Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [84]
‘I daresay his master, too, would have grabbed you,’ the coachman replied, pointing at Zakhar. ‘Look at the growth on your head! But how is he to grab Zakhar Trofimych? His head’s like a pumpkin. Unless, of course, he caught him by the two beards on his jaws – aye, he could do that and all!’
They all burst out laughing, but Zakhar was thunderstruck by this sally of the coachman, who was the only one among them he talked to as a friend.
‘You wait till I tell my master,’ he began wheezing furiously at the coachman, ‘he’ll find something to grab you by: he’ll iron out that beard for you – look, it’s covered in icicles!’
‘Your master must be a terror, to iron out the beards of other people’s coachmen! No, sir: you get your own coachmen first and then stroke their beards for them, but I’m afraid you’re talking a bit too soon now!’
‘You don’t want us to engage a rogue like you for our coachman, do you?’ Zakhar wheezed. ‘You’re not good enough to draw my master’s carriage, you aren’t!’
‘Some master!’ the coachman observed sarcastically. ‘Where did you dig him up?’
He burst out laughing, followed by the caretaker, the barber, the footman, and the defender of the system of swearing.
‘You may laugh,’ Zakhar wheezed, ‘but wait till I tell my master! As for you,’ he added, turning to the caretaker, ‘you ought to restrain these scoundrels, instead of laughing. What are you here for? To keep order. And what do you do? I’m going to tell my master. You wait, sir: you’ll catch it!’
‘Come, come, Zakhar Trofimych,’ said the caretaker, trying to calm him. ‘What has he done to you?’
‘How dare he talk like that about my master?’ Zakhar replied warmly, pointing at the coachman. ‘Does he know who my master is?’ he asked in a reverential voice. ‘Why,’ he said, addressing the coachman, ‘you wouldn’t see a master like that in your dreams! Such a kindly, clever, handsome gentleman! And yours is just like an underfed nag! It’s disgraceful to see you driving out with your brown mare – just like beggars! All you eat is turnips and kvas. Look at that shabby coat of yours – all in holes!’
It should be observed here that the coachman’s coat had not a single hole in it.
‘Why, I couldn’t find one like yours if I tried,’ the coachman interrupted, quickly pulling out the piece of shirt that was showing under Zakhar’s arm.
‘Now, now, that will do,’ the caretaker repeated, trying to keep them apart.
‘Oh, so you’re tearing my clothes, are you?’ Zakhar cried, pulling out some more of his own shirt. ‘You wait, I’ll show it to my master! Look what he’s done – he has torn my coat!’
‘Me torn your coat!’ said the coachman, somewhat alarmed. ‘I suppose your master gave you a good thrashing.…’
‘My master?’ Zakhar said. ‘Why, he’s the soul of kindness – he wouldn’t hurt a fly, he would not, bless him! Living with him is like heaven – I have never wanted for anything and he never as much as called me a fool. I live in comfort and peace, I eat the same food as he, I can go out when I like – that’s the sort of way I live! And in the country I have a house of my own, a kitchen garden, as much corn as I like, and all the peasants bow low to me! I’m the steward and the butler! And you with your master – –’
He was so enraged that his voice failed him, so that he could not finally annihilate his adversary. He paused for a minute to gather strength and think of some really venomous word, but he was too furious to do so.
‘You wait and see what happens to you for tearing my clothes,’ he said at last. ‘They’ll teach you to tear them!’
In attacking his master, they hurt him to the quick, too. His ambition and vanity were roused, his loyalty was awakened, and expressed itself with all its force. He was ready to pour out the vials of his wrath