«Ah, so you blame me, do you? Well, to hell with you and with your beer and champagne I Here, take back your money! Where did I put it? Cant remember what I did with the damned note!»
He pulled out a greasy scrap of paper covered with writing.
«No, thats not it!» he said. «Where did I put it?»
He rummaged in his pockets.
«Dont bother to look for it», said Oblomov. «Im not blaming you, but merely ask you to speak with more respect of a man who is a close friend of mine and who has done so much for me». «So much!» Tarantyev said spitefully. «You wait, hell do even more for you you do as he says!»
«Why do you say this to me?» asked Oblomov.
«Im saying this so that you should know when that German of yours robs you of your last penny what it means to give up a neighbour of yours, a true Russian, for some tramp»
«Listen, Tarantyev» Oblomov began.
«Im not going to listen, Ive listened enough, youve given me enough trouble as it is. God knows the insults Ive had to bear I suppose in Germany his father was starving and he comes here and turns up his nose at us!»
«Leave the dead alone! How is his father to blame?»
«They are both to blame: father and son», Tarantyev said gloomily with a wave of his hand. «Its not for nothing my father warned me to beware of the Germans and he knew all sorts of people in his time!»
«But what have you against his father, pray?» asked Oblomov.
«What I have against him is that he came to our province in September with nothing but the clothes he had on and then left a fortune to his son what does that mean?»
«He only left his son some forty thousand roubles. Some of it was his wifes dowry and he made the rest by giving lessons and managing an estate: he received a good salary. You must admit the father didnt do anything wrong. Now what about the son? What wrong has he done?»
«A nice fellow! All of a sudden he makes three hundred thousand out of his fathers forty and then becomes a Court Councillor, a man of learning and now he is away travelling! The rogue has a finger in every pie! Would a good Russian, a real Russian, do all that? A Russian would choose one thing, and that, too, without rush or hurry, in his own good time, and carry on somehow or other but this one Good Lord! If hed become a Government contractor, then at least one could understand how he had grown rich, but he did nothing of the kind just got rich by some knavery! Theres certainly something wrong there! Id prosecute a fellow like that! And now hes knocking about goodness knows where!» Tarantyev went on. «What does he go knocking about in foreign parts for?»
«He wants to study, to see everything, to know!»
«To study! Hasnt he been taught enough? What does he want to learn? Hes telling you lies, dont believe him: he deceives you to your face like a small child. Do grown-up people study anything? Hear what he says! Would a Court Councillor want to study? You studied at school, but are you studying now? And does he», Tarantyev pointed to Alexeyev, «study? Does that relative of his study? Can you think of any decent man who is studying? Do you imagine he is sitting in a German school and doing his lessons? Rubbish! Ive heard hes gone to look at some machine and order one like it: I suppose it is a press for printing Russian money! Id put him in jail. Some sort of shares Oh, these shares they make me sick!»
Oblomov burst out laughing.
«What are you laughing at?» said Tarantyev. «Isnt it true what I say?»
«Lets drop the subject», Oblomov interrupted him. «Youd better go about your business, and Ill write the letters with Alexeyev and try to put down my plan on paper as quickly as possible may as well do it all at once».
Tarantyev went out, but came back immediately.
«Ive quite forgotten!» he began, not at all as brusquely as before. «I came to you on business this morning. I am invited to a wedding to-morrow: Rokotov is getting married. Lend me your frock-coat, old man. Mine, you can see, is rather shabby».
«But», said Oblomov, frowning at this new demand, «how can I? My coat wont fit you».
«It will, of course it will!» Tarantyev interrupted. «You remember I tried it on once: it might have been made for me! Zakhar! Zakhar! Come here, you old brute!»
Zakhar growled like a bear, but did not come.
«Call him, old man», Tarantyev pleaded. «What a funny chap he is!»
«Zakhar!» Oblomov called.
«Oh, the devil take you!» Zakhar could be heard saying from his room as he jumped off the stove.
«Well, what do you want?» he asked, addressing Tarantyev.
«Fetch my black frock-coat», Oblomov ordered. «Mr Tarantyev wants to see if it fits him: he has to go to a wedding tomorrow».
«I wont bring the coat, sir», Zakhar said firmly.
«How dare you, when your master orders you to?» Tarantyev shouted. «Why dont you send him to the house of correction, old man?»
«That would be a nice thing to do: send an old man to the house of correction!» said Oblomov. «Dont be obstinate, Zakhar, bring the coat».
«I wont!» Zakhar answered coldly. «Let him first return your waistcoat and shirt: hes had them for five months. He borrowed them to go to a birthday party and weve never seen them since. A velvet waistcoat, too, and a fine cambric shirt; cost twenty-five roubles. I wont give him the coat».
«Well, good-bye and to hell with both of you!» Tarantyev said angrily, turning to go and shaking his fist at Zakhar. «Remember, old man, Ill take the flat for you do you hear?» he added.
«All right, all right», Oblomov said impatiently, just to get rid of him.
«And you write what I told you», Tarantyev went on, «and dont forget to tell the Governor that you have twelve little children. And, mind, the soup is to be on the table at five sharp. Why havent you ordered a pie?»
But Oblomov did not reply; he had not been listening and, closing his eyes, was thinking of something else.
With Tarantyevs departure a dead silence reigned in the room for about ten minutes. Oblomov was worried by the bailiffs letter and the prospect of moving to another flat, and partly tired by Tarantyevs loud chatter. At last he sighed.
«Why dont you write?» Alexeyev asked quietly. «Ill sharpen a pen for you».
«Do, and then please go away», said Oblomov. «Ill do it myself and you can copy it out after dinner».
«Very good, sir», Alexeyev replied. «I was afraid I might be disturbing you. Ill go now and tell them not to expect you in Yekaterinhof. Good-bye, Mr Oblomov».
But Oblomov was not listening to him; he almost lay down in the arm-chair, with his feet tucked under him, looking very dispirited, lost in thought or perhaps dozing.
5
Oblomov, a gentleman by birth and a collegiate secretary by rank, had lived in Petersburg without a break for the last twelve years.
At first, while his parents were still alive, he had lived more modestly, occupying two rooms, and was satisfied with the services of Zakhar, whom he had brought with him from the country; but after the death of his father and mother he became the sole owner of 350 serfs, whom he had inherited in one of the remote provinces almost on the borders of Asia. Instead of 5,000 he had received from 7,000 to 10,000 roubles a year, and it was then that the manner of his life became different and much grander. He took a bigger flat, added a cook to his domestic staff, and even kept a carriage and pair. He was still young then, and while it could not be said that he was lively, he was at all events livelier than now; he was still full of all sorts of aspirations, still hoped for something, and expected a great deal from the future and from himself; he was still preparing himself for a career, for the part he was going to play in life, and, above all, of course for the Civil Service, which was the main reason for his arrival in Petersburg. Later he also thought of the part he was going to play in society; finally, in the distant future, at the turning point of youth and mature age, the thought of family happiness filled his imagination with agreeable expectations.