Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [86]
And he touched his master once more.
‘Now, do me a favour and don’t disturb me,’ Oblomov said earnestly, opening his eyes.
‘Aye, and if I did you the favour, you’d be angry with me for not waking you.’
‘Oh dear, what a man!’ said Oblomov. ‘Just let me sleep for one more minute – just one minute! I know myself – –’
Oblomov suddenly fell silent, overcome by sleep.
‘You know how to sleep all right!’ said Zakhar, convinced that his master did not hear him. ‘Look at him – sleeping like a log! What’s the good of a man like you? Get up, I tell you!’ Zakhar roared.
‘What’s that? What’s that?’ Oblomov said menacingly, raising his head.
‘Why don’t you get up, sir?’ Zakhar answered gently.
‘Yes, but what did you say, eh? How dare you talk to me like this – eh?’
‘Dare what, sir?’
‘Speak so rudely.’
‘You must have dreamt it, sir. I swear, you dreamt it.’
‘You thought I was asleep, did you? Well, I wasn’t. I heard everything.’
And he dropped off again.
‘Well,’ Zakhar said in despair, ‘what is one to do? What are you lying about like a log for? It makes one sick to look at you. Just look at him! Damn!
‘Get up! Get up!’ he suddenly said in a frightened voice. ‘Sir, look what’s happening!’
Oblomov quickly raised his head, looked about him, and lay down again with a deep sigh.
‘Leave me alone!’ he said gravely. ‘I told you to wake me and now I cancel my order – you hear? I’ll wake when I like.’
Sometimes Zakhar left him alone, saying: ‘Oh, sleep if you like, damn you!’ But sometimes he insisted on having his way, and he did that this time.
‘Get up, get up!’ he roared at the top of his voice, seizing Oblomov with both hands by the skirt of his dressing-gown and by the sleeve.
Oblomov suddenly jumped out of bed and rushed at Zakhar.
‘You wait,’ he said, ‘I’ll teach you how to disturb your master when he wants to sleep!’
Zakhar took to his heels, but at the third step Oblomov shook off his sleep and began stretching and yawning.
‘Give me – some kvas,’ he said, between his yawns.
At this moment someone behind Zakhar’s back burst into a peal of laughter. Both looked round.
‘Stolz! Stolz!’ Oblomov shouted joyfully, rushing towards his visitor.
‘Andrey Ivanich!’ Zakhar said with a grin. Stolz went on roaring with laughter; he had witnessed the whole scene.
PART TWO
1
STOLZ was only half German; on his father’s side. His mother was Russian; he was of the Eastern Orthodox faith; his native tongue was Russian; he learnt it from his mother and from books, in the University lecture-rooms, in his games with the village children, in conversations with their fathers and in the Moscow markets. The German language he inherited from his father and learnt from books.
Stolz had been brought up in the village of Verkhlyovo, where his father was steward. Ever since he was a boy of eight he had sat with his father over maps, spelt out the verses of Herder, Wieland, and the Bible, cast up the badly written accounts of the peasants, artisans, and factory hands, and read with his mother the stories from the sacred books, learnt by heart Krylov’s fables, and spelt out the verses of Télémaque. When his lessons were over he went bird-nesting with the village boys, and quite often the squeaking of young jackdaws came from his pocket during a lesson or at prayers. Sometimes when his father was sitting under a tree in the garden in the afternoon, smoking a pipe, and his mother was knitting a jersey or embroidering, a noise and shouts were heard from the street and a whole crowd of people would break into the house.
‘What’s the matter?’ his mother asked in alarm.
‘I expect they have brought Andrey again,’ his father replied calmly.
The doors burst open, and a crowd of peasants, women and boys, rushed into the garden. And, indeed, they had brought Andrey, but in what a state! Without his boots, his clothes torn, and his nose bleeding – or the nose of some other boy. His mother was always worried when Andrey