Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [45]
‘Oh Lord, oh Lord!’ he murmured, overflowing with happiness, and came back to reality. He heard five people shouting their wares in the courtyard: ‘Potatoes! Who wants sand – sand? Coals! Coals! Spare a few coppers for building a temple of God, ladies and gentlemen!’ And from the house that was being built next door came the sound of axes and the shouts of workmen.
‘Oh dear!’ Oblomov sighed mournfully aloud. ‘What a life! How horrible these town noises are! When will the heavenly life I long for come? When shall I return to my native woods and fields? Oh,’ he thought, ‘if only I were lying under a tree on the grass now, looking at the sun through the branches and counting the birds on them. Some rosy-cheeked maid-servant with soft, round bare arms and a sunburnt neck would bring me my lunch or dinner, lowering her eyes, the pretty rogue, and smiling.… Oh, when will this time come at last?’
‘And what about my plan, the bailiff, the flat?’ he suddenly heard a voice inside him say.
‘Yes, yes!’ Oblomov said hurriedly. ‘At once! At once!’
He quickly rose and sat up on the sofa, then he lowered his feet to the floor, got into both his slippers at once, and sat like that for several minutes; then he got up and stood thinking for a minute or two.
‘Zakhar! Zakhar!’ he called loudly, looking at the table and the inkstand.
‘Oh, what is it now?’ Zakhar muttered as he jumped off the stove. ‘I wonder I’ve still strength left to drag my feet about,’ he added in a hoarse whisper.
‘Zakhar!’ Oblomov repeated thoughtfully, without taking his eyes off the table. ‘Look here, old fellow,’ he began, pointing to the inkstand, but sank into thought again, without finishing the sentence.
Then he raised his arms slowly, his knees gave way, as he began stretching himself and yawning.
‘We’ve still got some cheese left,’ he said slowly, still stretching himself, ‘and – er – yes, bring me some Madeira; dinner won’t be for some time yet, so I think I’ll have a little lunch.…’
‘Where was it left, sir?’ Zakhar said. ‘There was nothing left.’
‘What do you mean?’ Oblomov interrupted him. ‘I remember very well – it was a piece as big as that.’
‘No, sir,’ Zakhar insisted stubbornly. ‘There wasn’t any piece left at all.’
‘There was!’ said Oblomov.
‘There wasn’t,’ replied Zakhar.
‘Well, go and buy some.’
‘Give me the money, please, sir.’
‘There’s some change on the table, take it.’
‘There’s only one rouble forty copecks, sir, and the cheese costs one rouble sixty copecks.’
‘There were some coppers there too.’
‘I never saw them, sir,’ said Zakhar, shifting from one foot to another. ‘There was some silver and it’s still there, but there were no coppers.’
‘There were – the pedlar gave them to me himself yesterday.’
‘Yes, sir, I saw him give you your change,’ said Zakhar, ‘but I never saw no coppers.’
‘I wonder if Tarantyev took it,’ Oblomov thought irresolutely. ‘But no, he would have taken all the change.’
‘What else is there left?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, sir. There may be some ham left over from yesterday,’ said Zakhar. ‘I’ll go and ask Anisya. Shall I bring it?’
‘Bring what there is. But how is it there’s no cheese left?’
‘Well, there isn’t,’ said Zakhar, and went out.
Oblomov slowly and thoughtfully paced about the study.
‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘there’s plenty to do. Take the plan alone – lots of work still to be done on it! I’m sure there was some cheese left,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘It’s that Zakhar who’s eaten it and he’s just saying there wasn’t any. And where could the coppers have gone to?’ he went on, rummaging on the table.
A quarter of an hour later Zakhar opened the door with the tray, which he carried in both hands. As he came into the room, he wanted to shut the door with his foot, but missed it and nearly fell over; a wine-glass, the stopper of the decanter, and a roll