Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [220]
‘Not a bad idea.’
‘Hey, waiter!’
‘What a rogue,’ Tarantyev began furiously again. ‘Let me rent it, he says. Why, such a thing would never occur to us Russians! It’s the sort of thing they do in Germany. Farms and leaseholds – it’s the sort of thing they go in for there. You wait, he’ll swindle him out of all his money by making him invest it in some shares.’
‘Shares?’ asked Ivan Matveyevich. ‘What are they? I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’
‘It’s a German invention!’ said Tarantyev spitefully. ‘Some swindler, for instance, gets an idea of building fireproof houses and undertakes to build a town: he needs money, of course, so he starts selling papers at, say, five hundred roubles each, and a crowd of blockheads buy them and sell them to each other. If the business is reported to be doing well, the bits of paper rise in price; if it’s doing badly, the whole thing goes bust. All you’ve got left is worthless bits of paper. Where is the town? you ask. Oh, they say, it’s burnt down, or, there wasn’t enough capital to finish building it, and the inventor has in the meantime run off with your money. That’s what shares are! And the German will drag him into it, mark my words. It’s a wonder he hasn’t done it already. I have stood in the way, you see. Done all I could to save a neighbour from ruin!’
‘Well, that’s finished and done with, I’m afraid. We shan’t get any more taxes from Oblomovka,’ Ivan Matveyevich said, as he got slightly drunk.
‘Oh, to hell with him, old man! You’ve got plenty of money, haven’t you?’ Tarantyev replied, also slightly befuddled. ‘Got an inexhaustible source – keep drawing from it and don’t let up. Let’s have a drink!’
‘Not much of a source, old man. All you collect is one – and three-rouble notes all your life – –’
‘But you’ve been collecting it for twenty years, old man, so what have you got to grumble about?’
‘Twenty years, did you say?’ Ivan Matveyevich answered thickly. ‘You’ve forgotten that I’ve only been secretary for ten years. Before that there were only ten - and twenty-copeck pieces jingling in my pocket, and sometimes, I’m ashamed to say, I had to take a few coppers. What an awful life! Oh, old man, there are lucky people in the world who for a single word they whisper in someone’s ear or a line they dictate, or simply for signing their name on a piece of paper, suddenly get such a swelling in their pocket as though a pillow had been placed there, so that they could sleep on it. Oh,’ he cried dreamily, getting more and more drunk, ‘if only I could do things like that! Never be seen by petitioners, who dare not come near me. Get into my carriage and shout, “To the club!” and at the club important chaps wearing stars shake hands with me. I play cards, but not for five-copeck stakes! And the dinners – the dinners I have. I’d be ashamed even to mention cabbage soup with fish – make a wry face with disgust. Spring chickens in winter; aye, get it specially ordered, I would, and wild strawberries in April! At home my wife would be wearing real lace, my children would have a governess, smartly dressed, their hair beautifully brushed. Oh dear, old man, there is a paradise, but our sins keep us out of it. Let’s have a drink! Here they are, bringing our cabbage soup!’
‘Don’t grumble, old man; you’ve got plenty of money – plenty of money,’ said Tarantyev, quite tipsy by now, with bloodshot eyes. ‘Thirty-five thousand in silver – that’s no joke, is it?’
‘Quiet, quiet, old man,’ Ivan Matveyevich interrupted. ‘What about it? It’s only thirty-five thousand. Think how long it will take me to make it up to fifty! And, besides, you won’t be admitted to paradise even with fifty. If I get married, I’ll have to live very carefully, count every rouble, forget about Jamaica rum – what sort of life is that?’
‘But you must admit, old man, it’s a comfortable sort of life – a rouble from one fellow, two from another, and by the end of the day you’ve put away seven roubles. No bother, no one the wiser,