Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [81]
‘Hey, Vaska! Vanka! Bring me this! Bring me that! I don’t want this, I want that! Run and fetch it!’
At times he got tired of the tender solicitude of his parents. If he ran down the stairs or across the yard, a dozen desperate voices shouted after him: ‘Oh, hold him by the hand! Stop him! He’ll fall down and hurt himself! Stop!’ If he tried to run out into the hall in winter, or to open a window, there were again shouts: ‘Where are you off to? You can’t do that! Don’t run, don’t go, don’t open it: you’ll hurt yourself, you’ll catch a cold…!’ And sadly Oblomov remained indoors, cherished like an exotic flower in a hot-house, and like it he grew slowly and languidly. His energies, finding no outlet, turned inwards and withered, drooping. Sometimes he woke up feeling so bright and cheerful, so fresh and gay; he felt as though something inside him were full of life and movement, just as if some imp had taken up its quarters there, daring him to climb on the roof, or mount the grey mare and gallop to the meadows where they were haymaking, or sit astride on the fence, or tease the village dogs; or he suddenly wanted to run like mad through the village, then across the field and the gullies into the birch wood, and down to the bottom of the ravine in three jumps, or getting the village boys to play a game of snowball with him and trying out his strength. The little imp egged him on; he resisted as long as he could, and at last jumped down the front steps into the yard in winter, without his cap, ran through the gate, seized a ball of snow in each hand and flew towards a group of boys. The fresh wind cut into his face, the frost pinched his ears, the cold air entered his mouth and throat, his chest expanded with joy – he ran along faster and faster, laughing and screaming. There were the boys; he flung a snowball at them but missed; he was not used to it. He was about to pick up another when his face was smothered by a huge lump of snow: he fell; his face hurt from the new sensation; he was enjoying it all, he was laughing, and there were tears in his eyes.
Meanwhile there was an uproar at home: darling Ilya had vanished! A noise, shouts. Zakhar rushed into the yard, followed by Vaska, Mitka, Vanka – all running about in confusion. Two dogs ran madly after them, catching them by the heels, for, as everyone knows, dogs cannot bear to see a running man. Shouting and yelling, the servants raced through the village, followed by the barking dogs. At last they came across the boys and began meting out justice: pulled them by the hair and ears, hit them across the back, and told off their fathers. Then they got hold of the young master, wrapped him in the sheepskin they had brought, then in his father’s fur coat and two blankets, and carried him home in triumph. At home they had despaired of seeing him again, giving him up for lost; but the joy of his parents at seeing him alive and unhurt was indescribable. They offered up thanks to the Lord, then gave him mint and elderberry tea to drink, followed by raspberry tea in the evening, and kept him three days in bed – yet only one thing could have done him good – playing snowball again.…
10
AS SOON as Oblomov’s snoring reached Zakhar’s ears, he jumped quietly and cautiously off the stove, tiptoed into the passage, locked his master in, and went to the gate.
‘Oh, Zakhar Trofimych, how are you? Haven’t seen you for ages!’ coachmen, valets, women, and errand boys by the gate cried in various voices.
‘What’s your master doing? Gone out, has he?’ the caretaker asked.
‘Asleep as usual,’ Zakhar said gloomily.
‘Is he now?’ a coachman asked. ‘A bit too early, isn’t it? Is he ill?’
‘Ill, indeed! Drunk as a lord!’ said Zakhar with such conviction that he might really have known it for a fact. ‘Would you believe it? Drank a bottle and a half of Madeira by himself and two quarts of kvas, so he’s sleeping it off now.’
‘Go on!’ the coachman said enviously.
‘What made him have so much to drink to-day?’ one of the women asked.
‘It isn’t only