Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [167]
‘And does Mr Tarantyev stay with you often?’ Oblomov asked.
‘He sometimes stays for a month. He is a great friend of my brother’s. They are always together.’
And she fell silent, having exhausted all her supply of ideas and words.
‘How quiet it is here!’ said Oblomov. ‘If it were not for the dog barking, one might think there was not a living soul here.’
She smiled in reply.
‘Do you often go out?’ asked Oblomov.
‘Occasionally, in summer. The other day, on a Friday, we went to the Gunpowder Works.’
‘Why, do many people go there?’ asked Oblomov, gazing through an opening in the shawl at her high bosom, firm as a sofa cushion and never agitated.
‘No, there weren’t many this year. It rained in the morning, but it cleared up later. Usually there are lots of people there.’
‘Where else do you go?’
‘Hardly anywhere. My brother goes fishing with Mr Tarantyev and makes fish soup there, but we are always at home.’
‘Not always, surely?’
‘Yes, indeed. Last year we went to Kolpino, and sometimes we go to the woods here. It’s my brother’s name-day on June 24th, and all his colleagues from the office come to dinner.’
‘Do you pay any visits?’
‘My brother does, but the children and I only go on Easter Sunday and at Christmas to dinner with my husband’s relatives.’
There was nothing else to talk about.
‘I see you have flowers. Do you like them?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘No,’ she said; ‘I have no time for flowers. The children and Akulina have been to the count’s garden and the gardener has given them these. The geraniums and the aloe have been here a long time – when my husband was still alive.’
At that moment Akulina suddenly burst into the room: a large cock was cackling and struggling desperately in her hands.
‘Is this the cock I am to give to the shopkeeper, ma’am?’ she asked.
‘Really, Akulina, go away!’ the landlady said, shamefacedly. ‘Can’t you see I have a visitor?’
‘I only came to ask,’ Akulina said, holding the cock by its feet head downwards. ‘He offers seventy copecks for it.’
‘Go back to the kitchen,’ said Agafya Matveyevna. ‘The grey speckled one, not that one,’ she added hurriedly, and blushed with shame, hiding her hands under the shawl and looking down.
‘Household cares!’ said Oblomov.
‘Yes. We have lots of hens and we sell eggs and chickens. The people from our street, in the summer cottages, and in the count’s house, buy them from us,’ she replied, looking at Oblomov much more boldly.
Her face assumed a business-like and thoughtful expression; even her vacant look disappeared when she talked about a subject she was familiar with. Any question that had nothing to do with what she was interested in, she answered with a smile and silence.
‘You ought to have sorted it out,’ Oblomov observed, pointing to the heap of his belongings.
‘I wanted to, but my brother told me not to touch it,’ she interrupted quickly, looking at Oblomov very boldly this time. ‘“Goodness knows what he has in his cupboards and tables,” he said, “if anything should be lost, he’ll never leave us alone.”’
She stopped and smiled.
‘What a careful man your brother is,’ Oblomov remarked.
She smiled faintly again and once more assumed her usual expression. Her smile was just a matter of form with her with which she disguised her ignorance of what to say or do in any given circumstance.
‘I’m afraid I can’t wait for him,’ said Oblomov. ‘Will you be so good as to tell him that, owing to a change in my circumstances, I no longer need the flat and therefore ask you to let it to somebody else? And I, for my part, will also try to find a tenant for you.’
She listened vacantly, blinking from time to time.
‘Will you please tell him that so far as our agreement is concerned – –’
‘But he isn’t at home now,’ she repeated. ‘You’d better come again to-morrow: It’s Saturday, and he does not go to the office.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m terribly busy – I haven’t a moment to spare,