«Dear Sir», Oblomov began, «our father and benefactor» Here he omitted several greetings and good wishes and went on from the middle: «I am glad to inform you, Sir, that everything on your estate is in good order. There has been no rain for five weeks and I daresay, Sir, the good Lord must be angry with us not to send us rain. The old men dont remember such a drought, Sir. The spring crops have all been burnt up as if by a devouring fire; the winter crops have been ruined, some by the worm and some by early frost; we have ploughed it over for spring crops, but we cant be sure if it will be any good. Let us hope, Sir, that merciful heaven will spare you; we do not care what happens to us let us all starve to death. On St Johns Eve three more peasants ran away: Laptev, Balochov, and Vasska, the blacksmiths son, who ran off by himself. I sent the women after their husbands, but they never came back, and are living at Cholki, I am told. A relative of mine went to CholkI from Verkhlyovo, the estate manager sent him there to inspect a foreign plough. I told him about the runaway peasants. He said he had been to see the police inspector who told him to send in a written statement, after which everything would be done to send the peasants back to their places of domicile. He said nothing except that, and I fell at his feet and begged him with tears in my eyes, but he bawled at me at the top of his voice: Be off! Be off with you! Ive told you it will be done if you send in your signed statement! But I never did send in the statement. There is no one I can hire here; all have gone to the Volga, to work on the barges the people here have all become so stupid, Sir. There will be no linen of ours at the fair this year: I have locked up the drying and the bleaching sheds and put Sychuga to watch them day and night; he never touches a drop, and to make sure he dont steal any of his masters goods, I watch over him day and night. The other peasants drink a lot and they are all anxious to pay rent for their land instead of working on your land without any payment. Many of them have not paid up their arrears. This year, Sir, we will send you about two thousand less than last year, unless the drought ruins us completely, otherwise we shall send you the money as promised».
There followed expressions of loyalty and the signature: «Your bailiff and most humble slave, Sir, Prokofy Vytyagushkin, has put his hand to it with his own hand». Being illiterate he put a cross under the letter. «Written from the words of the said bailiff by his brother-in-law, Dyomka the One-Eyed».
Oblomov glanced at the end of the letter. «No month or year», he said. «I suppose the letter must have been lying about at the bailiffs since last year St Johns Eve and the drought! Just woken up to it!» He sank into thought. «Well?» he went on. «What do you make of it? He offers to send me about two thousand less how much will that leave? How much do you think I received last year?» he asked, looking at Alexeyev. «I didnt mention it to you at the time, did I?»
Alexeyev raised his eyes to the ceiling and pondered.
«I must ask Stolz when he comes», Oblomov continued. «Seven or eight thousand, I believe I should have made a note of it!
So now he puts me down to six! Why, I shall starve! How can I live on it?»
«Why worry?» said Alexeyev. «A man must never give way to despair. It will all come right in the end».
«But did you hear what he said? He doesnt send me the money oh no! He doesnt say anything to put my mind at rest. All he is thinking of is to cause me unpleasantness, and he does it deliberately! Every year the same story! I simply dont know what to do! Two thousand less!»
«Yes, its a great loss!» said Alexeyev. «Two thousand is no joke! Alexey Login, I understand, also got twelve instead of seventeen thousand this year».
«Twelve thousand isnt six thousand», Oblomov interrupted him. «The bailiff has thoroughly upset me! If all this is really true I mean, the bad harvest and the drought, then why has he to worry me before the proper time?»
«Well, of course», Alexeyev began, «he shouldnt have done that. But you cant expect a peasant to have nice feelings, can you? That sort of man doesnt understand anything».
«But what would you do in my place?» asked Oblomov, looking questioningly at Alexeyev in the vain hope that he might think of something to allay his fears.
«This requires careful thought», said Alexeyev. «Its impossible to decide at once».
«Ought I to write to the Governor, I wonder?» Oblomov said, musingly.
«Who is your Governor?» asked Alexeyev.
Oblomov did not reply and sank into thought. Alexeyev fell silent and also pondered.
Crumpling the letter in his hands, Oblomov propped up his head on them and, resting his elbows on his knees, sat like that for some time, tormented by an onrush of profitless thoughts.
«I wish Stolz would hurry up and come», he said. «He writes to say hes coming soon, meanwhile hes rushing about goodness only knows where. Hed settle it all!»
He again stared sadly about him. They were both silent a long time. Oblomov was the first to rouse himself at last.
«Thats what has to be done», he said resolutely and almost got out of bed. «And it must be done as soon as possible. No use wasting any more time. First»
At that moment there was a desperate ring at the front door, so that Oblomov and Alexeyev both gave a start and Zakhar at once jumped off the stove.
3
«At home?» someone in the hall asked loudly and gruffly.
«Where would he go at this hour?» Zakhar replied, more gruffly still.
A man of about forty came into the room. He was of massive build, tall, broad-shouldered, bulky, with a large head and big features, a short, thick neck, large protruding eyes, and full lips. A glance at him made one think of something coarse and untidy. It was clear that he made no attempt at dressing elegantly. It was not often that one saw him clean-shaven. But he did not seem to care; he was not ashamed of his clothes, and wore them with a kind of cynical dignity.
It was Mikhey Andreyich Tarantyev, a country neighbour of Oblomov.
Tarantyev looked at everything morosely, with ill-disguised contempt and open hostility towards the world at large; he was ready to abuse everyone and everything as though he had suffered some injustice or had been offended in his dignity, or like a man of strong character persecuted by destiny and submitting to it under protest and unwillingly. His gestures were bold and sweeping; he spoke in a loud voice, glibly and almost always angrily; listening to him from a distance one got the impression of three empty carts going over a bridge. He was never put out by anyones presence, was never at a loss for a word, and was generally rude to everyone, including his friends, as though making it clear that he bestowed a great honour on a person by talking to him or having dinner or supper at his place.
Tarantyev was a man of quick and cunning intelligence; no one could solve some practical question or some complicated legal problem better than he; he would at once devise his own theory of how it was best to act in the circumstances and would adduce very subtle arguments in favour of it, and in conclusion almost always be rude to the person who had asked his advice.
And yet, having obtained the job of a clerk in some government office twenty-five years before, he remained there in the same post till his hair began to turn grey. It never occurred to him or to anyone else that he might get higher up in the service.
The trouble was that Tarantyev was good only at talking; in words he settled everything simply and easily, especially where other people were concerned; but as soon as he had to move a finger or stir from his place in short, apply his own theory in practice and show efficiency and expedition he became an entirely different person; he was unable to rise to the occasion, he suddenly became dejected or unwell or awkward, or he found he had something else to do, which he did not do, either; or if he did, he made an unholy mess of it. He behaved just like a child: he overlooked something, or showed himself to be ignorant of the merest trifles, or was late for an appointment, or threw up the business half-way, or began at the wrong end and bungled it in such a way that it was quite impossible to put it right and finally he would blame everybody but himself for his own incompetence.