Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [172]
‘We will take them out,’ Ivan Matveyevich answered.
‘That doesn’t matter, either,’ Oblomov observed. ‘But I’m afraid my circumstances make it impossible for me to stay.’
‘Just as you like, sir,’ Ivan Matveyevich replied. ‘But if you don’t find another tenant, what about our agreement? Will you pay compensation? You’ll be sure to lose on it.’
‘How much does it amount to?’ asked Oblomov.
‘I will bring the account.’
He brought the agreement and an abacus.
‘Here we are, sir,’ he said. ‘The rent of the flat is eight hundred roubles, you’ve paid a hundred roubles deposit, which leaves seven hundred.’
‘But, surely,’ Oblomov interrupted him, ‘you can’t possibly demand a year’s rent when I haven’t been here a fortnight!’
‘But why not, sir?’ Ivan Matveyevich retorted gently and conscientiously. ‘It would be unjust to expect my sister to suffer loss. She is a poor widow who lives by letting rooms and perhaps makes enough on her chickens and eggs to buy some clothes for the children.’
‘But, good Lord, I just can’t afford it,’ Oblomov said. ‘Just think, I haven’t been here a fortnight. It’s unfair. Why should I pay so much?’
‘Just have a look, sir, at what it says in the agreement,’ Ivan Matveyevich said, pointing to two lines with his middle finger and then hiding it in his sleeve. ‘Read, please.’
‘“Should I, Oblomov, wish to leave the flat before the expiration of the lease, I undertake to let it to another tenant on the same terms or, failing this, to compensate Mrs Pshenitzyn by paying her a year’s rent up to the first of June next year,”’ Oblomov read. ‘But how is that?’ he said. ‘That’s unfair.’
‘That’s the law, sir,’ observed Ivan Matveyevich. ‘You signed it yourself. Here is your signature.’
The finger again appeared under the signature and disappeared again.
‘How much?’ said Oblomov.
‘Seven hundred roubles,’ Ivan Matveyevich began clicking on the abacus with the same finger, bending it quickly every time and hiding it in his fist, ‘and one hundred and fifty roubles for the stables and the shed.’
And he clicked the beads of the abacus again.
‘But really, sir, I have no horses – I don’t keep any, so what do I want stables and a shed for?’ Oblomov retorted spiritedly.
‘It’s in the contract, sir,’ Ivan Matveyevich observed, pointing to the line with a finger. ‘Mr Tarantyev said you would keep horses.’
‘Mr Tarantyev was lying!’ Oblomov said in vexation. ‘Let me have the agreement!’
‘I can let you have a copy of it, sir; the agreement belongs to my sister,’ Ivan Matveyevich retorted mildly, taking the agreement. ‘“In addition,”’ Ivan Matveyevich read, ‘“for kitchen garden produce, such as cabbages, turnips, and other vegetables for one person, approximately two hundred and fifty roubles….’
And he was about to click the beads again.
‘What kitchen garden? What cabbages? What are you talking about? I know nothing about it!’ Oblomov rejoined almost menacingly.
‘It’s here, sir! In the contract. Mr Tarantyev said that you wanted it included….’
‘So you’re also settling without me what I am to have for my table, are you? I don’t want your cabbages and turnips,’ Oblomov said, getting up.
Ivan Matveyevich, too, got up from his chair.
‘Without you, sir? Why, here is your signature!’ he retorted.
Again his thick finger shook over the signature and the whole paper shook in his hand.
‘How much do you make it in all?’ Oblomov asked impatiently.
‘For painting the doors and the ceiling, for altering the windows in the kitchen, and for new hinges for the doors – one hundred and fifty-four roubles and twenty-eight copecks.’
‘What? Have I got to pay for this too?’ Oblomov asked in astonishment. ‘The landlord always pays for that. No one moves into an undecorated flat.’
‘Well, sir, it says in the agreement that you have to pay for it,’ said Ivan Matveyevich, pointing from a distance to the appropriate clause. ‘One thousand three hundred and fifty-four roubles and twenty-eight