Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [173]
‘But where am I to get it?’ Oblomov said, pacing the room. ‘I haven’t any money. What do I want your cabbages and turnips for?’
‘Just as you like, sir!’ Ivan Matveyevich added quietly. ‘But you needn’t worry; you’ll find it very comfortable here. As for the money, my sister can wait.’
‘I’m sorry but I can’t stay; I can’t because of my circumstances. Do you hear?’
‘Yes, sir, just as you like,’ Ivan Matveyevich replied obediently, withdrawing a step.
‘All right, I’ll think it over and try to sub-let the flat,’ said Oblomov, nodding to him.
‘You’ll find it’s not as easy as you think, sir. However, just as you like,’ Ivan Matveyevich concluded, and, bowing three times, left the room.
Oblomov took out his wallet and counted his money: there were only 305 roubles. He was dumbfounded.
‘What have I done with my money?’ Oblomov asked himself in astonishment, almost in terror. ‘At the beginning of summer I received from the country one thousand two hundred roubles, and now there are only three hundred left!’
He began adding up, trying to remember all he had spent, and could remember only 250 roubles.
‘Where has the money gone?’ he said.
‘Zakhar! Zakhar!’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Where has all our money gone?’ he asked. ‘You see, we’ve none left!’
Zakhar began fumbling in his pockets, took out half-a-rouble and a ten-copeck piece and put them on the table.
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘I forgot to return it – been left over from the moving.’
‘What are you shoving this small change under my nose for? Tell me what have we done with eight hundred roubles?’
‘How should I know, sir? Do I know where you spend your money, what you pay the cabbies in fares?’
‘Yes, the carriage did cost a lot,’ Oblomov remembered, looking at Zakhar. ‘You don’t remember what we paid the cabby in the country?’
‘Remember that, sir? Of course not. One day you told me to give him thirty roubles, so I remember that.’
‘If only you had written it down !’Oblomov said reprovingly. ‘It’s bad to be illiterate.’
‘I’ve spent all my life without knowing how to read or write, sir, and thank God I’m no worse than other people,’ Zakhar said, looking sideways.
‘Stolz is right about the need for schools in the country,’ thought Oblomov.
‘The Ilyinskys, sir,’ Zakhar went on, ‘had a footman who could read and write and he pinched their silver from the sideboard.’
‘Did he now?’ Oblomov thought apprehensively. ‘Yes, indeed, servants who can read and write are all so immoral – spend all their time in public-houses with accordions, guzzling tea…. No, it’s much too soon to open schools!’
‘Well, what other expenses did we have?’ he asked.
‘How do I know, sir? You gave Mr Tarantyev some money when he came to see you in the country.’
‘So I did!’ Oblomov cried, looking pleased at having been reminded of it. ‘So that is thirty roubles to the cabby and I think another twenty-five to Tarantyev. What else?’
He looked questioningly and thoughtfully at Zakhar. Zakhar looked gloomily at him.
‘Would Anisya remember, do you think?’ asked Oblomov.
‘That fool remember, sir?’ Zakhar said contemptuously. ‘What does a woman know?’
‘I can’t remember!’ Oblomov concluded miserably. ‘We haven’t had any burglars, have we?’
‘If we had had burglars, they would have taken everything,’ said Zakhar, leaving the room.
Oblomov sat down in an arm-chair and pondered. ‘Where am I to get the money?’ he thought desperately. ‘When will they send some from the country – and how much?’
He glanced at the clock: it was two – time to go to Olga’s. This was the day he was to dine there. He cheered up gradually, ordered a cab, and drove to Morskaya Street.
4
HE told Olga that he had talked it over with the landlady’s brother and added hastily that he hoped to be able to sub-let the flat in the course of the week. Olga went out with her aunt to pay a visit before dinner and he went to look at flats in the vicinity. He called at