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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ