Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [77]
Only once was the monotony of their existence broken by a really unexpected event. Having rested after a heavy dinner, they had all gathered round the tea-table, when an Oblomov peasant, who had just returned from town, came suddenly into the room and after a great deal of trouble pulled out from the inside of his coat a crumpled letter addressed to Oblomov’s father. They all looked dumbfounded; Mrs Oblomov even turned slightly pale; they all craned their necks towards the letter and fixed their eyes upon it.
‘How extraordinary! Who could it be from?’ Mrs Oblomov said at last, having recovered from her surprise.
Mr Oblomov took the letter and turned it about in bewilderment, not knowing what to do with it.
‘Where did you get it?’ he asked the peasant. ‘Who gave it you?’
‘Why, sir, at the inn where I stopped in town,’ replied the peasant. ‘A soldier came twice from the post office, sir, to ask if there was any peasant there from Oblomovka. He’d got a letter for the master, it seems.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, sir, at first I hid myself, so the soldier, sir, he went away with this here letter. But the sexton from Verkhlyovo had seen me and he told them. So he comes a second time, the soldier, sir. And as he comes the second time, he starts swearing at me and gives me the letter. Charged me five copecks for it, he did. I asks him what I was to do with the letter, and he told me to give it to you, sir.’
‘You shouldn’t have taken it,’ Mrs Oblomov observed vexedly.
‘I didn’t take it, ma’am. I said to him, I said, “What do we want your letter for – we don’t want no letters,” I said. “I wasn’t told to take letters and I durstn’t,” I said. “Take your letter and go away,” I said. But he started cursing me something awful, he did, threatening to go to the police, so I took it.’
‘Fool!’ said Mrs Oblomov.
‘Who could it be from?’ Mr Oblomov said wonderingly, examining the address. ‘The writing seems familiar!’
He passed the letter round and they all began discussing who it could be from and what it was about. They were all completely at a loss. Mr Oblomov asked for his glasses and they spent an hour and a half looking for them. He put them on and was already about to open the letter when his wife stopped him.
‘Don’t open it,’ she said apprehensively. ‘Who knows, it might be something dreadful – some awful trouble. You know what people are nowadays. There’s plenty of time: you can open it to-morrow or the day after: it won’t run away.’
The letter was locked up in a drawer with the glasses. They all sat down to tea, and the letter might have lain in the drawer for years had they not all been so greatly excited by the extraordinary event. At tea and all next day they talked of nothing but the letter. At last they could not stand it any longer, and on the fourth day, having all gathered in a crowd, they opened it nervously. Mr Oblomov glanced at the signature.
‘Radishchev,’ he read. ‘Why, that’s Filip Matveich.’
‘Oh, so that’s who it is from!’ they cried from all sides. ‘Is he still alive? Good Lord, fancy he’s not dead! Well, thank God! What does he say?’
Mr Oblomov began reading the letter aloud. It seemed that Radishchev was asking for a recipe of beer that was brewed particularly well at Oblomovka.
‘Send it him! Send it him!’ they all shouted. ‘You must write him a letter!’
A fortnight