Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [97]
‘But where are we going to?’ Oblomov cried mournfully. ‘Do I know the people? What an idea! I’d better call on Ivan Gerasimovich. I haven’t seen him for three days.’
‘Who is this Ivan Gerasimovich?’
‘He was at the same office as I.’
‘Oh, the grey-headed administrative official. What do you see in him? What makes you wish to waste your time with a blockhead like that?’
‘How harshly you speak of people sometimes, Andrey. Really! He’s a nice man, though he doesn’t wear shirts of Dutch linen!’
‘What do you do there? What do you talk to him about?’ asked Stolz.
‘Well, you know, everything at his place is so nice and cosy. The rooms are small, the sofas so deep that you sink into them and can’t be seen. The windows are covered with ivy and cactus, there are more than a dozen canaries, three dogs – such affectionate creatures! There is always some snack on the table. The prints on the walls are all of family scenes. You come and you don’t want to go away. You sit without thinking or worrying about anything, you know there is a man beside you who – though perhaps far from intelligent, for it would be a waste of time to exchange ideas with him – is unsophisticated, kind-hearted, hospitable, without pretensions, a man who would never dream of insulting you behind your back!’
‘But what do you do there?’
‘What do we do? Well, you see, as soon as I come we sit down on sofas opposite each other with our feet up – he smokes – –’
‘And you?’
‘I also smoke and listen to the song of the canaries. Then Marfa brings in the samovar.’
‘Tarantyev, Ivan Gerasimovich!’ said Stolz, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Well, come on and dress quickly,’ he hurried him.
‘Tell Tarantyev when he comes,’ he added, addressing Zakhar, ’that we are dining out and that Mr Oblomov will be dining out all summer, and he will be too busy in the autumn to see him.’
‘I’ll tell him that, sir. Don’t worry, I shan’t forget,’ replied Zakhar. ‘And what shall I do with the dinner, sir?’
‘Eat it with anyone you like.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ten minutes later Stolz came out of the drawing-room dressed, shaven, and with his hair brushed. Oblomov was sitting on his bed, looking melancholy and slowly buttoning his shirt and struggling with the buttonholes. Zakhar knelt before him on one knee, holding an unpolished boot in his hand as if it were some dish and waiting for his master to finish buttoning his shirt.
‘You haven’t put your boots on yet!’ Stolz said in surprise. ‘Well, come on, Ilya, hurry up!’
‘But where are we going? And whatever for?’ Oblomov cried miserably. ‘I have seen it all before! I’m afraid I’m no longer interested – I don’t want to – –’
‘Come on! Come on!’ Stolz hurried him.
4
ALTHOUGH it was already late, they managed to make a business call, then Stolz took an owner of some gold-mines to dinner, then they went to the latter’s country house for tea. There they found a large company, and after his complete seclusion Oblomov found himself in a crowd. They returned home late at night.
The next day and the day after, the same thing happened, and a whole week passed by in a flash. Oblomov protested, complained, argued, but he was overborne and followed his friend everywhere. One morning, when they came home late, he protested especially against this sort of life.
‘All day long,’ Oblomov muttered, putting on his dressing-gown, ‘you don’t take off your boots: my feet are throbbing! I dislike this Petersburg life of yours!’ he went on, lying down on the sofa.
‘What sort of life do you like?’ asked Stolz.
‘Not this sort.’
‘What is it you dislike particularly?’
‘Everything – this constant rushing about, this eternal interplay of petty passions, greed especially, the eagerness with which they try to get the better of one another, the scandalmongering, the gossip, the way they look you up and down; listening to their talk makes your head swim and you go silly. They look so dignified and intelligent, but all you hear them say is, “This one has been