Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [202]
‘Yes, come to dinner and we’ll talk it over. Thank you very much!’ said Oblomov, seeing Ivan Matveyevich to the door.
10
IN the evening of the same day Ivan Matveyevich and Tarantyev were sitting in one of the rooms of the upper floor of a two-storied house which, on one side, faced the street where Oblomov lived and, on the other, the quay. It was a so-called ‘tavern’, which always had two or three empty cabs waiting at its front door, the cabmen staying on the ground floor and drinking tea out of their saucers. The upper floor was reserved for the ‘gentlemen’ of Vyborg.
Glasses of tea and a bottle of rum stood on a table before Ivan Matveyevich and Tarantyev.
‘Real Jamaica rum,’ said Ivan Matveyevich, pouring some into his glass with a shaking hand. ‘Have some, old man.’
‘You must admit it,’ retorted Tarantyev, ‘you owe me this treat. You’d not have got such a tenant if you’d waited till the house had rotted away.’
‘True enough,’ Ivan Matveyevich interrupted. ‘And if our business comes off and Zatyorty goes to the country, you’ll get your commission.’
‘I’m afraid, old man, you’re damned stingy,’ said Tarantyev. ‘One has to bargain with you. Fifty roubles for such a lodger!’
‘I’m afraid he may be leaving – he’s threatening to,’ observed Ivan Matveyevich.
‘Don’t talk nonsense – a man of experience like you, too! Where will he go? He wouldn’t be driven out even by force now.’
‘And the wedding? I hear he’s getting married.’
Tarantyev burst out laughing.
‘He getting married! What do you bet that he won’t?’ he replied. ‘Why, he can’t go to bed without Zakhar’s help, and you talk of marriage! Till now I’ve been giving him a helping hand; if it hadn’t been for me, old man, he would have died of starvation or been clapped into jail. If the police inspector called or his landlord asked him for something, he never knew what to do – I had to do everything for him! He doesn’t understand a thing!’
‘You’re right. He told me he didn’t know what they did in a district court or in a Government department. He has no idea what sort of peasants he has. What a fool! I nearly burst out laughing.’
‘And the agreement, the agreement we drew up!’ Tarantyev boasted. ‘You’re a past-master in drawing up documents, old man, I grant you that! It reminded me of my father. I wasn’t bad at it, either, but I’m afraid I’ve lost the knack – aye, I’ve lost the knack! The moment I sit down at the table my eyes begin to water. He never bothered to read it, just signed it! Barns, stables, kitchen gardens, and all!’
‘Yes, old man, while there are blockheads in Russia who sign papers without reading them, people like us can still manage to live. But for that life would have been terrible – things have grown so bad! In the old days it was different. What money have I made after twenty-five years in the Civil Service? Enough to live on in Vyborg without showing my nose anywhere else – plenty to eat, I’m not complaining! But, I’m afraid, a flat on Liteyny, carpets, a rich wife, and children who are admitted to the best houses – that’s a dream of the past! I haven’t got the right face for it, I’m told, and my fingers are red – Why do I drink? How can I help drinking? Just try! Worse than a footman – aye, to-day a footman doesn’t wear boots like mine and changes his shirt every day. The trouble is, I haven’t had the right education – the youngsters have got miles ahead of me: show off, read and talk French….’
‘And have no idea of practical affairs,’ added Tarantyev.
‘That’s where you’re wrong, old man: they have, but it’s different now. Everyone wants things to be as simple as possible and everyone is doing his best to trip us up. This is not the way to write, that’s quite unnecessary, a waste of time – you could do it much more quickly – always tripping us up.’
‘But the agreement is signed: they did not trip us up there, did they?’ said Tarantyev.
‘That, of course, is sacred. Let’s drink, old man. He’ll send Zatyorty to Oblomovka, and Zatyorty will gradually