Oblomov (8 page)

So Tarantyev remained a mere theoretician all his life. In his Petersburg office he had no use for Latin, or for his clever theory of twisting all cases, whether fairly or unfairly, as he liked; and yet he was conscious of a dormant force inside him, locked up through hostile circumstances without hope of ever breaking out, as the evil spirits in fairy-tales were deprived of their powers of doing harm by being imprisoned in enchanted dungeons. Quite likely it was this consciousness of the powers wasted within him which made Tarantyev so rude, malevolent, perpetually angry and abusive. He looked on his present occupation – the copying of papers, the filing of documents, etc. – with bitterness and contempt. He had only one last hope of improving his position in the distant future: to get a job in the spirit monopoly. This seemed to him the only profitable change from the occupation bequeathed to him by his father that he never succeeded in obtaining. And in expectation of this happy turn in his career, the ready-made theory of life and work created by his father, the theory of bribery and dishonest dealing, having failed to find its chief and worthy outlet in the provinces, was applied by him to all the trivial details of his paltry existence in Petersburg and, for lack of any official application, crept into his relations with his friends.

He was a bribe-taker at heart, on principle, and not having any official business with people, he contrived to take bribes from his colleagues and friends, goodness only knows for what services; he forced them either by bullying or cunning to entertain him whenever and wherever they could; he demanded to be treated with undeserved respect and constantly found fault with everybody. He was never ashamed of his threadbare clothes, but he could not help being worried if in the course of the day he could not look forward to an enormous dinner with a proper quantity of wines and spirits.

That was why among his friends he played the part of a big watchdog, which barks at everybody and allows no one to stir, but at the same time catches a piece of meat in the air, from whatever direction it may come.

Such were Oblomov’s two most assiduous visitors. Why did these two Russian proletarians come to him? They knew very well why: to eat, to drink, to smoke good cigars. They found a warm and comfortable place of refuge at his flat and met always with the same, if not cordial, then indifferent, reception.

But why did Oblomov let them come? That he could hardly tell himself. Quite possibly it was for the same reason that even to this day, in our remote Oblomovkas, every well-to-do house is crowded with the same sort of men and women, penniless, without a trade, with no abilities for any productive work, but with hungry mouths and almost always of some rank and standing.

There are still sybarites who need such accessories to life: they are bored without superfluous people. Who would hand them the snuff-box they had mislaid or pick up their handkerchief from the floor? To whom complain of their headache and from whom expect sympathy as a right, or tell a bad dream and demand an interpretation of it? Who would read a book to them at bedtime and help them go to sleep? And sometimes such a proletarian would be sent to the nearest town on an errand or put to help in the household – they could not be expected to bother with such tasks themselves, could they?

Tarantyev made a lot of noise and got Oblomov out of his immobility and boredom. He shouted, argued, and formed a sort of one-man show, making it unnecessary for his lazy host to speak or act. Into the room where sleep and peace reigned, Tarantyev brought life and movement and sometimes news from the outside world. Oblomov could listen and look, without lifting a finger, at something that was alive, moving and talking in front of him. Besides, he was still simple-minded enough to believe that Tarantyev could really give him some good piece of advice.

Oblomov put up with Alexeyev’s visits for another, no less important, reason. If he wanted to live in his own way – that is to say, lie without uttering a word, doze or pace the room – Alexeyev did not seem to be there at all; he, too, was silent, dozed or pretended to read a book, or looked lazily at the pictures and knick-knacks, yawning till tears came into his eyes. He could go on like that for three days on end. If, on the other hand, Oblomov tired of being by himself and felt the need for expressing his thoughts, for talking, reading, arguing, showing emotion – he had always at his side an obedient and ready listener who shared with equal willingness his silence, his conversation, his excitement, and his trend of thoughts, whatever it might be.

Other visitors came seldom and only for a short time, as the first three visitors had done; with all of them he was getting more and more out of touch. Sometimes Oblomov was interested
in some piece of news, in a conversation lasting about five minutes, then, his curiosity satisfied, he fell silent. But they had to be entertained in turn – they expected him to take part in what interested them. They enjoyed being among a crowd of people; every one of them understood life in his own way, not as Oblomov understood it, and they kept dragging him into it: he resented it all, disliked it, and was antagonized by it.

There was one man only whom he was fond of; he, too, gave him no peace; he liked the latest news, and society, and learning, and life as a whole, but, somehow, more deeply and sincerely – and though Oblomov was kind to everyone, he loved only him and trusted him alone, perhaps because they were brought up, educated, and had lived together. This man was Andrey Karlovich Stolz. He was away, but Oblomov was expecting him back any moment.

4

‘M
ORNING,
old man,’ said Tarantyev abruptly, holding out a hirsute hand to Oblomov. ‘Why are you lying like a log at this hour?’

‘Don’t come near, don’t come near, you’re straight from the cold street,’ said Oblomov, covering himself up with a blanket.

‘Good Lord, from the cold street!’ Tarantyev roared. ‘There, take my hand, if I give it to you! It’ll soon be twelve o’clock and he’s still lounging about!’

He was going to drag Oblomov from the bed, but Oblomov forestalled him by putting his feet quickly on the floor and getting into both his slippers at once.

‘I was just about to get up myself,’ he said, yawning.

‘I know how you get up! You’d have lain there till dinner. Hey, there, Zakhar! Where are you, you old fool? Help your master to dress and be quick about it!’

‘You’d better get a Zakhar of your own first, sir, and then start calling him names!’ said Zakhar, coming into the room and looking spitefully at Tarantyev. ‘Look at the mess you’ve made on the floor – just like a hawker,’ he added.

‘No backchat from you, my lad,’ said Tarantyev, lifting his foot to kick Zakhar as he walked past him; but Zakhar stopped, turned round, and scowled.

‘Just try to touch me,’ he wheezed furiously. ‘What do you
think you’re doing? I’ll go back,’ he said, walking back to the door.

‘Good heavens, Tarantyev, what a cantankerous fellow you are! Why can’t you leave him alone?’ said Oblomov. ‘Give me my clothes, Zakhar.’

Zakhar came back and, looking askance at Tarantyev, darted past him.

Leaning on Zakhar, Oblomov reluctantly rose from his bed like a man who was very tired and as reluctantly walked to an arm-chair, sank into it, and sat still. Zakhar took the pomatum, a comb and brushes from a small table, greased Oblomov’s hair, parted it, and then brushed it.

‘Will you wash now, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’ll wait a little,’ Oblomov replied. ‘You can go now.’

‘Oh, you’re here too, are you?’ Tarantyev said suddenly to Alexeyev while Zakhar was brushing Oblomov’s hair. ‘I never saw you. Why are you here? What a swine that relative of yours is! I’ve been meaning to tell you – –’

‘What relative? I have no relative,’ Alexeyev said timidly, staring in surprise at Tarantyev.

‘Why, that fellow – what do you call him? The fellow who’s in the Civil Service – Afanasyev. You don’t mean to say he’s no relative of yours? Of course he is!’

‘But I’m not Afanasyev – I’m Alexeyev,’ said Alexeyev. ‘I have no relatives.’

‘What do you mean – no relative? Why, he’s just as poor a specimen as you are – and his name’s also Vassily Nikolayevich.’

‘I swear he’s no relation of mine. My name is Ivan Alexeyich.’

‘Makes no difference. He looks like you. But he’s a swine. You tell him so when you see him.’

‘I don’t know him,’ said Alexeyev, opening his snuff-box. ‘Never seen him.’

‘Let’s have a pinch of your snuff,’ said Tarantyev. ‘Why, yours is ordinary snuff, not French! Yes, so it is,’ he said, taking a pinch. ‘Why isn’t it French?’ he added sternly. ‘I’ve never met a swine like that relative of yours,’ he went on. ‘I borrowed fifty roubles from him about two years ago. Fifty roubles – not such a big sum, is it? You might have expected him to forget it. But not at all – he remembered. A month later he began pestering me, asking me every time he met me: “What about that loan?” I got sick and tired of the sight of him. And as if that wasn’t enough, he barged into my office yesterday. “I expect,” he said, “you’ve got your salary to-day and can repay me now.”
My salary, indeed! I told him off properly in front of everybody and he was glad to get out, I can tell you. “I’m a poor man,” he said, “I need the money!” As if I didn’t need it! Who does he take me for? A rich man, to give him fifty roubles every time he asks for it? Let’s have a cigar, old man!’

‘You’ll find the cigars in the box there,’ replied Oblomov, pointing to a bookcase.

He was sitting pensively in the arm-chair in his customary picturesquely lazy pose, not noticing what was happening round him or listening to what was being said. He was examining his small white hands and stroking them lovingly.

‘I say, they’re still the same!’ Tarantyev observed sternly, taking out a cigar and looking at Oblomov.

‘Yes, they’re the same,’ Oblomov replied absent-mindedly.

‘But didn’t I tell you to buy the others – foreign ones? So that’s how you remember what is said to you! Mind you get some by next Saturday or you won’t see me here for a long time. Good Lord, what horrible stuff!’ he went on, lighting a cigar, and letting out one cloud of smoke into the room, he inhaled another. ‘Can’t smoke it.’

‘You’ve come early to-day, Tarantyev,’ said Oblomov, yawning.

‘Why? You’re not getting tired of me, are you?’

‘No, I just mentioned it. You usually come in time for dinner, and now it’s only just gone twelve.’

‘I’ve come earlier on purpose to find out what there is for dinner. Your food is so awful as a rule that I thought I’d better find out what you’ve ordered for to-day.’

‘You’d better ask in the kitchen,’ said Oblomov.

Tarantyev went out.

‘Good heavens!’ he said, returning. ‘Beef and veal! The trouble with you, old man, is that you don’t know how to live – a landowner, forsooth! What sort of a gentleman are you? You look like a shopkeeper – you’ve no idea how to treat a friend! Have you bought any Madeira at least?’

‘Don’t know, you’d better ask Zakhar,’ said Oblomov, hardly listening to him. ‘I expect they must have some wine there.’

‘You mean the same wine as before – from the German? Really, my dear fellow, you ought to buy some in the English shop.’

‘Oh, it’ll have to do,’ said Oblomov. ‘Don’t want to send out for it.’

‘But look here, give me the money and I’ll fetch it. I have to go past the shop anyway. I’ve still to make another call.’

Oblomov rummaged in the drawer and produced a red tenrouble note.

‘Madeira costs seven roubles, and this is ten,’ said Oblomov.

‘Let’s have it all. Don’t be afraid – they’ll give me the change at the shop.’

He snatched the note from Oblomov’s hand and quickly hid it in his pocket.

‘Well,’ said Tarantyev, putting on his hat. ‘I’ll be back by five o’clock. I have a call to make: I’ve been promised a job in a spirits depot and they asked me to look in. By the way, my dear fellow, won’t you hire a carriage to go to Yekaterinhof to-day? You might take me with you.’

Oblomov shook his head.

‘Why not? Are you too lazy, or do you grudge the money? Oh, you sluggard!’ he said. ‘Well, good-bye for the present.’

‘Wait, Tarantyev,’ Oblomov interrupted him. ‘I want to ask your advice.’

‘What is it? Come on, out with it! I’m in a hurry.’

‘Well, two misfortunes have befallen me, all at once. I have to move…’

‘Serves you right. Why don’t you pay your rent?’ said Tarantyev, turning to go.

‘Good Lord, no! I always pay in advance. No, they’re going to convert this flat. Wait a moment. Where are you off to? Tell me what I am to do. They rush me. They want me to move within a week.’

‘What sort of advice do you expect me to give you? You needn’t imagine – –’

‘I don’t imagine anything,’ said Oblomov. ‘Don’t shout. Better think what I am to do. You’re a practical man – –’

But Tarantyev was no longer listening to him. He was thinking of something.

‘Well,’ he said, taking off his hat and sitting down. ‘All right, you may thank me and order champagne for dinner. Your business is settled.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Oblomov.

‘Will there be champagne?’

‘Perhaps, if your advice is worth it.’

‘Aye, but you’re not worth the advice. You don’t imagine I’ll give you advice for nothing, do you? There, you can ask him,’ he added, pointing to Alexeyev, ‘or his relative.’

‘All right, all right, tell me,’ Oblomov begged.

‘Now, listen: you must move to-morrow.’

‘Good Lord, what an idea! I knew that myself.’

‘Wait, don’t interrupt,’ Tarantyev shouted. ‘To-morrow you will move to the flat of a good friend of mine in Vyborg.’

‘What nonsense is that! Vyborg! Why, they say wolves roam the streets there in winter!’

‘Oh, well, they do come there sometimes from the islands, but what has that got to do with you?’

‘But it’s such a dull place – a wilderness, no one lives there.’

‘Nonsense! A good friend of mine lives there. She has a house of her own with big kitchen gardens. She is a gentlewoman, a widow with two children. Her unmarried brother lives with her. He’s a clever fellow, not like that chap in the corner there,’ he said, pointing to Alexeyev. ‘He’s a damn sight more intelligent than you or I.’