the beginning, when he had moved into the house several years before. Giblet soup, macaroni and parmesan cheese, meat or fish pie, cold fish and vegetable soup, home-grown chicken – all this followed each other in strict rotation and introduced pleasant variety into the monotonous life of the little house. From morning till evening bright sunshine filled the house, streaming in at the windows on one side and then on the other, there being nothing to impede it, thanks to the kitchen gardens all round. The canaries trilled gaily; the geraniums and the hyacinths the children occasionally brought from the count’s garden exuded a strong scent in the small room, blending pleasantly with the smoke of a pure Havana cigar and the cinnamon or vanilla which the landlady pounded, energetically moving her elbows. Oblomov lived, as it were, within a golden framework of life, in which, as in a diorama, the only things that changed were the usual phases of day and night and the seasons; there were no other changes, no serious accidents to convulse one’s whole life, often stirring up a muddy and bitter sediment. Ever since Stolz had saved Oblomovka from the fraudulent debts of the landlady’s brother, and Ivan Matveyevich and Tarantyev had completely disappeared, everything of a hostile nature had disappeared from Oblomov’s life, too. He was now surrounded by simple, kind, and loving people who all conspired to do their best to make his life as comfortable as possible, to help him not to notice it, not to feel. Agafya Matveyevna was in the prime of her life. She lived feeling that her life was full as it had never been before; but, as before, she would never be able to express it in words or, rather, it never occurred to her to do so. She merely prayed that God would prolong Oblomov’s life and save him from ‘sorrow, wrath, and want’, committing herself, her children, and her entire household to God’s will. But, as though to make up for it, her face always wore the same expression of complete and perfect happiness, without desires and therefore rare, and, indeed, impossible for a person of a different temperament. She had put on weight; there was a feeling of contentment about her ample bosom and shoulders, her eyes glowed with gentleness, and if there was an expression of solicitude in them, it concerned merely her household duties. She regained the calm and dignity with which she had ruled her house in the old days with obedient Anisya, Akulina, and the caretaker ready to take her orders. As before, she seemed to sail along rather than walk from the cupboard to the kitchen, and from the kitchen to the pantry, giving her orders in an unhurried, measured tone of voice, fully conscious of what she was doing.
Anisya had grown livelier than before because there was more work for her to do; she was always on the run, moving and bustling about, working, carrying out Agafya Matveyevna’s orders. Her eyes had grown even brighter, and her nose, that speaking nose of hers, was thrust forward, glowing with cares, thoughts, and intentions, seeming to speak though her tongue was silent.
Both women were dressed in accordance with the dignity of their several positions and their duties. Agafya Matveyevna had now a big wardrobe with a row of silk dresses, cloaks, and fur coats; she ordered her bonnets on the other side of the river, almost in Liteyny Avenue; she bought her shoes not in the market but in one of the fashionable shopping arcades, and her hat – just think of it! – in Morskaya Street. Anisya, too, having finished her work in the kitchen, put on a woollen dress, especially on Sundays. Akulina alone still walked about with her skirt tucked up at the waist, and the caretaker could not bring himself to do without his sheepskin even in the summer holidays. Zakhar, too, was of course as bad as ever: he had made himself a jacket out of his grey frock-coat, and it was impossible to say what colour his trousers were or of what material his tie was made. He cleaned boots, then went to sleep, or sat at the gates, gazing dully at the few passers-by,