Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [30]
‘Dobrynin lives near,’ said Oblomov. ‘I used to see him often here; he is in the country now.’
‘Well, write to him, too. Ask him nicely: “You will be doing me a great favour and oblige me as a Christian, a neighbour, and a friend.” And add some Petersburg present to the letter – a box of cigars, for instance. That is what you should do, but you don’t seem to have any sense at all. You’re hopeless! I’d have made that bailiff sit up; I’d have shown him! When does the post go?’
‘The day after to-morrow,’ said Oblomov.
‘Very well. Sit down and write at once.’
‘But if it’s the day after to-morrow, why should I write now?’ Oblomov remarked. ‘To-morrow will do. And, look here, old man,’ he added. ‘You may as well crown your “act of charity”, and I will add a fish or some bird for dinner.’
‘What now?’
‘Sit down and write – it won’t take you long to scribble three letters. You put everything so “authentically”,’ he added, trying to conceal a smile, ‘and Alexeyev could copy it out.’
‘Good Lord, how do you like that!’ Tarantyev replied. ‘Me write your letters? I haven’t written anything at the office for the last two days: the moment I sit down, my left eye begins to run. Must have caught a chill in it, and my head, too, begins to swim if I bend down. You’re lazy, my dear fellow, lazy. Hopeless, hopeless…’
‘Oh, if only Andrey would hurry up and come!’ said Oblomov. ‘He’d put everything straight!’
‘Some good Samaritan you’ve found, I must say!’ Tarantyev interrupted. ‘A damned German – a crafty rascal!’
Tarantyev had a sort of instinctive aversion to foreigners. To him a Frenchman, a German, or an Englishman were synonymous with swindler, impostor, rogue, or bandit. He made no distinction between nations: they were all alike in his eyes.
‘Look here, Tarantyev,’ Oblomov said sternly, ‘I’d be glad if you would control your language, especially when speaking of an intimate friend of mine.…’
‘An intimate friend!’ Tarantyev replied with hatred. ‘What sort of connexion is he of yours? A German – we all know what that is.’
‘He’s closer than any relation. I was brought up with him and we were educated together, and I shan’t allow any impertinence – –’
Tarantyev turned purple with rage.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you prefer the German to me, I shan’t set foot in your house again.’
He put on his hat and walked to the door. Oblomov at once felt sorry.
‘You ought to respect him as my friend and speak more carefully about him – that is all I ask,’ he said. ‘It isn’t much of a favour, is it?’
‘To respect a German?’ Tarantyev said with the utmost contempt. ‘Why should I?’
‘But I’ve just told you – if for nothing else then because we grew up and went to the same school together.’
‘What does that matter? We all go to school with someone or other!’
‘Well, if he’d been here,’ said Oblomov, ‘he’d long ago have solved my problems without asking for beer or champagne.’
‘Ah, so you blame me, do you? Well, to hell with you and with your beer and champagne! Here, take back your money! Where did I put it? Can’t remember what I did with the damned note!’
He pulled out a greasy scrap of paper covered with writing.
‘No, that’s not it!’ he said. ‘Where did I put it?’
He rummaged in his pockets.
‘Don’t bother to look for it,’ said Oblomov. ‘I’m not blaming you, but merely ask you to speak with more respect of a man who is a close friend of mine and who has done so much for me.’
‘So much!’ Tarantyev said spitefully. ‘You wait, he’ll do even more for you – you do as he says!’
‘Why do you say this to me?’ asked Oblomov.
‘I’m saying this so that you should know when that German of yours robs you of your last penny what it means to give up a neighbour of yours, a true Russian, for some tramp – –’
‘Listen, Tarantyev – –’ Oblomov began.
‘I’m not going to listen, I’ve listened enough, you’ve given me enough trouble as it is.