3

АT the end of August it began to rain, and smoke came out of the chimneys of the summer cottages that had stoves, and the people in those that had not went about with kerchiefs tied round their heads; at last, all the summer cottages were gradually deserted.

Oblomov had not been to town again, and one morning the Ilyinskys’ furniture was carted and carried past his windows. Though to leave his flat, to dine out, and not lie down all day no longer seemed an heroic feat to him, he was now faced with the problem of how to spend the evenings. To remain alone in the country when the park and the woods were deserted and when Olga’s windows were shuttered seemed utterly impossible to him. He walked through her empty rooms, walked round the park, came down the hill, and his heart was oppressed with sadness. He told Zakhar and Anisya to go to Vyborg, where he decided to stay until he found another flat, and himself went to town, had a quick dinner at a restaurant, and spent the evening at Olga’s.

But autumn evenings in town were not like the long bright days and evenings in the park and the woods. In town he could not see her three tunes a day; there Katya did not run with a message to him, and he could not send Zakhar three miles with a note. In fact, all the flowering summer poem of their love seemed to have come to a stop, as though its subject-matter had run out. Sometimes they were silent for half an hour on end. Olga would be absorbed in her work, counting to herself the squares of the pattern with her needle, and he would be absorbed in a chaos of thoughts, living in a future that was far ahead of the present moment. Only at times, as he gazed intently at her, would he give a passionate start, or she would glance at him and smile, catching a glimpse of a tender look. He went to town and dined at Olga’s three days in succession under the pretext that his rooms were not ready yet, that he was going to move during the week and could not settle down in his new flat before that. But on the fourth day he felt that it would be improper to call again, and after walking up and down the pavement before Olga’s house for some time, he sighed and drove home. On the fifth day Olga told him to go to a certain shop where she would be and then walk back to her home with her while the carriage followed them. All this was awkward: they met people they knew, they exchanged greetings, and some of them stopped for a chat.

«Oh dear, how awful!» he said, perspiring with apprehension and the awkwardness of the situation.

Olga’s aunt, too, looked at him with her large, languorous eyes, inhaling her smelling-salts thoughtfully, as though she had a headache. And what a long journey it was! Driving from Vyborg and back again in the evening took him three hours.

«Let us tell your aunt», Oblomov insisted, «then I can stay with you all day and no one will say anything».

«But have you been to the courts?» Olga asked.

Oblomov was greatly tempted to say that he had been there and done everything, but he knew that Olga had only to look at him searchingly to discover the lie in his face. He sighed in reply.

«Oh, if you only knew how difficult it is!» he said.

«And have you spoken to your landlady’s brother? Have you found a flat?» she asked afterwards, without raising her eyes.

«He’s never at home in the morning, and in the evenings I am here», said Oblomov, glad to have found some satisfactory excuse.

Now Olga sighed, but said nothing.

«I will most certainly speak to the landlady’s brother tomorrow», Oblomov tried to soothe her. «It is Sunday to-morrow and he won’t go to the office».

«Until all this is settled», Olga said reflectively, «we can’t tell Auntie and we must not see so much of each other».

«Yes, yes – that’s true», he added hastily in alarm.

«You’d better dine with us on Sundays, our at home day, and then, say, on Wednesdays, alone», she decided. «And on other days we can meet at the theatre. I’ll let you know when we are going and you to come».

«Yes, that’s true», he said, glad that she took upon herself the arrangement of their future meetings.

«And if it’s a fine day», she concluded, «I’ll go for a walk in the Summer Gardens and you can come there. That will remind us of the park – the park!» she repeated with feeling.

He kissed her hand in silence and said good-bye to her till Sunday. She followed him with her eyes sadly, then sat down at the piano and became absorbed in the strains of the music. Her heart was weeping for something, and the notes, too, wept. She wanted to sing, but could not bring herself to.

When he got up on the following morning, Oblomov put on the indoor coat he used to wear in the country cottage. He had parted with his dressing-gown long ago, having given orders to put it away in the wardrobe. Zakhar walked clumsily to the table with the coffee and rolls, holding the tray unsteadily in his hands as usual. Anisya, also as usual, thrust her head through the door to see whether Zakhar would carry the cups safely to the table and hid herself noiselessly as soon as Zakhar put down the tray on the table or rushed up to him quickly if he dropped something, so as to save the others from falling. When this happened Zakhar began to swear first at the things, then at his wife, making as if to hit her in the chest with his elbow.

«What excellent coffee! Who makes it?» Oblomov asked.

«The landlady herself, sir», said Zakhar. «She’s been making it for the last five days. „You’re putting in too much chicory and don’t boil it enough – let me do it,“ she said».

«Excellent», Oblomov repeated, pouring himself another cup. «Thank her».

«Here she is herself», said Zakhar, pointing to the half-open door of a side room. «That must be their pantry, I expect. She works there. They keep sugar, tea, and coffee there as well as the crockery».

Oblomov could see only the landlady’s back, the back of her head, a bit of her white neck, and her bare elbows.

«Why is she moving her elbows about so rapidly there?» asked Oblomov.

«I’m sure I don’t know, sir. Must be making lace, I expect».

Oblomov watched her as she moved her elbows, bent her back, and straightened out again. When she bent down, he could see her clean petticoat and stockings, and her round, firm legs.

«A civil servant’s widow, but she has elbows fit for a countess, and with dimples, tool», Oblomov thought.

At midday, Zakhar came to ask if he would like to taste their pie: the landlady had sent it to him with her compliments.

«It’s Sunday, sir, and they’re baking a pie to-day».

«I can imagine the sort of pie it is», Oblomov said carelessly. «With carrots and onions!»

«No, sir», Zakhar said, «it’s not worse than ours at Oblomovka – with chickens and fresh mushrooms».

«Oh, that must be nice: bring me some! Who does the baking? That dirty peasant woman?»

«Not her!» Zakhar said scornfully. «If it wasn’t for her mistress, she wouldn’t know how to mix the dough. She’s always in the kitchen, the landlady is. She and Anisya baked the pie, sir».

Five minutes later a bare arm, scarcely covered with the shawl he had already seen, was thrust through the door of the side-room, holding a plate with a huge piece of steaming hot pie.

«Thank you very much», Oblomov cried, accepting the pie, and glancing through the door, he fixed his eyes upon the enormous bosom and bare shoulders. The door was hastily closed.

«Wouldn’t you like some vodka?» the voice asked.

«Thank you, I don’t drink», Oblomov said, still more affably. «What kind have you?»

«Our own home-made one», the voice said. «We infuse it from currant leaves ourselves».

«I’ve never drunk a currant-leaf liqueur», said Oblomov. «Please let me try it».

The bare arm was thrust through the door again with a glass of vodka on a plate. Oblomov drank it and liked it very much.

«Thank you very much», he said, trying to peep through the door, but the door was slammed to.

«Why don’t you let me have a look at you and wish you good morning?» Oblomov reproached her.

The landlady smiled behind the door. «I’m sorry, but I’m still wearing my everyday dress: I’ve been in the kitchen all the time, you see. I’ll dress presently, and my brother will soon be coming from Mass», she replied.

«Oh, à propos of your brother», Oblomov observed. «I’d like to have a talk with him. Tell him I want to see him, please».

«All right, I’ll tell him when he comes».

«And who is it coughing?» Oblomov asked. «What a dry cough!»

«It’s Granny. She’s been coughing for the last seven years».

And the door was slammed to.

«How – how simple she is», Oblomov thought. «And there is something about her. And she is very clean, too!»

He had not met the landlady’s brother yet. Every now and then early in the morning, when he was still in bed, he caught sight of a man with a large paper parcel under his arm rushing off on the other side of the fence and disappearing in the street; at five o’clock the same man with the paper parcel rushed past the windows and disappeared behind the front door. He was never heard in the house. And yet there could be no doubt, especially in the mornings, that the house was full of people: there was a clatter of knives in the kitchen; the peasant woman could be heard rinsing something in a corner of the yard; the caretaker was chopping wood or bringing the barrel of water; through the wall the children could be heard crying, or there came the sound of the old woman’s dry, persistent cough.

Oblomov had the four best rooms in the house. The landlady and her family occupied the two back rooms, and her brother lived upstairs in the attic. Oblomov’s study and bedroom looked out into the yard, the drawing-room faced the little garden, and the reception-room the big kitchen garden with the cabbages and potatoes. At the drawing-room windows the curtains were of faded chintz. Plain chairs, in imitation walnut, were placed along the walls; a card-table stood under the looking-glass; on the window-sills were pots of geranium and African marigold, and four cages with siskins and canaries hung in the windows.

The landlady’s brother walked in on tiptoe and bowed three times in answer to Oblomov’s greeting. His civil servant’s uniform was buttoned to the top, so that it was impossible to say whether he wore a shirt under it or not; his tie was done up in a knot and the ends tucked in. He was a man of about forty with a straight tuft of hair on the forehead and two similar tufts over his temples, waving carelessly in the wind and resembling a dog’s ears of medium size. His grey eyes never looked directly at an object, but first glanced at it stealthily and only then fixed themselves upon it. He seemed to be ashamed of his hands, and as he talked he tried to hide them behind his back, or put one behind his back and thrust the other in the breast of his coat. When giving some paper to his chief and explaining some point in it, he kept one hand behind his back and carefully pointed to some line or word with the middle finger of the other hand, which he held with his nail downwards, and, having shown it, at once withdrew his hand, perhaps because his fingers were rather thick and red and shook a little and he believed, with good reason, that it was not quite nice to display them too often.

«I believe, sir», he said, throwing his double glance at Oblomov, «that you were so good as to ask me to come and see you». «Yes», Oblomov replied courteously, «I wanted to talk to you about my flat. Please sit down».

After the second invitation Ivan Matveyich ventured to sit down, leaning over with his entire body and thrusting his hands into his sleeves.

«I’m afraid I have to look for another flat», said Oblomov, «and I should therefore like to sub-let this one».

«It is difficult to sub-let it now», Ivan Matveyevich said, coughing into his hands and hiding them quickly in his sleeves. «If you’d come to see me at the end of summer, there were lots of people after it».

«I did call, but you were not in», Oblomov interrupted.

«My sister told me», the civil servant added. «But don’t worry about your flat: you’ll be very comfortable here. The birds are not disturbing you, are they?»

«Which birds?»

«The hens, sir».

Though Oblomov constantly heard from early morning the deep cackling of a broody hen and the chirping of chicks under his window, he paid no attention to it. Olga’s image was before his mind’s eye and he scarcely noticed what happened around him.

«No, I don’t mind that», he said. «I thought you were talking about the canaries: they start twittering from early morning».

«We will take them out», Ivan Matveyevich answered.

«That doesn’t matter, either», Oblomov observed. «But I’m afraid my circumstances make it impossible for me to stay».

«Just as you like, sir», Ivan Matveyevich replied. «But if you don’t find another tenant, what about our agreement? Will you pay compensation? You’ll be sure to lose on it».

«How much does it amount to?» asked Oblomov.

«I will bring the account».

He brought the agreement and an abacus.

«Here we are, sir», he said. «The rent of the flat is eight hundred roubles, you’ve paid a hundred roubles deposit, which leaves seven hundred».

«But, surely», Oblomov interrupted him, «you can’t possibly demand a year’s rent when I haven’t been here a fortnight!»

«But why not, sir?» Ivan Matveyevich retorted gently and conscientiously. «It would be unjust to expect my sister to suffer loss. She is a poor widow who lives by letting rooms and perhaps makes enough on her chickens and eggs to buy some clothes for the children».

«But, good Lord, I just can’t afford it», Oblomov said. «Just think, I haven’t been here a fortnight. It’s unfair. Why should I pay so much?»

«Just have a look, sir, at what it says in the agreement», Ivan Matveyevich said, pointing to two lines with his middle finger and then hiding it in his sleeve. «Read, please».

«Should I, Oblomov, wish to leave the flat before the expiration of the lease, I undertake to let it to another tenant on the same terms or, failing this, to compensate Mrs Pshenitzyn by paying her a year’s rent up to the first of June next year», Oblomov read. «But how is that?» he said. «That’s unfair».

«That’s the law, sir», observed Ivan Matveyevich. «You signed it yourself. Here is your signature».

The finger again appeared under the signature and disappeared again.

«How much?» said Oblomov.

«Seven hundred roubles», Ivan Matveyevich began clicking on the abacus with the same finger, bending it quickly every time and hiding it in his fist, «and one hundred and fifty roubles for the stables and the shed».

And he clicked the beads of the abacus again.

«But really, sir, I have no horses – I don’t keep any, so what do I want stables and a shed for?» Oblomov retorted spiritedly.

«It’s in the contract, sir», Ivan Matveyevich observed, pointing to the line with a finger. «Mr Tarantyev said you would keep horses».

«Mr Tarantyev was lying!» Oblomov said in vexation. «Let me have the agreement!»

«I can let you have a copy of it, sir; the agreement belongs to my sister», Ivan Matveyevich retorted mildly, taking the agreement. «In addition», Ivan Matveyevich read, «for kitchen garden produce, such as cabbages, turnips, and other vegetables for one person, approximately two hundred and fifty roubles…»

And he was about to click the beads again.

«What kitchen garden? What cabbages? What are you talking about? I know nothing about it!» Oblomov rejoined almost menacingly.

«It’s here, sir! In the contract. Mr Tarantyev said that you wanted it included…»

«So you’re also settling without me what I am to have for my table, are you? I don’t want your cabbages and turnips», Oblomov said, getting up.

Ivan Matveyevich, too, got up from his chair.

«Without you, sir? Why, here is your signature!» he retorted.

Again his thick finger shook over the signature and the whole paper shook in his hand.

«How much do you make it in all?» Oblomov asked impatiently.

«For painting the doors and the ceiling, for altering the windows in the kitchen, and for new hinges for the doors – one hundred and fifty-four roubles and twenty-eight copecks».

«What? Have I got to pay for this too?» Oblomov asked in astonishment. «The landlord always pays for that. No one moves into an undecorated flat».

«Well, sir, it says in the agreement that you have to pay for it», said Ivan Matveyevich, pointing from a distance to the appropriate clause. «One thousand three hundred and fifty-four roubles and twenty-eight copecks altogether, sir!» he concluded gently, hiding both his hands with the agreement behind his back

«But where am I to get it?» Oblomov said, pacing the room. «I haven’t any money. What do I want your cabbages and turnips for?»

«Just as you like, sir!» Ivan Matveyevich added quietly. «But you needn’t worry; you’ll find it very comfortable here. As for the money, my sister can wait».

«I’m sorry but I can’t stay; I can’t because of my circumstances. Do you hear?»

«Yes, sir, just as you like», Ivan Matveyevich replied obediently, withdrawing a step.

«All right, I’ll think it over and try to sub-let the flat», said Oblomov, nodding to him.

«You’ll find it’s not as easy as you think, sir. However, just as you like», Ivan Matveyevich concluded, and, bowing three times, left the room.

Oblomov took out his wallet and counted his money: there were only 305 roubles. He was dumbfounded.

«What have I done with my money?» Oblomov asked himself in astonishment, almost in terror. «At the beginning of summer I received from the country one thousand two hundred roubles, and now there are only three hundred left!»

He began adding up, trying to remember all he had spent, and could remember only 250 roubles.

«Where has the money gone?» he said.

«Zakhar! Zakhar!»

«Yes, sir?»

«Where has all our money gone?» he asked. «You see, we’ve none left!»

Zakhar began fumbling in his pockets, took out half-a-rouble and a ten-copeck piece and put them on the table.

«I’m very sorry, sir», he said, «I forgot to return it – been left over from the moving».

«What are you shoving this small change under my nose for? Tell me what have we done with eight hundred roubles?»

«How should I know, sir? Do I know where you spend your money, what you pay the cabbies in fares?»

«Yes, the carriage did cost a lot», Oblomov remembered, looking at Zakhar. «You don’t remember what we paid the cabby in the country?»

«Remember that, sir? Of course not. One day you told me to give him thirty roubles, so I remember that».

«If only you had written it down!» Oblomov said reprovingly. «It’s bad to be illiterate».

«I’ve spent all my life without knowing how to read or write, sir, and thank God I’m no worse than other people», Zakhar said, looking sideways.

«Stolz is right about the need for schools in the country», thought Oblomov.

«The Ilyinskys, sir», Zakhar went on, «had a footman who could read and write and he pinched their silver from the sideboard».

«Did he now?» Oblomov thought apprehensively. «Yes, indeed, servants who can read and write are all so immoral – spend all their time in public-houses with accordions, guzzling tea… No, it’s much too soon to open schools!»

«Well, what other expenses did we have?» he asked.

«How do I know, sir? You gave Mr Tarantyev some money when he came to see you in the country».

«So I did!» Oblomov cried, looking pleased at having been reminded of it. «So that is thirty roubles to the cabby and I think another twenty-five to Tarantyev. What else?»

He looked questioningly and thoughtfully at Zakhar. Zakhar looked gloomily at him.

«Would Anisya remember, do you think?» asked Oblomov. «That fool remember, sir?» Zakhar said contemptuously. «What does a woman know?»

«I can’t remember!» Oblomov concluded miserably. «We haven’t had any burglars, have we?»

«If we had had burglars, they would have taken everything», said Zakhar, leaving the room.

Oblomov sat down in an arm-chair and pondered. «Where am I to get the money?» he thought desperately. «When will they send some from the country – and how much?»

He glanced at the clock: it was two – time to go to Olga’s. This was the day he was to dine there. He cheered up gradually, ordered a cab, and drove to Morskaya Street.