The Giants of Russian Literature: The Greatest Russian Novels, Stories, Plays, Folk Tales & Legends. Максим Горький

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СКАЧАТЬ to inquiries as to the recipient’s health. The gist of the epistle was that the bulk of the crops on Oblomov’s estate were likely to fail for want of rain.

      “Never mind,” said Alexiev. “One must never give way to despair.”

      “And what would you do in my place?”

      “I should first of all consider matters. Never ought one to come to a hasty decision.”

      Crumpling the letter in his hands, Oblomov leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and remained in that posture for a considerable time—his brain flooded with disturbing reflections.

      “I wish Schtoltz would come!” at length he remarked. “He has written that he is about to do so, but God knows what has happened to him! He could solve the situation.”

      Suddenly the doorbell rang with such vehemence that both men started, and Zakhar came hurrying out of his pantry.

III

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      The next moment there entered the room a tall, loosely built man who evidently did not believe in refinement of costume, nor was in any way ashamed of the fact. This was Mikhei Andreievitch Tarantiev, a native of the same district as Oblomov. Though an individual of rough, sullen mien, and of rather an overbearing manner, he did not lack a certain keen ruggedness of wit; nor could any one be a better judge of mundane questions in general, nor a better resolver of tangled juridical problems (though usually he behaved rudely to the person who had sought his advice on these matters). Nevertheless, his abilities stopped short at a talent for verbal exposition; and no sooner was he called upon to transmit a theory into action than his whole bearing underwent a change, and in every case he discovered practical difficulties in the way of what he conceived to be the best course to take.

      “How are you?” he said brusquely as he extended a hairy hand. “What do you mean by lying in bed like a log? Presently it will be twelve o’clock, yet you are sprawling about on your back!” The other forestalled him by hurriedly slipping his feet into his slippers, or the new-comer would have pulled him out of bed.

      “I was just about to rise,” said Oblomov with a yawn.

      “Yes; I know how you rise—how you go rolling about until lunch-time! Zakhar, come and help your master to dress!”

      Zakhar entered and glared at Tarantiev. Raising himself on his elbow, Oblomov stepped from the bed like a man who is thoroughly worn out, and, dropping into an arm-chair, sat there without moving, Meanwhile Zakhar pomaded, parted, and combed his master’s hair, and then asked him if he desired to wash.

      “Presently,” said Oblomov. “Do you wait a little.”

      “Ah! So you are here?” said Tarantiev suddenly as he turned to Alexiev. “I had not seen you. By the way, what a swine is that kinsman of yours!”

      “What kinsman?” inquired Alexiev with a stare. “I do not possess a single relative.”

      “I mean Athanasiev. Surely he is a relative of yours? I know he is.”

      “My name is Alexiev, not Athanasiev,” said the other. “And I repeat that I do not possess a single relative.”

      “But he is just like you an ugly man, as well as (like yourself, again) a man of the name of Vassili Nikolaitch?”

      “Nevertheless he is no kinsman of mine. Besides, my first names are Ivan and Alexeitch.”

      “Well, he is exactly like you, and a swine besides. You can tell him that when next you meet him.”

      “I neither possess his acquaintance nor have ever set eyes upon him,” said Alexiev, opening his snuffbox.

      “Give me a pinch,” put in Tarantiev. “You use the plain stuff, and not the French, do you? Why not use the French? Never have I seen a swine like that relative of yours. On one occasion I borrowed of him fifty roubles. That was two years ago. And fifty roubles are not a very large sum, are they? They are a sum which he might well have forgotten, mightn’t he? Yes, he very well might. But as a matter of fact, he remembered it. Not a month had passed before he took to saying, whenever he met me: ‘How about that debt?’ I assure you I found him a perfect nuisance! And only yesterday he walked into our office, and said to me: ‘I expect you have just received your salary, and are therefore in a position to repay me?’ Well, I handed him over my salary, even though he had come there for the express purpose of shaming me in public. I had much ado not to put him out of the door. ‘Poor fellow, you need the money, I suppose?’ As though I had not needed it! Am I such a rich man that I should quietly let him pouch fifty roubles? Oblomov, hand me a cigar.”

      “The cigars are in that box there,” said Oblomov, pointing to a whatnot. He was still posed in his usual lazy but becoming attitude—he was still taking no notice whatever of what was being done or said around him, but contemplating his small white hands.

      “What a rubbishy weed!” Tarantiev remarked, after sending out a puff of tobacco smoke and inhaling another.

      “You have come too early in the morning,” suggested Oblomov with a yawn.

      “Then I am boring you, am I?”

      “No; I was merely making a remark. Usually you arrive at lunch-time, but to-day you have come an hour beforehand.”

      “I have come an hour beforehand because I wish to find out what there is likely to be to eat at dinner. As a rule you provide such rubbishy stuff.”

      “You had better go into the kitchen and inquire.”

      Taramiev departed for the purpose,

      “We are to have beef and veal,” he remarked, on returning. “Ah, friend Oblomov, though a landowner, you haven’t the smallest notion how to live. Your ménage is the ménage of a tradesman. Have you bought that Madeira yet?”

      “I don’t know,” replied Oblomov, scarcely noticing what had been said. “You had better inquire of Zakhar. At all events there will be some sort of wine.”

      “What? The rubbishy old stuff which you bought of a German dealer? You ought to go to the English Store for your wines.”

      “Very well. Please send to the Store for some.”

      “Money first, please!”

      Oblomov fumbled in a cashbox, and produced therefrom a ten-rouble, note.

      “Madeira costs seven roubles the bottle,” he said. “Here are ten roubles. You will be given change at the Store.”

      Tarantiev hastened to cram the note into his pocket.

      “Likewise, do you feel like hiring a conveyance and going to the Ekaterinhov today?” he inquired. “If so, you might take me with you.”

      Oblomov shook his head.

      “I have met with two misfortunes,” he remarked. “In the first place, I am to be turned СКАЧАТЬ