11

Two gentlemen were walking along the wooden pavements of Vyborg about twelve o’clock one day; a carriage slowly followed them. One of them was Stolz, and the other a friend of his, a writer, a stout man with an apathetic face and with pensive and, as it were, sleepy eyes. They came to a church; morning mass was over and people were pouring into the street, preceded by a large crowd of beggars of all sorts.

«I should like to know where the beggars come from», said the writer, looking at the beggars.

«Where they come from? Why, from all sorts of nooks and crannies».

«I don’t mean that», the writer answered. «I should like to know how one becomes a beggar – how does one get to such a position? Does it happen suddenly or gradually? Is it true or false?»

«What do you want to know that for? Not going to write Mystères de Petersbourg, are you?»

«Maybe», the writer replied, yawning lazily.

«Well, here’s your chance: ask any one of them, and for a rouble he’ll sell you the story of his life. You can write it down and sell it at a profit. Here’s an old man who seems to be a most ordinary type of beggar. I say, old man, come here a moment, will you?»

The old man turned at the call, took off his hat and walked up to them.

«Kind sir», he wheezed, «help a poor old soldier, badly wounded in thirty battles».

«Zakhar!» Stolz cried in surprise. «Is that you?»

Zakhar fell silent suddenly, then, screening his eyes from the sun with a hand, he looked intently at Stolz.

«I’m sorry, sir, I can’t recognize you at all, I’m afraid – I’m quite blind, sir».

«You haven’t forgotten Stolz, your master’s friend, have you?» Stolz said reproachfully.

«Why, Mr Stolz, sir! I must be as blind as a post, sir! I’m sorry, sir!»

He tried to catch Stolz’s hand, and in his excitement missed it and kissed the skirt of his coat.

«Praise be to God, sir, for letting a miserable cur like me live to see such a joyful day», he shouted, half crying and half laughing.

All his face, from forehead to chin, seemed to have been branded with purple. His nose had, besides, a bluish tint. He was quite bald; his whiskers were as big as before, but they were tangled into a thick mat, and each looked as though a lump of snow had been put in it. He wore a threadbare and completely faded overcoat, one side of which was tom off, a pair of old and worn goloshes on his bare feet, and in his hand he held a worn fur cap.

«The dear Lord, sir, has done me a real favour this morning on account of its being a feast-day, I suppose».

«Why are you in such a state? Aren’t you ashamed?»

«Good Lord, sir, what was I to do?» Zakhar began, heaving a deep sigh. «I have to keep body and soul together, sir. Now, you see, sir, when Anisya was alive, I didn’t knock about the streets, for I had enough to eat, but when she died during the cholera – God rest her soul – the mistress’s brother refused to keep me – called me a parasite, he did, and Mr Tarantyev always tried to kick me from behind as I walked past him. Oh, sir, it wasn’t much of a life, I can tell you. The names they called me, sir! Would you believe it, sir, things came to such a pass that I couldn’t eat a bite – lost my appetite I have. If it wasn’t for the mistress – God bless her! – I’d have perished long ago in the frost. She gives me some clothes for the winter and as much bread as I want, and she used to give me a corner on the stove, too, bless her heart, but they began nagging at her on my account, so I just walked out of the house, sir. Aye, sir, it’ll be two years soon since I began leading this wretched life».

«Why didn’t you take a job?» asked Stolz.

«Why, sir, you can’t find jobs so easily nowadays. I had two situations, sir, but I didn’t give satisfaction. It’s all different now, not like it was in the good old days, sir. It’s much worse. A footman must know how to read and write, and great noblemen, sir, haven’t their entrance halls crammed with servants as they used to. All they want is one footman or at most two. They take their boots off themselves, seem to have invented some special machine for that», Zakhar went on mournfully. «It’s a blooming shame and a disgrace, sir! There won’t be any gentry left soon!»

He heaved a sigh.

«You see, sir, I got a job with one of them German merchants to sit in the hall. All went well till he sent me to wait at table. It’s not really my line of business, sir, is it? I was carrying some crockery one day – Bohemian china, it was – and the floors were slippery, damn them! Well, sir, my feet suddenly slid apart and all the crockery – the whole blooming lot, sir, tray and all – crashed to the floor. Well, of course, sir, they gave me the sack. Another time an old countess liked the look of me. „You seem respectable“,’ she says to me, and gave me the job of hall porter. It’s a good old-fashioned sort of job, sir. All you have to do is to sit on a chair and look important, cross your legs, and just swing one foot slowly like, and if anyone comes you mustn’t answer at once, but first you must give a growl and then let him in or kick him out, all according. And, of course, if important visitors come you must salute them with your staff, like that, sir!» Zakhar showed with his arm how to salute. «It’s a fine job, sir, and no mistake. But her ladyship was difficult to please – very difficult indeed! One day she looked into my room, saw a bug, and kicked up such an unholy row, sir, just as if I had invented bugs! What house is without bugs, sir? Anyway, another time she walked past me and thought that I smelt of vodka. Now, I ask you, sir! And she sacked me…»

«You certainly reek of vodka, and very strongly, too!» said Stolz.

«Aye, sir, I have a drop now and again to drown my sorrows; aye, sir, to drown my sorrows», Zakhar wheezed, screwing up his face in bitter resentment of his fate. «I tried being a cab-driver, too, sir. Hired myself out to a cab-owner, I did, but I had my feet frozen. Aye, sir, lost my strength, I have; getting old, that’s the trouble! Got a real beast of a horse too. One day it rushed under a carriage and nearly threw me off my box. Another time I ran over an old woman and got dragged off to the police station…»

«There, that’ll do! Now, listen; don’t drink and don’t knock about the streets, but come to me and I’ll find some place for you in my house – you can come to the country with us – do you hear?»

«Yes, sir, but…»

He heaved a sigh.

«You see, sir, I shouldn’t like to go away from here – from his grave, I mean! Our dear master Ilya Ilyich», he cried. «I’ve said a prayer for him again to-day, God rest his soul! What a master the good Lord has taken away from me, sir. He just lived to make everybody happy – aye, he should have lived a hundred years, he should, sir», Zakhar, said, whimpering and screwing up his face. «Been to his grave to-day, I have, sir. Whenever I happen to be in them parts, sir, I goes straight to his grave. Sits there for hours, I does, with tears streaming from my eyes, sir. Sometimes I falls to thinking, it is very quiet all round, and suddenly I fancies he’s calling me: „Zakhar! Zakhar!“ Oh dear, it fairly gives me the creeps, so it does, sir! Aye, I shan’t have another master like him – that’s certain! And how he loved you, sir, the Lord bless his soul!»

«Well, come and have a look at little Andrey. I’ll tell them to give you a meal and decent clothes, and then you can do as you like», said Stolz, giving him some money.

«I’ll come, sir; of course I’ll come to have a look at the master’s little boy! I expect he’s grown up by now! Dear me, what a joyful day this has been! Yes, sir, I’ll come; may the Lord keep you in good health and grant you many more years to live», Zakhar growled, as the carriage drove away.

«Well, you’ve heard the story of this beggar, haven’t you?» Stolz said to his friend.

«Who is this Ilya Ilyich he mentioned?» asked the writer.

«Oblomov: I’ve often spoken to you about him»,

«Yes, I remember the name, he was your friend and schoolfellow. What became of him?»

«He’s dead. He wasted his life!»

Stolz sighed and fell into thought.

«And he was as intelligent as anybody, his soul was pure and clear as crystal – noble, affectionate, and – he perished!»

«But why? What was the reason?»

«The reason – what a reason! Oblomovitis!» said Stolz.

«Oblomovitis?» the writer repeated in bewilderment. «What’s that?»

«I’ll tell you in a moment: let me collect my thoughts and memories. And you write it down: someone may find it useful».

And he told him what is written here.