Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [100]
‘All right. Now, suppose you were given another three hundred thousand – what would you have done then?’ Stolz asked, his curiosity aroused.
‘I’d mortgage it at once and live on the interest.’
‘But you wouldn’t get a high enough interest. Why not invest your money in some company – ours, for instance?’
‘No, sir, you won’t catch me doing that.’
‘Why not? Wouldn’t you trust even me?’
‘Certainly not. It isn’t a question of not trusting you, but anything might happen: suppose your company went bankrupt and I was left without a penny! A bank is a different matter.’
‘Very well. What would you do then?’
‘I’d move into a comfortable new house. There would be good neighbours living in the vicinity – you, for instance. But no, you couldn’t stay in one place long, could you?’
‘Could you? Wouldn’t you go on a journey at all?’
‘Never.’
‘Why, then, are they taking so much trouble building railways, steamers, if the ideal of life is to stay in the same place? Let’s send in a proposal for them to stop, Ilya. We aren’t going anywhere, are we?’
‘There are lots of people who are – all sorts of agents, managers, merchants, civil servants, travellers with no home of their own. Let them travel as much as they like.’
‘But who are you?’
Oblomov made no answer.
‘To what category of people do you think you belong?’
‘Ask Zakhar,’ said Oblomov.
Stolz carried out Oblomov’s wish literally.
‘Zakhar!’ he shouted.
Zakhar came in, looking sleepy.
‘Who is it lying there?’ asked Stolz.
Zakhar woke up suddenly and cast a suspicious, sidelong glance at Stolz, then at Oblomov.
‘Who is it, sir? Why, don’t you see?’
‘I don’t,’ said Stolz.
‘Good gracious! Why, it’s the master, Ilya Ilyich.’
He grinned.
‘All right, you can go.’
‘The master!’ Stolz repeated and burst out laughing.
‘Oh, well,’ Oblomov corrected with vexation, ‘a gentleman, then.’
‘No, no! You’re a master!’ Stolz continued, laughing.
‘What’s the difference?’ said Oblomov. ‘Gentleman is the same as master.’
‘A gentleman,’ Stolz defined, ‘is the sort of master who puts on his socks and takes off his boots himself.’
‘Yes, an Englishman does it himself because in England they haven’t got many servants, but a Russian – –’
‘Go on painting the ideal of your life for me. Well, you have your good friends around you: what next? How would you spend your days?’
‘Well, I’d get up in the morning,’ began Oblomov, putting his hands behind his neck, and his face assuming an expression of repose (in his thoughts he was already in the country). ‘The weather is lovely, the sky is as blue as blue can be, not a cloud,’ he said. ‘The balcony on one side of the house in my plan faces east towards the garden and the fields, and the other side towards the village. While waiting for my wife to waken, I’d put on my dressing-gown and go for a walk in the garden, for a breath of fresh morning air. There I’d already find the gardener and we’d water the flowers together and prune the bushes and trees. I’d make a bouquet for my wife. Then I’d have my bath or go for a swim in the river. On my return, I’d find the balcony door open. My wife is wearing her morning dress and a light cap which looks as if it might be blown off any moment.… She is waiting for me. “Tea’s ready,” she says. What a kiss! What tea! What an easy-chair! I sit down at the table: rusks, cream, fresh butter.…’
‘Well?’
‘Well, then, having put on a loose coat or some sort of tunic and with my arm round my wife’s waist, we walk down an endless dark avenue of trees;