Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [163]
‘Where do you have dinner?’ asked Tarantyev. ‘I must say it’s funny all right – Oblomov goes for walks in the wood, doesn’t dine at home – – When are you going to move to your flat? It’ll be autumn soon. Come and have a look at it.’
‘All right, all right. I will soon….’
‘And don’t forget to bring the money!’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Oblomov said impatiently.
‘Well, do you want anything doing to your flat? They’ve stained the floors and painted the ceilings, doors, and windows – everything. It has cost more than a hundred roubles, old man.’
‘Yes, yes, all right…. Oh,’ Oblomov suddenly remembered, ‘there’s one thing I was going to tell you. Could you, please, go to the courts for me – I have a deed of trust that has to be witnessed….’
‘I am not your solicitor, am I?’ Tarantyev said.
‘I’ll give you more for your dinner,’ said Oblomov.
‘The wear and tear of my boots will cost me more than you will give me.’
‘Take a cab, I’ll pay.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t go to the courts,’ Tarantyev said gloomily.
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘I have enemies who bear me malice and are doing their best to ruin me.’
‘Oh, very well, I’ll go myself,’ said Oblomov, picking up his cap.
‘You see, when you move to the flat Ivan Matveyevich will do everything for you. He’s a fine fellow, I tell you, not at all like some German upstart! A real, hundred-per-cent Russian official, has sat for thirty years on the same chair, runs his office, has money too, but never takes a cab. His coat is no better than mine; would never hurt a fly, speaks in a very low voice, never goes roaming abroad like your – –’
‘Tarantyev,’ Oblomov shouted, banging his fist on the table, ‘don’t talk of something you don’t understand!’
Tarantyev opened his eyes wide at such unheard-of impudence on Oblomov’s part and even forgot to be offended at being put below Stolz.
‘So that’s what you are like now, old man,’ he muttered, taking up his hat. ‘What energy!’
He stroked his hat with his sleeve, then looked at it and at Oblomov’s hat that lay on the bookstand.
‘You don’t wear your hat,’ he said, taking Oblomov’s hat and trying it on. ‘I see you have a cap. Lend it to me for the summer, old man.’
Oblomov, without uttering a word, removed his hat from Tarantyev’s head and put it back on the bookcase. He then crossed his arms on his chest and waited for Tarantyev to go.
‘Oh, to hell with you!’ said Tarantyev, pushing his way clumsily through the door. ‘You’re a little – er – queer, old man. Wait till you’ve had a talk with Ivan Matveyevich, and see what happens if you don’t bring the money.’
2
HE went away, and Oblomov sat down in the arm-chair, feeling thoroughly upset. He could not shake off the unpleasant impression left by Tarantyev’s visit for a long time. At last he remembered his plans for the morning, and the hideous appearance of Tarantyev faded from his mind; a smile came back to his face. He stood before the looking-glass for some time, straightening his tie, smiling and looking to see if there was any trace of Olga’s ardent kiss on his cheek.
‘Two nevers,’ he said softly, with joyful excitement, ‘and what a difference between them! One has already faded and the other has blossomed out so gorgeously.’
Then he sank deeper and deeper into thought. He felt that the bright and cloudless festival of love had gone, that love was truly becoming a duty, that it was becoming intermingled with his whole life, forming an integral part of its ordinary functions and beginning to lose its rainbow colours. That morning, perhaps, he had caught sight of its last roseate ray, and in future it would no longer shine brightly, but warm his life invisibly; life would swallow it up, and it would be its powerful but hidden mainspring. And henceforth its manifestations would be so simple, so ordinary. The poetic period was over and stern reality was beginning: the courts, journey to Oblomovka, building the house, mortgaging the estate, constructing the road, never-ending business troubles with the peasants, getting the work on the estate