Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [49]
‘What sort of food ought I to have?’
‘Avoid meat and animal food in general, also starchy food and meat jellies. You may have thin soup and vegetables, only remember there’s cholera about, so you must be careful. You may walk for about eight hours a day. Get yourself a shotgun – –’
‘Good heavens!’ Oblomov groaned.
‘– and, finally,’ the doctor concluded, ‘go to Paris for the winter and amuse yourself there – in the whirl of life – and try not to think; from the theatre to a dance, a fancy-dress ball, pay visits to friends in the country, see that you have friends, noise, laughter around you.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Oblomov with ill-disguised vexation.
The doctor pondered.
‘Perhaps you could try the sea air; get on a steamer in England and take a trip to America.’
He got up to leave.
‘If you carry it all out exactly – –’ he said.
‘Very well, very well,’ Oblomov replied sarcastically, as he saw him off, ‘I shall certainly carry it out.’
The doctor went away, leaving Oblomov in a most pitiful condition. He closed his eyes, put both hands behind his head, huddled himself up in the chair and sat like that, seeing and feeling nothing.
A timid voice called behind him:
‘Sir!’
‘Well?’ he replied.
‘And what shall I tell the landlord’s agent?’
‘What about?’
‘About our moving?’
‘You’re at it again?’ Oblomov asked in surprise.
‘But, sir, what am I to do? You must admit that my life’s not easy as it is. I’m worried to death – –’
‘Oh no, it’s me you’re worrying to death by your talk of moving,’ said Oblomov. ‘You’d better hear what the doctor has just told me!’
Zakhar did not know what to say to that and merely fetched so deep a sigh that the ends of the kerchief round his neck shook on his breast.
‘You’ve made up your mind to kill me, have you?’ Oblomov asked again. ‘You’re sick of me, are you? Well, speak!’
‘Good Lord, sir, live as long as you like! I’m sure no one wishes you ill, sir,’ Zakhar growled, completely put out by the tragic turn the conversation was taking.
‘You do!’ said Oblomov. ‘I’ve forbidden you to mention moving to me, and you remind me of it half a dozen times a day. It upsets me – don’t you realize that? I’m in a bad way as it is.’
‘I thought, sir, that – I thought why shouldn’t we move?’ Zakhar said in a voice trembling with emotion.
‘Why shouldn’t we move?’ Oblomov said, turning together with his chair towards Zakhar. ‘You think it’s so easy, don’t you? But, my dear fellow, have you considered carefully what moving means? You haven’t, have you?’
‘I don’t think I have, sir,’ Zakhar answered humbly, ready to agree with his master about everything so long as there were no pathetic scenes, which he could not endure.
‘If you haven’t,’ said Oblomov, ‘then listen and see for yourself whether we can move or not. What does moving mean? It means that your master will have to leave the house for a whole day and walk about dressed from early morning.’
‘Well, sir, why not leave the house?’ Zakhar remarked. ‘Why not go away for a whole day? It’s unhealthy to sit at home. You do look bad, sir! Before, you looked the picture of health, but now that you always sit at home you look like nothing on earth. If you only took a walk in the streets, had a look at the people or something – –’
‘Don’t talk nonsense and listen!’ said Oblomov. ‘Take a walk in the streets!’
‘Why not, sir?’ Zakhar went on warmly. ‘I’m told, sir, there’s a terrible monster on show. Why not go and have a look at it? Or you might go to a theatre or a mask ball, and we’d do the moving without you.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish! So that’s how you look after your master’s comfort! You don’t care if I tramp about the streets all day long, do you? What would it matter to you if I had dinner in some poky little hole and couldn’t lie down after it? They’ll do the moving without me! If I’m not here to keep an eye on things, you’d be moving – bits and pieces. I know,’ Oblomov went on with growing conviction,