Oblomov / Обломов. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Иван Гончаров

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ