the end he was sent off to Verkhlyovo. The German was a strict and business-like man like most Germans. Oblomov might have learnt something from him had Oblomovka been 300 miles from Verkhlyovo. But in the circumstances, how could he have learnt anything? The fascination of the Oblomovka atmosphere, way of life, and habits extended to Verkhlyovo, which had also once belonged to the Oblomovs; except for Stolz’s house, everything there was imbued with the same primitive laziness, simplicity of customs, peace, and inertia. The child’s heart and mind had been filled with the scenes, pictures, and habits of that life long before he set eyes on his first book. And who can tell when the development of a child’s intellect begins? How can one trace the birth of the first ideas and impressions in a child’s mind? Perhaps when a child begins to talk, or even before it can talk or walk, but only gazes at everything with that dumb, intent look that seems blank to grown-ups, it already catches and perceives the meaning and the connexions of the events of his life, but is not able to tell it to himself or to others. Perhaps Oblomov had observed and understood long ago what was being said and done in his presence: that his father, dressed in velveteen trousers and a brown quilted cotton coat, did nothing but walk up and down the room all day with his hands behind his back, take snuff, and blow his nose, while his mother passed on from coffee to tea, from tea to dinner; that it never entered his father’s head to check how many stacks of hay or corn had been mown or reaped, and call to account those who were guilty of neglecting their duties, but if his handkerchief was not handed to him soon enough, he would make a scene and turn the whole house upside down. Perhaps his childish mind had decided long ago that the only way to live was how the grown-ups round him lived. What other decision could he possibly have reached? And how did the grownups live at Oblomovka? Did they ever ask themselves why life had been given them? Goodness only knows. And how did they answer it? Most probably they did not answer it at all: everything seemed so clear and simple to them. They had never heard of the so-called hard life, of people who were constantly worried, who rushed about from place to place, or who devoted their lives to everlasting, never-ending work. They did not really believe in mental worries, either; they did not think that life existed so that man should constantly strive for some barely apprehended aims; they were terribly afraid of strong passions, and just as with other people bodies might be consumed by the volcanic action of inner, spiritual fire, so their souls wallowed peacefully and undisturbed in their soft bodies. Life did not mark them, as it did other people, with premature wrinkles, devastating moral blows and diseases. The good people conceived life merely as an ideal of peace and inactivity, disturbed from time to time by all sorts of unpleasant accidents, such as illness, loss of money, quarrels, and, incidentally, work. They suffered work as a punishment imposed upon our forefathers, but they could not love it and avoided it wherever and whenever they could, believing it both right and necessary to do so. They never troubled themselves about any vague moral and intellectual problems, and that was why they were always so well and happy and lived so long. Men of forty looked like boys; old men did not struggle with a hard, painful death, but, having lived to an unbelievably old age, died as if by stealth, quietly growing cold and imperceptibly breathing their last. This is why it is said that in the old days people were stronger. Yes, indeed they were: in those days they were in no hurry to explain to a boy the meaning of life and prepare him for it as though it were some complicated and serious business; they did not worry him with books which arouse all sorts of questions, which corrode your heart and mind and shorten life. Their way of life was ready-made and was taught to them by their parents, who in turn received it ready-made from their grandparents, and their grandparents from their great-grandparents, being enjoined to keep it whole and undefiled like Vesta’s fire. Whatever was done in the time of Oblomov’s father, had been done in the times of his grandfather and great-grandfather and, perhaps, is still being done at Oblomovka.
What, then, had they to worry or get excited about, or to learn? What aims had they to pursue? They wanted nothing: life, like a quiet river, flowed past them, and all that remained for them was to sit on the bank of that river and watch the inevitable events which presented themselves uncalled for to every one of them in turn. And so, too, like living pictures, there unrolled themselves in turn before the imagination of Oblomov in his sleep the three main events of life, as they happened in his family and among his relations and friends: births, marriages, and funerals. Then there followed a motley procession of their gay and mournful sub-divisions: christenings, name-days, family celebrations, fast and feast days, noisy dinner-parties, assemblies of relatives, greetings, congratulations, conventional tears and smiles. Everything was done with the utmost precision, gravity, and solemnity. He even saw the familiar faces and their expression on these different occasions, their preoccupied looks and the fuss they made. Present them with any ticklish problem of match-making, any solemn wedding or name-day you like, and they would arrange it according to all the accepted rules and without the least omission. No one in Oblomovka made the slightest mistake about the right place for a guest at the table, what dishes were to be served, who were to drive together on a ceremonial occasion, what observances were to be kept. Did they not know how to rear a child? Why, you had only to look at the rosy and well-fed darlings that their mothers carried or led by the hand! It was their ambition that their children should be plump, white-skinned, and healthy. They would do without spring altogether rather than fail to bake a cake in the shape of a lark at its beginning. They did not belong to those who did not know how important that was and did not do it. All their life and learning, all their joys and sorrows were in these things, and that was the main reason why they banished all other griefs and worries and knew no other joys. Their life was full of these fundamental and inevitable events which provided endless food for their hearts and minds. They waited with beating hearts for some ceremony, rite, or feast, and then, having christened, married, or buried a man, they forgot him completely and sank into their usual apathy, from which some similar event – a name-day, a wedding, etc. – roused them once again. As soon as a baby was born, the first concern of his parents was to carry out as precisely as possible and without any omissions all the customary rites that decorum demanded, that is to say, to have a feast after the christening; then the careful rearing of the baby began. Its mother set herself and the nurse the task of rearing a healthy child, guarding it from colds, the evil eye, and other hostile influences. They took great care that the child should always be happy and eat a lot. As soon as the boy was firmly on his feet – that is to say, when he no longer needed a nurse – the mother was already secretly cherishing the desire to find him a mate – also as rosy and as healthy as possible. Again the time came for rites, feasts, and, at last, weddings: that was all they lived for. Then came the repetitions: the birth of children, rites, and feasts, until a funeral brought about a change of scenery, but not for long: one set of people made way for another, the children grew up into young men and in due course married and had children of their own – and so life, according to this programme, went on in an uninterrupted and monotonous sequence of events, breaking off imperceptibly at the very edge of the grave.

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