Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [277]
‘You certainly reek of vodka, and very strongly, too!’ said Stolz.
‘Aye, sir, I have a drop now and again to drown my sorrows; aye, sir, to drown my sorrows,’ Zakhar wheezed, screwing up his face in bitter resentment of his fate. ‘I tried being a cab-driver, too, sir. Hired myself out to a cab-owner, I did, but I had my feet frozen. Aye, sir, lost my strength, I have; getting old, that’s the trouble! Got a real beast of a horse too. One day it rushed under a carriage and nearly threw me off my box. Another time I ran over an old woman and got dragged off to the police station….’
‘There, that’ll do! Now, listen; don’t drink and don’t knock about the streets, but come to me and I’ll find some place for you in my house – you can come to the country with us – do you hear?’
‘Yes, sir, but – –’
He heaved a sigh.
‘You see, sir, I shouldn’t like to go away from here – from his grave, I mean! Our dear master Ilya Ilyich,’ he cried. ‘I’ve said a prayer for him again to-day, God rest his soul! What a master the good Lord has taken away from me, sir. He just lived to make everybody happy – aye, he should have lived a hundred years, he should, sir,’ Zakhar, said, whimpering and screwing up his face. ‘Been to his grave to-day, I have, sir. Whenever I happen to be in them parts, sir, I goes straight to his grave. Sits there for hours, I does, with tears streaming from my eyes, sir. Sometimes I falls to thinking, it is very quiet all round, and suddenly I fancies he’s calling me: “Zakhar! Zakhar!” Oh dear, it fairly gives me the creeps, so it does, sir! Aye, I shan’t have another master like him – that’s certain! And how he loved you, sir, the Lord bless his soul!’
‘Well, come and have a look at little Andrey. I’ll tell them to give you a meal and decent clothes, and then you can do as you like,’ said Stolz, giving him some money.
‘I’ll come, sir; of course I’ll come to have a look at the master’s little boy! I expect he’s grown up by now! Dear me, what a joyful day this has been! Yes, sir, I’ll come; may the Lord keep you in good health and grant you many more years to live,’ Zakhar growled, as the carriage drove away.
‘Well, you’ve heard the story of this beggar, haven’t you?’ Stolz said to his friend.
‘Who is this Ilya Ilyich he mentioned?’ asked the writer.
‘Oblomov: I’ve often spoken to you about him.’
‘Yes, I remember the name, he was your friend and school-fellow. What became of him?’
‘He’s dead. He wasted his life!’
Stolz sighed and fell into thought.
‘And he was as intelligent as anybody, his soul was pure and clear as crystal – noble, affectionate, and – he perished!’
‘But why? What was the reason?’
‘The reason – what a reason! Oblomovitis!’ said Stolz.
‘Oblomovitis?’ the writer repeated in bewilderment. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll tell you in a moment: let me collect my thoughts and memories. And you write it down: someone may find it useful.’
And he told him what is written here.
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
CONTENTS
CHRONOLOGY
INTRODUCTION
FURTHER READING
Oblomov
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR