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

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СКАЧАТЬ was I to get one at this time of day, your Honour? True, I tried for two, but was unsuccessful. Things are not what they used to be: everything has changed for the worse. Nowadays masters require their lacqueys to look respectable, and the gentry no longer keep their halls chock-full of footmen. Indeed, ’tis seldom that you will find so many as two footmen in a house. Yes,” he went on, “the gentry actually take off their own boots! They have even gone so far as to invent a machine to do it with!” Evidently the idea cut Zakhar to the heart. “Yes,” he repeated, “our gentry are a shame and a disgrace to the country. They are fast coming to rack and ruin.” A sigh of profound regret followed.

      “At one place,” presently he resumed, “I did obtain a situation. ’Twas with a German merchant, who engaged me to be his hall lacquey. After a while, however, he sent me to serve in the pantry. Now, was that my proper business? One day I was carrying some crockery across the room on a tray, and the floor happened to be smooth and slippery, and down I fell, and the tray and the crockery with me. So I was turned out of doors. Next, an old countess took a fancy to my looks. ‘He is of respectable appearance,’ she said to herself, and added me to her staff of Swiss lacqueys. The post was a light one, and bid fair to be permanent, too. All that I had to do was to sit as solemnly as possible on a chair, to cross one leg over the other, and, when any rascal called, not to answer him, but just to grunt and send the fellow away—or else give him a box on the ear. Of course, to the gentry one had to behave differently—just to wave one’s staff like this.” Zakhar gave an illustration of what he meant. “As I say, ’twas an easy job, and the lady, God bless her! was not overdifficult to please. But one day she happened to peep into my room and to see there a bug. With that she bristled up and shrieked as though it had been I who had invented bugs! When was a household ever without a bug? So the next time she passed me she pretended that I smelt of liquor, and dismissed me.”

      “Yes, and you smell of it now—and very strongly,” remarked Schtoltz.

      “To my sorrow, I suppose so,” whined Zakhar, wrinkling his brow bitterly. “Well, then I tried to get a coachman’s job, and took service with a gentleman; but one day I had my feet frost-bitten (for I was overold and weak for the job), and another day the brute of a horse fell down and nearly broke my ribs, and another day I ran over an old woman and got taken to the police-station.”

      “Well, well! Instead of drinking and getting yourself into trouble, come to my house, and I will give you a corner there until it is time for us to return to the country. Do you hear?”

      “Yes, your Honour—yes; but, but——”

      Zakhar sighed again. “I would rather not leave these parts. You see, the grave is here—the grave where my old patron is lying.” Zakhar sobbed. “Only to-day I have been there to commend his soul to God. What a barin the Lord God has taken from us! ’Twould have been good for us if he could have lived another hundred years. Yes, only to-day I have been visiting his grave. Whenever I am near the spot I go and sit beside it, and shed tears—ah, such tears! And sometimes, too, when all is quiet there, I seem to hear him calling to me once more, ‘Zakhar! Zakhar!’—and shivers go running down my back. Never lived there such a barin as he! And how fond of yourself he was, your Honour! May the Lord remember him when the heavenly kingdom shall come!”

      “You ought to see our little Andrei,” said Schtoltz. “If you like, you can have charge of him.” And he handed the old man some money.

      “Yes, I will come! How could I not come when it is to see little Andrei Ilyitch? By this time he must be grown into a tall young gentleman. What joy the Lord has reserved for me this day! Yes, I will come, your Honour, and may God send you good health and many a long year of life!” But it was after a departing carriage that Zakhar was dispatching his benedictions.

      “Did you hear the old beggar’s story?” Schtoltz asked of his companion.

      “Yes. Who was the Oblomov whom he mentioned?”

      “He was—Oblomov. More than once I have spoken to you of him.”

      “Ah, I think I remember�� the name. Yes, he was a friend and comrade of yours, was he not? What became of him?”

      “He came to rack and ruin—though for no apparent reason.” As he spoke Schtoltz sighed heavily. Then he added: “His intellect was equal to that of his fellow’s, his soul was as clear and as bright as glass, his disposition was kindly, and he was a gentleman to the core. Yet he—he fell.”

      “Wherefore? What was the cause?”

      “The cause?” re-echoed Schtoltz. “The cause was—the disease of Oblomovka.”

      “The disease of Oblomovka?” queried the literary gentleman in some perplexity. “What is that?”

      “Some day I will tell you. For the moment leave me to my thoughts and memories. Hereafter you shall write them down, for they might prove of value to some one.”

      In time Schtoltz related to his friend what herein is to be found recorded.

      Fathers and Sons

       (Ivan Turgenev)

       Table of Contents

       I

       II

       III

       IV

       V

       VI

       VII

       VIII

       IX

       X

       XI

       XII

       XIII

       XIV

       XV

       XVI

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