Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [28]
A growl was heard from the entrance hall.
‘– and there’ll be more order too,’ Tarantyev went on. ‘Why, it’s dreadful to sit down to dinner at your place now. You want the pepper – it isn’t there; vinegar – they’ve forgotten to buy any, the knives have not been cleaned; you say you keep losing your linen – dust everywhere – it’s disgusting! And there a woman will be keeping house – neither you, nor that fool Zakhar – –’
The growling in the entrance hall grew louder.
‘– that old dog won’t have to bother about anything,’ Tarantyev went on. ‘You will be provided with board and lodgings. Why hesitate? Move – and that’s the end of it.’
‘But how could I – for no rhyme or reason – suddenly move to Vyborg?’
‘What’s the use of talking to you?’ Tarantyev said, wiping the perspiration from his face. ‘It’s summer time now: why, it’s as good as living in a country house. Why rot here in Gorokhovaya Street? There you would have the Bezbarodkin Gardens, Okhta is next door, the Neva within a few yards, your own kitchen garden – no dust, no stuffiness! Why waste time thinking? I’ll nip over to her now before dinner – you’ll let me have the cab fares – and to-morrow you can move – –’
‘What a man!’ said Oblomov. ‘Suddenly he gets a crazy idea into his head and I have to move to Vyborg. I mean, it’s not difficult to think of such a plan. No, sir, you’d better think of something that would make it possible for me to stay here. I’ve lived here for eight years and I don’t want to change.’
‘It’s settled: you’re going to move. I’ll go and see my friend at once and call about my job another time.’
He was about to go, but Oblomov stopped him.
‘Wait, wait! Where are you off to? I’ve a much more important business to settle. Have a look at the letter I’ve received from my bailiff and tell me what to do about it.’
‘Dear me, you are a queer fish and no mistake,’ Tarantyev replied. ‘You can’t do anything by yourself. It’s always I who have to do things for you. Of what use is a man like you? But, then, you’re not a man: you’re just a stuffed dummy.’
‘Where’s that letter? Zakhar, Zakhar! He’s put it away somewhere again!’ Oblomov said.
‘Here’s the bailiff’s letter,’ said Alexeyev, picking up the crumpled letter.
‘Yes, here it is,’ Oblomov repeated and began to read it aloud. ‘What do you say?’ he asked when he had finished reading the letter. ‘What am I to do? Droughts, arrears – –’
‘You’re hopeless – hopeless!’ said Tarantyev.
‘But why am I hopeless?’
‘Why, aren’t you hopeless?’
‘Well, if I am, tell me what to do.’
‘And what will I get out of it?’
‘I’ve promised you champagne – what more do you want?’
‘Champagne was for finding you a flat. Why, I’ve done you a favour, and you don’t appreciate it – you argue about it – you’re ungrateful. Well, try and find a flat by yourself! And what a flat! The main thing is you’ll have absolute peace, just as if you were living at your own sister’s. Two children, an unmarried brother, I shall be calling every day – –’
‘All right, all right,’ Oblomov interrupted. ‘You’d better tell me now what I am to do about the bailiff.’
‘No, sir, not unless you add beer for dinner. I’ll tell you then.’
‘He wants beer now! Haven’t you had enough – –’
‘Good-bye, then,’ said Tarantyev, again putting on his hat.
‘Good heavens! here the bailiff writes that my income will be two thousand less, and he wants beer, too! All right, buy some beer.’
‘Let’s have some more money,’ said Tarantyev.
‘But what about the change from the tenrouble note?’
‘And what about the cab fares to Vyborg?’
Oblomov took out another rouble and thrust it into his hand crossly.
‘Your bailiff is a rogue – that’s what I think,’ Tarantyev began, putting the rouble in his pocket, ‘and you stand there with your mouth open and believe him. You see the sort of tall story he tells you! Drought, bad harvest, arrears, runaway peasants – it’s all a pack of lies! I