Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [129]
‘To town, sir? But we have no flat.’
‘Why, we have one in Vyborg.’
‘But, sir, that’ll only mean moving from one summer cottage to another,’ Zakhar said. ‘Who do you want to see there? Not Mr Tarantyev, sir?’
‘But it’s not comfortable here.’
‘So it’s moving again, is it, sir? Good Lord, haven’t we had enough trouble as it is? Can’t find two cups and the broom, and I daresay they’re lost unless Mr Tarantyev has taken them off.’
Oblomov said nothing. Zakhar went out and came back at once, dragging a trunk and a travelling bag.
‘And what are we to do with this, sir?’ he asked, kicking the trunk. ‘We might as well sell it.’
‘Have you gone off your head, man?’ Oblomov interrupted angrily. ‘I shall be going abroad in a few days.’
‘Abroad, sir?’ Zakhar said with a sudden grin. ‘You’ve been talking about it, that’s true enough, but going abroad, sir, is a different matter.’
‘Why do you think it so strange? I’m going, and that’s that. My passport is ready.’
‘And who’ll take your boots off there?’ Zakhar remarked ironically. ‘Not the maid-servants by any chance? Why, sir, you’ll be lost without me there!’
He grinned again, his whiskers and eyebrows moving in opposite directions.
‘You’re talking a lot of nonsense!’ Oblomov said with vexation. ‘Take this out and go!’
Next morning, as soon as Oblomov woke up at about nine o’clock, Zakhar, who had brought him his breakfast, told him that he had met the young lady on his way to the baker’s.
‘What young lady?’ asked Oblomov.
‘What young lady? Why, the Ilyinsky young lady, Olga Sergeyevna.’
‘Well?’ Oblomov asked impatiently.
‘Well, sir, she sent you her greetings, and asked how you were and what you were doing.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Me, sir? I said you were all right – what could be wrong with you?’
‘Why do you add your idiotic reflections?’ Oblomov remarked. ‘What could be wrong with him! How do you know what’s wrong with me? Well, what else?’
‘She asked where you had dinner yesterday.’
‘Well?’
‘I said, sir, you had dinner at home, and supper at home, too. Why, the young lady asked, does he have supper? Well, sir, I told her you only had two chickens for supper.’
‘Id-i-ot!’ Oblomov said with feeling.
‘Why idiot, sir?’ said Zakhar. ‘Isn’t it true? I can show you the bones if you like.’
‘You are an idiot!’ Oblomov repeated. ‘Well, what did she say?’
‘She smiled, sir. Why so little? she asked.’
‘Oh dear, what an idiot!’ Oblomov repeated. ‘You might as well have told her that you put on my shirt inside out.’
‘She didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell her,’ Zakhar replied.
‘What else did she ask you?’
‘She asked me what you’d been doing all these days.’
‘Well, what did you say?’
‘I said you did nothing but just lay about.’
‘Oh Lord!’ Oblomov cried in great vexation, raising his fists to his temples. ‘Get out!’ he added sternly. ‘If ever again you dare to tell such stories about me you’ll see what I shall do to you! What a venomous creature this man is!’
‘You don’t expect me to go about telling lies at my age, do you, sir?’ Zakhar tried to justify himself.
‘Get out!’ Oblomov repeated.
Zakhar did not mind abuse so long as his master did not use ‘pathetic words’.
‘I told her that you thought of moving to Vyborg,’ Zakhar concluded.
‘Go!’ Oblomov cried imperiously.
Zakhar went out, heaving a loud sigh that could be heard all over the passage, and Oblomov began drinking tea. He drank his tea, and out of the large supply of rolls of different shapes he ate only one, fearful of some new indiscretion on Zakhar’s part. Then he lit a cigar, sat down at the table, opened a book, read a page, and was about to turn it over when he discovered that the pages had not been cut. He tore the pages with his finger, which left festoons round the edges. It was not his book but Stolz’s, and Stolz was so absurdly fussy about things, and especially about his books! Every little thing – papers, pencils, and so on – had to remain exactly as he had put them down. He should have taken