Ivan Goncharov - Oblomov / Обломов. Книга для чтения на английском языке

«Dress? I haven’t washed yet!»

«Well, wash, then!»

Alexeyev began pacing the room, then he stopped before a picture he had seen a thousand times before, cast a quick glance out of the window, picked up some knick-knack from the bookcase, turned it round in his hand, examined it thoroughly, put it back, and began pacing the room again, whistling to himself – so as not to interfere with Oblomov’s getting up and washing. Ten minutes passed in this way.

«What on earth are you doing?» Alexeyev suddenly asked Oblomov.

«Why?»

«But you’re still lying down!»

«Should I have got up, then?»

«Why, of course! They’re waiting for us. You wanted to go, didn’t you?»

«Go? Where? I didn’t want to go anywhere».

«But, my dear fellow, you’ve just been saying that we were going to dine at Ovchinin’s and then go to the festival».

«Go there in this damp weather?» Oblomov said lazily. «What do you expect to see there? It’s going to rain, too, it’s so dull outside».

«There’s not a cloud in the sky and you talk of rain! It looks so dull because your windows haven’t been cleaned for ages! Look at the dirt on them! You can’t see a thing here, and one curtain is almost closed».

«I daresay, but just try to say a word about it to Zakhar and he’ll at once suggest engaging charwomen and driving me out of the house for a whole day!»

Oblomov sank into thought, and Alexeyev sat at the table drumming on it with his finger-tips and gazing absent-mindedly at the walls and the ceiling.

«So what are we going to do?» he asked a few minutes later. «Are you going to dress or do you stay as you are?»

«Why?»

«What about Yekaterinhof?»

«What on earth are you so anxious about Yekaterinhof for – really!» Oblomov cried vexatiously. «Can’t you stay here? Are you cold here or is there a bad smell in the room that you’re so anxious to get out?»

«Why, no», said Alexeyev; «I’m not complaining. I’m always very happy here».

«Well, if you are, why are you so anxious to be somewhere else? Why not stay here with me for the day? We’ll have dinner and in the evening you may go where you like. Oh dear, I’ve forgotten: I can’t possibly go out! Tarantyev is coming to dinner: it’s Saturday».

«Well, of course, I don’t mind. I’ll do as you wish», said Alexeyev.

«I haven’t told you anything about my affairs, have I?» Oblomov asked quickly.

«What affairs? I don’t know anything», said Alexeyev, staring at him in surprise.

«Why do you think I haven’t got up all this time? You see, I’ve been lying here trying to find some way out of my troubles».

«What’s the matter?» asked Alexeyev, trying to look alarmed.

«Two misfortunes! I don’t know what to do».

«What misfortunes?»

«They’re driving me out of my flat. Just imagine it – I must move: the upset, the breakages-the mere thought of it frightens me – I have lived here for eight years, you know. My landlord has played a dirty trick on me. Hurry up and move, he says».

«Hurry up! That means he wants your flat badly. Moving is a great nuisance – a very troublesome business», said Alexeyev. «They’re sure to lose and break things – such an infernal nuisance! And you have such a nice flat… What rent do you pay?»

«Where am I to find another such flat?» Oblomov went on; «and in a hurry, too? Dry and warm; a nice quiet house; we’ve had only one burglary here. The ceiling, it is true, doesn’t look quite safe – the plaster is bulging – but it hasn’t come down yet».

«Fancy that!» said Alexeyev, shaking his head.

«I wonder if there is anything I could do so that I – needn’t move?» Oblomov remarked pensively, as though speaking to himself.

«Have you got your flat on a lease?» Alexeyev asked, examining the room from floor to ceiling.

«Yes, but the lease has expired: I’ve been paying the rent monthly for some time – don’t remember for how long».

«Well, what do you intend to do?» Alexeyev asked after a short pause. «Are you going to move or not?»

«I don’t intend to do anything», said Oblomov. «I don’t want even to think of it. Let Zakhar think of something».

«But, you know, some people like moving», said Alexeyev. «Changing flats seems to be their only pleasure in life».

«Well, let them move, then», Oblomov retorted. «For my part, I can’t stand any changes! But the flat’s nothing – you’d better have a look at what my bailiff writes to me! Here, I’ll show you his letter – where the devil is it? Zakhar! Zakhar!»

«Mother of God!» Zakhar wheezed to himself, jumping off his stove. «When will the good Lord put an end to my troubles?» He came in and looked dully at his master.

«Why haven’t you found the letter?»

«Where am I to find it, sir? I don’t even know which letter you want. I can’t read, can I?»

«Never mind, look for it», said Oblomov.

«You were reading some letter last night, sir», said Zakhar, «but I haven’t seen it since».

«Where is it then?» Oblomov asked with vexation. «I haven’t swallowed it, have I? I remember very well that you took it from me and put it somewhere. There it is – look!»

He shook the blanket and the letter fell on the floor out of its folds.

«Aye, I’m always the one what gets the blame for everything!»

«All right, all right», Oblomov and Zakhar shouted at each other at the same time. «Go-go!»

Zakhar went out, and Oblomov began reading the letter, which seemed to have been written in kvas on grey paper and sealed with brownish sealing-wax. Enormous pale letters followed in solemn procession, without touching each other, along an oblique line from the top to the bottom corner of the page. The procession was occasionally interrupted by a huge pale blot.

«Dear Sir», Oblomov began, «our father and benefactor» – Here he omitted several greetings and good wishes and went on from the middle: «I am glad to inform you, Sir, that everything on your estate is in good order. There has been no rain for five weeks and I daresay, Sir, the good Lord must be angry with us not to send us rain. The old men don’t remember such a drought, Sir. The spring crops have all been burnt up as if by a devouring fire; the winter crops have been ruined, some by the worm and some by early frost; we have ploughed it over for spring crops, but we can’t be sure if it will be any good. Let us hope, Sir, that merciful heaven will spare you; we do not care what happens to us – let us all starve to death. On St John’s Eve three more peasants ran away: Laptev, Balochov, and Vasska, the blacksmith’s son, who ran off by himself. I sent the women after their husbands, but they never came back, and are living at Cholki, I am told. A relative of mine went to CholkI from Verkhlyovo, the estate manager sent him there to inspect a foreign plough. I told him about the runaway peasants. He said he had been to see the police inspector who told him to send in a written statement, after which everything would be done to send the peasants back to their places of domicile. He said nothing except that, and I fell at his feet and begged him with tears in my eyes, but he bawled at me at the top of his voice: „Be off! Be off with you! I’ve told you it will be done if you send in your signed statement!“ But I never did send in the statement. There is no one I can hire here; all have gone to the Volga, to work on the barges – the people here have all become so stupid, Sir. There will be no linen of ours at the fair this year: I have locked up the drying and the bleaching sheds and put Sychuga to watch them day and night; he never touches a drop, and to make sure he don’t steal any of his master’s goods, I watch over him day and night. The other peasants drink a lot and they are all anxious to pay rent for their land instead of working on your land without any payment. Many of them have not paid up their arrears. This year, Sir, we will send you about two thousand less than last year, unless the drought ruins us completely, otherwise we shall send you the money as promised».