Иван Гончаров – Oblomov / Обломов. Книга для чтения на английском языке (страница 13)

«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.