Kitabı oku: «Oblomov / Обломов. Книга для чтения на английском языке», sayfa 3
It is doubtful if anyone except his mother noticed his advent into the world, and indeed very few people are aware of him while he lives, and it is quite certain that no one will miss him when he is gone. No one will inquire after him, no one will pity him, no one rejoice at his death. He has neither friends nor enemies, but lots of acquaintances. Quite likely only his funeral procession will attract the attention of a passer-by, who will for the first time honour this obscure individual by a show of respect, namely a low bow; and perhaps some curious fellow will run in front of the procession to find out the dead man’s name, and immediately forget it.
This Alexeyev, Andreyev, Vassilyev, or whatever his name is, seems to be a sort of incomplete and impersonal reminder of the human crowd, its dull echo, its pale reflection.
Even Zakhar, who in his candid talks with his cronies at the gate or in the shops gave all sorts of characterizations of his master’s visitors, always felt perplexed when they came to talk of this – let us say, Alexeyev. He would reflect a long time, trying to catch some prominent feature in the face, the looks or the manners or the character of this man, to which he might be able to hold on, and at last had to give it up with the words: «Oh, that one is neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring».
«Oh, that’s you, Alexeyev?» Oblomov greeted him. «Good morning. Where do you come from? Don’t come near – don’t come near, I won’t shake hands – you’re straight from the cold street!»
«Good Lord, it isn’t cold at all!» said Alexeyev. «I hadn’t intended to call on you to-day, but I met Ovchinin and he carried me off to his place. I’ve come to fetch you, Oblomov».
«Where to?»
«Why, to Ovchinin’s, of course. Matvey Andreyich Alyanov, Kasimir Albertovich Pkhailo, and Vassily Sevastyanych Kolymyagin are there».
«What are they doing there and what do they want me for?»
«Ovchinin invites you to dinner».
«Oh, to dinner», Oblomov repeated without enthusiasm.
«And then we’re all going to Yekaterinhof; they told me to ask you to hire a carriage».
«And what are we going to do there?»
«What do you mean? There’s a fête there to-day. Don’t you know? It’s the first of May».
«Sit down, please; we’ll think about it», said Oblomov.
«Do get up! It’s time you were dressed».
«Wait a little; we’ve plenty of time».
«Plenty of time! They are expecting us at twelve, we’ll have dinner early, at two o’clock, and go to the festival. Do hurry up! Shall I ask Zakhar to help you to dress?»
«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».
There followed expressions of loyalty and the signature: «Your bailiff and most humble slave, Sir, Prokofy Vytyagushkin, has put his hand to it with his own hand». Being illiterate he put a cross under the letter. «Written from the words of the said bailiff by his brother-in-law, Dyomka the One-Eyed».
Oblomov glanced at the end of the letter. «No month or year», he said. «I suppose the letter must have been lying about at the bailiff’s since last year – St John’s Eve and the drought! Just woken up to it!» He sank into thought. «Well?» he went on. «What do you make of it? He offers to send me about two thousand less – how much will that leave? How much do you think I received last year?» he asked, looking at Alexeyev. «I didn’t mention it to you at the time, did I?»
Alexeyev raised his eyes to the ceiling and pondered.
«I must ask Stolz when he comes», Oblomov continued. «Seven or eight thousand, I believe – I should have made a note of it!
So now he puts me down to six! Why, I shall starve! How can I live on it?»
«Why worry?» said Alexeyev. «A man must never give way to despair. It will all come right in the end».
«But did you hear what he said? He doesn’t send me the money – oh no! He doesn’t say anything to put my mind at rest. All he is thinking of is to cause me unpleasantness, and he does it deliberately! Every year the same story! I simply don’t know what to do! Two thousand less!»
«Yes, it’s a great loss!» said Alexeyev. «Two thousand is no joke! Alexey Login, I understand, also got twelve instead of seventeen thousand this year».
«Twelve thousand isn’t six thousand», Oblomov interrupted him. «The bailiff has thoroughly upset me! If all this is really true – I mean, the bad harvest and the drought, then why has he to worry me before the proper time?»
«Well, of course», Alexeyev began, «he shouldn’t have done that. But you can’t expect a peasant to have nice feelings, can you? That sort of man doesn’t understand anything».
«But what would you do in my place?» asked Oblomov, looking questioningly at Alexeyev in the vain hope that he might think of something to allay his fears.
«This requires careful thought», said Alexeyev. «It’s impossible to decide at once».
«Ought I to write to the Governor, I wonder?» Oblomov said, musingly.
«Who is your Governor?» asked Alexeyev.
Oblomov did not reply and sank into thought. Alexeyev fell silent and also pondered.
Crumpling the letter in his hands, Oblomov propped up his head on them and, resting his elbows on his knees, sat like that for some time, tormented by an onrush of profitless thoughts.
«I wish Stolz would hurry up and come», he said. «He writes to say he’s coming soon, meanwhile he’s rushing about goodness only knows where. He’d settle it all!»
He again stared sadly about him. They were both silent a long time. Oblomov was the first to rouse himself at last.
«That’s what has to be done», he said resolutely and almost got out of bed. «And it must be done as soon as possible. No use wasting any more time. First…»
At that moment there was a desperate ring at the front door, so that Oblomov and Alexeyev both gave a start and Zakhar at once jumped off the stove.
3
«At home?» someone in the hall asked loudly and gruffly.
«Where would he go at this hour?» Zakhar replied, more gruffly still.
A man of about forty came into the room. He was of massive build, tall, broad-shouldered, bulky, with a large head and big features, a short, thick neck, large protruding eyes, and full lips. A glance at him made one think of something coarse and untidy. It was clear that he made no attempt at dressing elegantly. It was not often that one saw him clean-shaven. But he did not seem to care; he was not ashamed of his clothes, and wore them with a kind of cynical dignity.
It was Mikhey Andreyich Tarantyev, a country neighbour of Oblomov.
Tarantyev looked at everything morosely, with ill-disguised contempt and open hostility towards the world at large; he was ready to abuse everyone and everything as though he had suffered some injustice or had been offended in his dignity, or like a man of strong character persecuted by destiny and submitting to it under protest and unwillingly. His gestures were bold and sweeping; he spoke in a loud voice, glibly and almost always angrily; listening to him from a distance one got the impression of three empty carts going over a bridge. He was never put out by anyone’s presence, was never at a loss for a word, and was generally rude to everyone, including his friends, as though making it clear that he bestowed a great honour on a person by talking to him or having dinner or supper at his place.
Tarantyev was a man of quick and cunning intelligence; no one could solve some practical question or some complicated legal problem better than he; he would at once devise his own theory of how it was best to act in the circumstances and would adduce very subtle arguments in favour of it, and in conclusion almost always be rude to the person who had asked his advice.
And yet, having obtained the job of a clerk in some government office twenty-five years before, he remained there in the same post till his hair began to turn grey. It never occurred to him or to anyone else that he might get higher up in the service.
The trouble was that Tarantyev was good only at talking; in words he settled everything simply and easily, especially where other people were concerned; but as soon as he had to move a finger or stir from his place – in short, apply his own theory in practice and show efficiency and expedition – he became an entirely different person; he was unable to rise to the occasion, he suddenly became dejected or unwell or awkward, or he found he had something else to do, which he did not do, either; or if he did, he made an unholy mess of it. He behaved just like a child: he overlooked something, or showed himself to be ignorant of the merest trifles, or was late for an appointment, or threw up the business half-way, or began at the wrong end and bungled it in such a way that it was quite impossible to put it right – and finally he would blame everybody but himself for his own incompetence.
His father, an old-fashioned provincial lawyer, had meant his son to inherit his skill and experience of looking after other people’s affairs and his professional ability at the Bar; but fate decided otherwise. The father, who was too poor to pay for a good education, did not want his son to lag behind the times and wished him to learn something besides the tricky business of legal practice. He sent him for three years to a priest to learn Latin.
The boy was gifted by nature, and in three years he mastered Latin grammar and syntax and had just begun to construe Cornelius Nepos when his father decided that he had already acquired enough knowledge to give him an enormous advantage over the older generation and that, indeed, any further studies might interfere with his practice in court.
Not knowing what to do with his Latin, the sixteen-year-old Mikhey began to forget it in his father’s house, but in the meantime, while waiting for the honour of attending the rural or the district court, he went to all his father’s merry parties, and in this school, amid the frank exchanges of opinions, the young man’s mind developed most thoroughly. He listened with the impressionability of youth to the stories told by his father and his cronies of various civil and criminal actions and of curious cases which passed through the hands of these old-fashioned lawyers. But all this led to nothing. Mikhey did not become a business man and a pettifogging lawyer in spite of his father’s efforts, which would of course have been successful had not fate ruined all his well-laid plans. Mikhey certainly mastered the whole theory on which his father’s talks were based; he had merely to put it into practice, but his father’s death prevented him from qualifying for the Bar and he was taken to Petersburg by some benefactor who found him a clerk’s job in a government office and then forgot all about him.
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.
