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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ