Oblomov read the full contents chapter by chapter. Online reading of the book Oblomov I

A novel in four parts

Part one

I

In Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the big houses, the population of which would be a whole county town, lying in bed in the morning, in his apartment, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov. He was a man of about thirty-two or three years of age, of medium height, of pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with no definite idea, no concentration in his features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, settled on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed all over the face. From the face, carelessness passed into the poses of the whole body, even into the folds of the dressing gown. Sometimes his eyes were darkened by an expression as if of weariness or boredom; but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from the face the gentleness that was the dominant and basic expression, not only of the face, but of the whole soul; and the soul shone so openly and clearly in the eyes, in the smile, in every movement of the head and hand. And superficially observant, cold-tempered man, glancing in passing at Oblomov, he would say: “There must be a kind man, simplicity!” A deeper and more sympathetic person, peering into his face for a long time, would walk away in pleasant thought, with a smile. Ilya Ilyich's complexion was neither ruddy, nor swarthy, nor positively pale, but indifferent or seemed so, perhaps because Oblomov was somehow flabby beyond his years: from a lack of movement or air, or maybe that and another. In general, his body, judging by the dull, too white light of the neck, small plump hands, soft shoulders, seemed too pampered for a man. His movements, when he was even alarmed, were also restrained by softness and laziness, not devoid of a kind of grace. If a cloud of care came over the face from the soul, the look became foggy, wrinkles appeared on the forehead, a game of doubt, sadness, fright began; but seldom did this anxiety solidify in the form of a definite idea, still more rarely did it turn into an intention. All anxiety was resolved with a sigh and faded into apathy or drowsiness. How Oblomov's home costume went to his dead features and to his pampered body! He was wearing a dressing gown made of Persian fabric, a real oriental dressing gown, without the slightest hint of Europe, without tassels, without velvet, without a waist, very roomy, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice. The sleeves, in the same Asian fashion, went from fingers to shoulder wider and wider. Although this dressing gown had lost its original freshness and in some places replaced its primitive, natural gloss with another, acquired, it still retained the brightness of oriental color and the strength of the fabric. The dressing gown had in the eyes of Oblomov a darkness of invaluable virtues: it is soft, flexible; the body does not feel it on itself; he, like an obedient slave, submits to the slightest movement of the body. Oblomov always went home without a tie and without a vest, because he loved space and freedom. His shoes were long, soft and wide; when, without looking, he lowered his legs from the bed to the floor, he would certainly hit them at once. Lying down with Ilya Ilyich was neither a necessity, like a sick person or a person who wants to sleep, nor an accident, like one who is tired, nor a pleasure, like a lazy person: this was his normal state. When he was at home - and he was almost always at home - he was always lying, and everyone was constantly in the same room where we found him, which served him as a bedroom, study and reception room. He had three more rooms, but he rarely looked in there, unless in the morning, and then not every day when a person swept his office, which was not done every day. In those rooms, the furniture was covered with covers, the curtains were lowered. The room where Ilya Ilyich lay seemed at first glance to be beautifully furnished. There was a bureau of mahogany, two sofas upholstered in silk, beautiful screens embroidered with birds and fruits unknown in nature. There were silk curtains, carpets, a few paintings, bronzes, porcelain, and many beautiful little things. But the experienced eye of a man of pure taste, with one cursory glance at everything that was here, would read only a desire to somehow maintain the decorum of inevitable decorum, if only to get rid of them. Oblomov, of course, only bothered about this when he cleaned his office. Refined taste would not be satisfied with these heavy, ungraceful mahogany chairs, wobbly bookcases. The back of one sofa sank down, the pasted wood lagged behind in places. Exactly the same character was worn by paintings, and vases, and trifles. The owner himself, however, looked at the decoration of his office so coldly and absent-mindedly, as if asking with his eyes: “Who dragged and instructed all this here?” From such a cold view of Oblomov on his property, and perhaps even from a colder view of the same object of his servant, Zakhar, the appearance of the office, if you look there more and more closely, struck by the neglect and carelessness that dominated it. On the walls, near the paintings, cobwebs saturated with dust were molded in the form of festoons; mirrors, instead of reflecting objects, could rather serve as tablets for writing down some memoirs on them over the dust. Carpets were stained. There was a forgotten towel on the sofa; on the table, a rare morning, there was not a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone that had not been removed from yesterday's dinner, and there were no bread crumbs lying around. If not for this plate, and not for a pipe just smoked leaning against the bed, or not for the owner himself lying on it, then one would think that no one lives here - everything was so dusty, faded and generally devoid of living traces of human presence. . On the bookcases, it is true, there were two or three open books, a newspaper was lying about, and an inkstand with feathers stood on the bureau; but the pages on which the books were unfolded were covered with dust and turned yellow; it is clear that they were abandoned long ago; the number of the newspaper was last year's, and if you dipped a pen in it, only a frightened fly would have escaped with a buzz. Ilya Ilyich woke up, contrary to his usual habit, very early, at eight o'clock. He is very concerned about something. On his face alternately appeared not the fear, not the melancholy and annoyance. It was evident that he was overcome internal struggle and the mind has not yet come to the rescue. The fact is that on the eve of Oblomov received from the village, from his headman, a letter of unpleasant content. It is known what kind of troubles the headman can write about: crop failure, arrears, a decrease in income, etc. Although the headman wrote exactly the same letters to his master both in the past and in the third year, this last letter worked just as hard as any unpleasant surprise. Is it easy? We had to think about the means to take some action. However, we must do justice to the care of Ilya Ilyich about his affairs. According to the first unpleasant letter from the headman, received several years ago, he had already begun to create in his mind a plan for various changes and improvements in the management of his estate. According to this plan, it was supposed to introduce various new economic, police and other measures. But the plan was still far from being fully thought out, and the headman's unpleasant letters were repeated every year, prompting him to activity and, consequently, disturbing the peace. Oblomov was aware of the need to do something decisive before the end of the plan. As soon as he woke up, he immediately set out to get up, wash himself and, after drinking tea, think carefully, figure something out, write it down and generally do this business properly. For half an hour he lay still, tormented by this intention, but then he reasoned that he would still have time to do this even after tea, and tea can be drunk, as usual, in bed, especially since nothing prevents thinking while lying down. And so he did. After tea, he had already risen from his bed and almost got up; glancing at the shoes, he even began to lower one foot from the bed towards them, but immediately picked it up again. It struck half past ten, Ilya Ilyich started up. “What am I, really? he said aloud in annoyance. - You need to know your conscience: it's time to get down to business! Just let yourself go and... - Zakhar! he shouted. In the room, which was separated only by a short corridor from Ilya Ilyich's office, there was heard at first like the grumbling of a chained dog, then the sound of feet jumping off from somewhere. It was Zakhar who jumped off the couch, on which he usually spent his time, sitting immersed in a slumber. Entered the room old man, in a gray frock coat, with a hole under the arm, from which a piece of shirt stuck out, in a gray waistcoat, with copper buttons, with a skull bare as a knee, and with immensely wide and thick blond sideburns with gray hair, of which each would be three beards . Zakhar did not try to change not only the the god of the image, but also his costume, in which he walked in the village. The dress was sewn for him according to the pattern he had taken out of the village. He also liked the gray frock coat and waistcoat because in this half-uniform he saw a faint recollection of the livery that he had once worn when seeing the late gentlemen to church or on a visit; and the livery in his memoirs was the only representative of the dignity of the Oblomov family. Nothing more reminded the old man of the lordly, wide and quiet life in the wilderness of the village. The old gentlemen have died, the family portraits have remained at home and, tea, are lying around somewhere in the attic; the legends about the ancient way of life and the importance of the surname are all dying out or live only in the memory of the few old people who remained in the village. Therefore, a gray frock coat was dear to Zakhar: in it, and even in some signs preserved in the face and manners of the master, reminiscent of his parents, and in his whims, to which, although he grumbled, both to himself and aloud, but which between he respected it inwardly, as a manifestation of the lord's will, the master's right, he saw faint hints of obsolete greatness. Without these whims, he somehow did not feel the master over him; without them, nothing revived his youth, the village they left long ago, and the legends about it old house, the only chronicle kept by old servants, nannies, mothers and passed down from generation to generation. The Oblomovs' house was once rich and famous in its own area, but then, God knows why, everything became poorer, smaller, and finally imperceptibly lost among the not old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other faithful memory about the past, cherishing it as a shrine. That is why Zakhar loved his gray coat so much. Perhaps he valued his whiskers because in his childhood he saw many old servants with this ancient, aristocratic decoration. Ilya Ilyich, immersed in thought, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood in front of him silently. Finally he coughed. — What are you? asked Ilya Ilyich.- You called, didn't you? - Called? Why did I call - I do not remember! he answered, stretching. - Go to yourself for now, and I will remember. Zakhar left, and Ilya Ilyich continued to lie and think about the accursed letter. A quarter of an hour has passed. - Well, it's full to lie down! he said; - Zakhar! Again the same jump and grumbling stronger. Zakhar entered, and Oblomov again plunged into thought. Zakhar stood for about two minutes, unfavorably, looking a little sideways at the master, and finally went to the door. — Where are you? Oblomov suddenly asked. “You don’t say anything, so why stand here for nothing?” Zakhar croaked, for lack of another voice, which, according to him, he lost while hunting with dogs, when he rode with an old master and when a strong wind blew into his throat. He stood half-turned in the middle of the room and kept looking sideways at Oblomov. “Are your legs withered that you can’t stand up?” You see, I'm preoccupied - just wait! Haven't stayed there yet? Look for the letter I received yesterday from the headman. Where are you doing it? - What letter? I didn’t see any letter,” said Zakhar. - You took it from the postman: such a dirty one! “Where did they put him—why should I know? said Zakhar, patting the papers and different things lying on the table. “You never know anything. There, in the basket, look! Or fell behind the sofa? Here, the back of the sofa has not yet been repaired; what would you call a carpenter to fix? After all, you broke it. You won't think of anything! “I didn’t break it,” Zakhar answered, “she broke herself; it will not be a century for her to be: someday she must break. Ilya Ilyich did not consider it necessary to prove the contrary. Did you find it? he asked only. “Here are some letters.- Not those. “Well, it’s not like that anymore,” Zakhar said. - All right, come on! said Ilya Ilyich impatiently. - I'll get up, I'll find it myself. Zakhar went to his room, but as soon as he put his hands on the couch in order to jump on it, a hasty cry was heard again: “Zakhar, Zakhar!” - Oh, my God! Zakhar grumbled, going back to the office. — What is this torment? If only death would come sooner! - What do you want? - he said, holding on to the door of the office with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of displeasure, so sideways that he had to see the master half-heartedly, and the master could only see one immense whisker, from which you just expect two to fly out - three birds. — Handkerchief, quickly! You yourself could guess: you do not see! Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly. Zakhar did not show any particular displeasure or surprise at this order and reproach from the master, probably finding both of them very natural on his part. - And who knows where the handkerchief is? he grumbled, going around the room and feeling each chair, although it could be seen even so that nothing was lying on the chairs. - You're losing everything! he remarked, opening the door to the drawing-room to see if anyone was there. - Where to? Search here! I haven't been there since the third day. Yes, rather! - said Ilya Ilyich. - Where is the scarf? I don't have a scarf! said Zakhar, spreading his arms and looking around in all corners. “Yes, there he is,” he suddenly wheezed angrily, “under you!” There the end sticks out. Lie on it yourself, and ask for a handkerchief! And without waiting for an answer, Zakhar went out. Oblomov felt a little embarrassed at his own mistake. He quickly found another reason to make Zakhar guilty. - What a cleanliness you have everywhere: dust, dirt, my God! There, there, look in the corners - you're not doing anything! “If I don’t do anything ...” Zakhar spoke in an offended voice, “I try, I don’t regret my life!” And I wash and sweep the dust almost every day ... He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table on which Oblomov dined. “Out, out,” he said, “everything is swept up, tidied up, as if for a wedding ... What else? — And what is this? interrupted Ilya Ilyich, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. — And this? And this? - He pointed to the towel thrown from yesterday and to the forgotten plate with a slice of bread on the table. “Well, I’ll probably take that away,” Zakhar said condescendingly, taking the plate. - Only this! And the dust on the walls, and the cobwebs? .. - Oblomov said, pointing to the walls. “I clean this up for the holy week: then I clean the image and remove the cobwebs ... - And books, pictures sweep? .. - Books and pictures before Christmas: then Anisya and I will go through all the cabinets. Now when are you going to clean up? You are all at home. - I sometimes go to the theater and visit: if only ... — What a cleaning at night! Oblomov looked reproachfully at him, shook his head and sighed, while Zakhar looked indifferently out the window and sighed too. The master, it seems, thought: “Well, brother, you are even more Oblomov than I myself,” and Zakhar almost thought: “You're lying! you are only a master of speaking tricky and miserable words, but you don’t care about dust and cobwebs. “Do you understand,” said Ilya Ilyich, “that moths start from dust?” I sometimes even see a bed bug on the wall! - I have fleas too! Zakhar replied indifferently. — Is it good? After all, this is bullshit! Oblomov noted. Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that the grin even covered his eyebrows and sideburns, which parted to the sides from this, and a red spot spread all over his face up to his forehead. - What is my fault that there are bugs in the world? he said with naive surprise. Did I make them up? “It’s from impurity,” Oblomov interrupted. - What are you all lying about! “And I did not invent the impurity. - You have mice running around at night - I can hear it. And I didn't invent mice. There are a lot of this creature, like mice, cats, bedbugs, everywhere. - How can others not have moths or bedbugs? Zakhar's face showed incredulity, or, better to say, a quiet certainty that this does not happen. “I have a lot of everything,” he said stubbornly, “you can’t see through every bug, you can’t fit into a crack in it. And he himself, it seems, thought: “Yes, and what kind of sleep is it without a bug?” “You sweep, pick rubbish from the corners, and there will be nothing,” Oblomov taught. - Take it away, and tomorrow it will be typed again, - said Zakhar. “It won’t be enough,” the master interrupted, “it shouldn’t. “It will be enough, I know,” the servant repeated. - And it will be typed, so sweep it again. — How is it? Every day touch all the corners? Zakhar asked. — What kind of life is this? Better go to your soul! - Why are others clean? Oblomov objected. “Look opposite, at the tuner: it’s nice to look, but there’s only one girl ... “Where will the Germans get rubbish,” Zakhar suddenly objected. “Look how they live!” The whole family has been eating bones for a whole week. The coat passes from the shoulders of the father to the son, and from the son again to the father. The dresses on the wife and daughters are short: they all tuck their legs under themselves like geese ... Where can they get rubbish? They don’t have it, like we do, so that in the closets there are a bunch of old, worn-out dresses for years, or a whole corner of bread crusts accumulated over the winter ... They don’t even have a crust lying around in vain: they make crackers, and drink with beer! Zakhar even spat through his teeth, talking about such a stingy life. - Nothing to talk about! - Ilya Ilyich objected, you better clean it up. “Sometimes I would take it away, but you don’t give it yourself,” said Zakhar. — Went yours! You see, I'm in the way. “Of course you do; you are all sitting at home: how will you clean up in front of you? Go away for the day, and I'll clean it up. - Here's what I thought up - to leave! Come on, you're better off. - Yes, right! Zakhar insisted. - Well, if only today they left, Anisya and I would clean everything up. And then we can’t manage it together: we still need to hire women, wash everything. - E! what an idea - bab! Go to yourself, - said Ilya Ilyich. He was no longer glad that he called Zakhar to this conversation. He kept forgetting that if you touch this delicate object just a little, you will not end up with trouble. Oblomov would like it to be clean, but he would like it to be done somehow, imperceptibly, naturally; and Zakhar always started a lawsuit, as soon as they began to demand from him sweeping dust, washing floors, etc. In this case, he will begin to prove the need for a huge fuss in the house, knowing very well that the mere thought of this horrified his master. Zakhar left, and Oblomov plunged into thought. A few minutes later another half hour struck. — What is it? said Ilya Ilyich, almost with horror. - Eleven o'clock soon, but I haven't got up yet, haven't washed my face yet? Zahar, Zahar! - Oh, my God! Well! - was heard from the hall, and then a well-known jump. - Ready to wash? Oblomov asked. - Done a long time ago! Zakhar answered. Why don't you get up? Why don't you tell me it's ready? I would have gotten up a long time ago. Come on, I'm following you now. I have to study, I'll sit down to write. Zakhar left, but returned a minute later with a scribbled and oily notebook and scraps of paper. “Well, if you write, then, by the way, if you please, and check the accounts: you have to pay the money. - What accounts? What money? Ilya Ilyich asked with displeasure. - From the butcher, from the greengrocer, from the laundress, from the baker: everyone asks for money. - Only about money and care! grumbled Ilya Ilyich. “And why don’t you file the bills a little, but all of a sudden? - You all drove me away: tomorrow, yes tomorrow ... “Well, now, isn’t it possible until tomorrow?” — No! They are already very annoying: they don’t lend anymore. Today is the first number. — Ah! Oblomov said sadly. — New concern! Well, what are you standing? Put it on the table. I’ll get up now, wash myself and look around,” said Ilya Ilyich. "So, are you ready to shower?" - Done! Zakhar said.- Well, now... He began, groaning, to push himself up in bed to get up. “I forgot to tell you,” Zakhar began, “just now, while you were still resting, the janitor’s manager sent: he says that you definitely need to move out ... you need an apartment. — Well, what is it? If you need it, then, of course, we will go. What are you doing to me? This is the third time you've told me about this. - They come to me too. - Say we'll go. - They say: you have been promising for a month, they say, but you still don’t move out; we say we'll let the police know. - Let them know! Oblomov said decisively. “We will move ourselves, as soon as it gets warmer, in three weeks. — Where weeks through three! The manager says that in two weeks the workers will come: they will break everything ... “Move out, he says, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow ...” — Eee! too nimble! See what else! Would you like to order now? Don't you dare remind me of the apartment. I already forbade you once; and you again. Look! — What am I to do? Zakhar replied. — What to do? - that's how he gets rid of me! answered Ilya Ilyich. He's asking me! What do I care? You do not bother me, but there as you want, and dispose of it, only so as not to move. Can't try for the master! - But how, father, Ilya Ilyich, I will arrange? Zakhar began with a soft hiss. - The house is not mine: how can one not move from someone else's house, if they are driven? If my house were, so I would with my great pleasure ... Is there any way to persuade them? “We, they say, have been living for a long time, we pay regularly.” “I did,” Zakhar said.- Well, what are they? — What! They set up their own: “Move, they say, we need to redo the apartment.” They want one from the doctoral and one from this big apartment to do, for the wedding of the master's son. - Oh, my God! - Oblomov said with annoyance. “After all, there are such asses that get married!” He rolled onto his back. “You should write, sir, to the landlord,” said Zakhar, “so maybe he wouldn’t touch you, but would order you to break down that apartment over there first.” Zakhar pointed with his hand somewhere to the right. - Well, as soon as I get up, I'll write ... You go to your room, and I'll think about it. You don’t know how to do anything,” he added, “I have to worry about this rubbish myself. Zakhar left, and Oblomov began to think. But he was at a loss as to what to think about: whether the elder's letter, whether moving to new apartment, to begin to settle scores? He was lost in the tide of worldly worries and kept lying, tossing and turning from side to side. From time to time only jerky exclamations were heard: “Oh, my God! It touches life, it reaches everywhere. It is not known how long he would have remained in this indecision, but the bell rang in the hall. “Someone has come!” - said Oblomov, wrapping himself in a dressing gown. “And I haven’t gotten up yet—shame and that’s all!” Who would it be so early? And he, lying down, looked with curiosity at the door.

The idea of ​​Goncharov's novel "Oblomov" is so simple and at the same time unique that it even gave rise to the emergence and further use of a whole new concept, derived from the name of the protagonist and characterizing the main problems raised by the author. The writer himself introduces the term “Oblomovism” into literature, which has become social, harmoniously attributing its use to the character of the novel, Stolz. The interest shown by critics in the named concept is an indisputable proof of the significance and significance of "Oblomov" not only in the work of Goncharov himself, but throughout Russian literature. This result fully justifies the long period of work on the novel. It is difficult to judge exactly when the author came up with the corresponding idea, because according to available information, already in 1847 the writer planned the plot of the work. The year 1849 was marked by the release of a separate chapter of Oblomov's Dream. Interestingly, she is the only one in the entire novel that has a title. Then, due to a trip around the world, the creation of the story was interrupted, but the author did not stop thinking about the work. Goncharov continued writing only in 1857, and readers saw the final version in 1859.

It is not surprising that the writer tried to bring the work to perfection, repeatedly changing and supplementing it, because it is rather difficult to convey the features of an entire era through the fate of specific individuals. The author systematically built the plot, clearly prescribing all its elements. The authenticity and detailing of the depiction of reality in the novel emphasizes Goncharov's explicit use of realism methods. Knowing that the characters and relationships conveyed are quite true makes the characters and events more intimate, and therefore interesting for readers seeking to understand the realities of the 19th century. The author himself does not put main goal sharply condemn the phenomena he describes and does not give direct answers. He only tactfully leads to the appropriate conclusions, opposing the images of thought and life of Oblomov and Stolz, Ilinskaya and Pshenitsyna. There is a completely logical opinion that the actions of the characters reflect not just their individual principles, but character traits certain upper strata of the population, adhering to different socio-philosophical views. So some (like Ilya Ilyich) cling to the past, resist change, fear novelty, fantasize about a wonderful future, consisting in a measured, satisfying existence. Significant event can only briefly disrupt their usual way of life (the feelings of the protagonist for Olga), and then again inaction, leading to death. Others (like Stolz) are looking forward to new achievements. They need constant action, and there is no time for empty dreams. Both of these characters are imperfect. Therefore, Goncharov emphasizes the strong friendly relationship of such different main characters who complement each other's images.

At first glance, it seems that the work of "Oblomov" will be difficult and boring to read. But the liveliness of the description, the logic and sequence of events, the simplicity and accessibility of the presentation allow you to really get carried away by the extraordinary story of the protagonist and his environment. Strengthen the desire to find out what the denouement of the plot will be. Of course, you can check out summary novel. But it won't give clear picture events, understanding the reasons for the periodic changes that occurred with the characters, the ability to accurately feel and realize the importance of the issues raised by the author. Therefore, the book "Oblomov" is more correct to read in full. The text is available online on our website. The work is also free to download.

In Gorokhovaya Street, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov lives in one of the big houses.

“He was a man of about thirty-two or three years of age, of medium height, of pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with the absence of any definite idea, any concentration in his features. The thought walked like a free bird across his face, fluttered in his eyes, settled on half-open lips, hid in the folds of his forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness gleamed all over his face ... He was wearing a dressing gown made of Persian fabric, a real oriental dressing gown, without the slightest hint of Europe, without tassels, without velvet, without a waist, very spacious, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice ... Lying down with Ilya Ilyich was not a necessity, like a sick person or like a person who wants to sleep, neither an accident, like that of someone who is tired, nor pleasure, like a lazy person: this was his normal state ... The room where Ilya Ilyich lay, at first glance seemed beautifully decorated ... looking at everything that was here, I would read a desire only to somehow observe the decorum of inevitable propriety, if only to get rid of them ... On the walls, near the pictures, cobwebs, saturated with dust, clung in the form of festoons; mirrors, instead of reflecting objects, could rather serve as tablets for writing on them, through the dust, some notes for memory ... The carpets were stained. There was a forgotten towel on the sofa; on the table, a rare morning, there was not a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone that had not been removed from yesterday's dinner, and there were no bread crumbs lying around.

Oblomov is in a bad mood, as he received a letter from the village from the headman, who complains about drought, crop failures and, in this regard, reduces the amount of money sent to the master. Oblomoz is burdened that now he will have to think about this as well. Having received a similar letter a few years ago, he began to come up with a plan for all kinds of improvements and improvements in his quarters. So it's been going on ever since. Oblomsz thinks about getting up and washing up, but then decides to do it later. Calling Zahara. Zakhar - Oblomov's servant - is extremely conservative, wears the same suit that he wore in the village - a gray frock coat. “The Oblomovs’ house was once rich and famous in its side, but then, God knows why, everything became poorer, smaller, and, finally, imperceptibly got lost among the old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other the faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as a shrine.

Oblomov reproaches Zakhar for slovenliness and laziness, for not removing dust and dirt. Zakhar objects that “why clean it up if it gets there again” and that he didn’t invent bedbugs and cockroaches, everyone has them. Zakhar is a rogue, assigns change from purchases, but only copper money, since "he measured his needs with copper." He constantly bickers with the master over every little thing, knowing full well that he will not stand it and give up on everything. “The servant of the old time used to keep the master from extravagance and intemperance, and Zakhar himself liked to drink with friends at the master's expense; the former servant was as chaste as a eunuch, but this one kept running to a godfather of a suspicious nature. He will save the master's money stronger than any chest, and Zakhar strives to count a dime from the master at some cost and will certainly appropriate the copper hryvnia or nickel lying on the table. Despite all this, he was a servant deeply devoted to his master. "He would not think of burning or drowning for him, not considering this a feat worthy of surprise or some kind of reward." They had known each other for a long time and lived together for a long time. Zakhar nursed little Oblomov in his arms, and Oblomov remembers him as "a young, agile, gluttonous and crafty guy." “Just as Ilya Ilyich could neither get up, nor go to bed, nor be combed and shod, nor dine without the help of Zakhar, so Zakhar could not imagine another master, except for Ilya Ilyich, another existence, how to dress, feed him, be rude to him, to dissemble, to lie, and at the same time to inwardly revere him.

Visitors come to Oblomov, talk about their lives, about the news, Oblomov is called to the May Day festivities in Yekateringof. He refuses, referring either to rain, or to the wind, or to deeds. The first of the visitors is Volkov, "a young man of about twenty-five, radiant with health, with laughing cheeks, lips and eyes." He talks about visits, about a new tailcoat, that he is in love, that he travels in different houses on "Wednesdays", "Fridays" and "Thursdays", showing off new gloves, etc.

Next comes Sudbinsky, with whom Oblomov served as a clerical official. Sudbinsky has made a career, receives a large salary, is all in business, will soon be presented to the order, is going to marry the daughter of a state councilor, takes 10 thousand as a dowry, a government apartment with 12 rooms, etc.

Next comes “a thin, dark-haired gentleman, overgrown all over with sideburns, mustaches and a goatee. He was dressed with deliberate casualness." His last name is Penkin, he is a writer. Penkin wonders if Oblomov has read his article "on trade, on the emancipation of women, on the beautiful April days, on the newly invented composition against fires." Penkin advocates a “real trend in literature”, wrote a story about “how in one city a mayor beats the townspeople in the teeth”, advises reading “a magnificent thing”, in which “one hears Dante, then Shakespeare” and the author of which is undeniably great - "The love of a bribe-taker for a fallen woman." Oblomov is skeptical of his words and says that he will not read. When asked by Penkin what he reads, Oblomov replies that "most of all travel."

The next guest enters - Alekseev, “a man of indefinite years, with an indefinite physiognomy ... Many called him Ivan Ivanovich, others - Ivan Vasilyevich, others - Ivan Mikhailovich ... His presence will add nothing to society, just as his absence will not take anything away from him ... If, with such a person, others give alms to a beggar - and he will throw him his penny, and if they scold, or drive him away, or laugh - so he will scold and laugh with others ... In the service he does not have a special permanent occupation, because colleagues and bosses could not notice in any way that he was doing worse, what was better, so that it would be possible to determine what exactly he was capable of ... He would meet an acquaintance on the street. "Where? - will ask. “Yes, I’m going to the service, or to the store, or to visit someone.” “It’s better to go with me,” he will say, “to the post office, or go to the tailor, or take a walk,” and he goes with him, goes to the tailor and the post office, and walks in the opposite direction from where he went. .

Oblomov is trying to complain to all the guests about his "two troubles" - the village headman and the fact that he is forced to move out of the apartment under the pretext of repairs. But no one wants to listen, everyone is busy with their own affairs.

The next visitor comes - Tarantiev - “a man of smart and cunning mind; no one will better than him to judge some general worldly question or a complicated legal matter: he will now construct a theory of actions in this or that case and very subtly sum up the evidence, and in conclusion, he will almost always be rude to anyone who consults him about something. Meanwhile, he himself, as twenty-five years ago he decided to work as a scribe in some office, so in this position he lived to gray hair. It never occurred to him or anyone else that he should go higher. The fact is that Tarantiev was a master only of talking ... "

The last two guests went to Oblomov's "to drink, eat, smoke good cigars." However, of all his acquaintances, Oblomov valued Andrei Ivanovich Stolz most of all. Oblomov complains that Stolz is now away, otherwise he would have judged all his "troubles" very quickly.

Tarantiev scolds Oblomov that he "smokes rubbish", that he does not have Madeira by the arrival of the guests, that he is still lying. Having taken money from Oblomov, allegedly for the purchase of Madeira, he immediately forgets about it. To Oblomov's complaints about the headman, he says that the headman is a swindler, so that Oblomov would go to the village and put things in order himself. On the news that Oblomov needs to move out of the apartment, he offers to move to his godfather, then "I will look at you every day." Tarantyev speaks angrily about Stolz, scolding him as a “damned German”, “a rogue purging”. “Suddenly, out of his father’s forty, he made three hundred thousand capital, and in the service he turned over as a court clerk, and a scientist ... now he’s still traveling! .. Would a real Russian person begin to do all this? A Russian person will choose one thing, and even then in a hurry, slowly and gently, somehow, otherwise, go ahead!

The guests leave, Oblomov is immersed in thought.

Oblomov has been living in St. Petersburg for the twelfth year without a break. Previously, he was “still young, and if it cannot be said that he was alive, then at least he is more alive than now; he was also full of various aspirations, kept hoping for something, expected a lot both from fate and from himself; everything was preparing for the field, for the role - first of all, of course, in the service, which was the purpose of his arrival in St. Petersburg. Then he thought about his role in society; finally, in the distant future, at the turn of youth to mature years family happiness flashed and smiled at his imagination. But day after day he drank ... and he did not advance a single step in any field and still stood at the threshold of his arena, in the same place where he had been ten years ago. But he kept getting ready and getting ready to start life, kept drawing in his mind the pattern of his future; Yao, with each year that flashed over his head, had to change and discard something in this pattern. Life in his eyes was divided into two halves: one consisted of work and boredom - these were synonyms for him; the other - from peace and peaceful fun ... The future service seemed to him in the form of some family occupation, like, for example, lazy writing down income and expenses in a notebook, as his father did. He believed that the officials of one place were among themselves a friendly, close family, vigilantly caring for mutual peace and pleasure, that visiting a public place is by no means an obligatory habit that must be adhered to daily, and that slush, heat, or simply dislike will always serve as sufficient and legitimate pretexts for not going to office. But how upset he was when he saw that there had to be at least an earthquake in order not to come to the service of a healthy official ... All this brought fear and great boredom to him. “When will you live? When to live? he insisted.

Oblomov served somehow for two years, then sent a dispatch instead of Astrakhan to Arkhangelsk. Fearing responsibility, Oblomov went home and sent a medical certificate of illness. Realizing that sooner or later he will have to "recover", he resigns.

Oblomov does not communicate with women, as this entails troubles. It confines itself to "worship from afar, at a respectful distance." “Almost nothing attracted him from home, and every day he settled more firmly and more permanently in his apartment. At first it became hard for him to stay dressed all day, then he was too lazy to dine at a party, except for acquaintances, more single houses where you can take off your tie, unbutton your vest, and where you can even “lie down” or sleep for an hour. Soon the evenings got tired of him: he had to put on a tailcoat, shave every day ... Despite all these quirks, his friend, Stolz, managed to pull him out into the people; but Stolz often left St. Petersburg for Moscow, Nizhny, Crimea, and then abroad - and without him, Oblomov again plunged head over heels into his loneliness and solitude, from which only something extraordinary could bring him out. “He is not accustomed to movement, to life, to crowds and bustle. He felt stuffy in the close crowd; he got into the boat with the false hope of getting safely to the other shore, he rode in a carriage, expecting that the horses would carry and smash.

Ilyusha, like the others, went to school until the age of fifteen. “Of necessity, he sat straight in the classroom, listened to what the teachers said, because there was nothing else to do, and with difficulty, with sweat, with sighs, he learned the lessons given to him ... Serious reading tired him.” Oblomov does not perceive thinkers, only poets managed to stir up his soul. Books are given to him by Stoltz. "Both were worried, wept, gave each other solemn promises to follow a reasonable and bright path." But nevertheless, during the reading, “no matter how interesting the place where he (Oblomov) stopped was, but if the hour of lunch or sleep caught him at this place, he put the book with the binding up and went to dinner or extinguished the candle and went to bed” . As a result, his head was a complex archive of dead deeds, faces, epochs, figures, religions, unrelated political, economic, mathematical or other truths, tasks, positions, etc. It was like a library consisting of some scattered volumes on different parts knowledge".

“It also happens that he is filled with contempt for human vice, for lies, for slander, for evil spilled in the world, and flares up with a desire to point out to a person his ulcers, and suddenly thoughts light up in him, walk and walk in his head, like waves in the sea. , then they grow into intentions, ignite all the blood in him ... But, you look, the morning will flash by, the day is already leaning towards evening, and with it Oblomov’s weary forces tend to rest.

A doctor comes to Oblomov, examines him and says that in two or three years he will have a blow from lying down and fatty food, advises him to go abroad. Oblomov is horrified. The doctor leaves, Oblomov is left to think about his "misfortunes". He falls asleep, he has a dream in which all stages of his life path pass before him.

At first, Ilya Ilyich dreams about the time when he is only seven years old. He wakes up in his bed. The nanny dresses him, leads him to tea. The entire "staff and retinue" of the Oblomovs' house immediately pick him up, begin to shower him with caresses and praises. After that, feeding him with buns, crackers and cream began. Then the mother, after caressing him more, “let him go for a walk in the garden, around the yard, on the meadow, with strict confirmation to the nanny not to leave the child alone, not to let him go to horses, to dogs, to a goat, not to go far from home, and most importantly, not to let him into the ravine, like the most scary place in the neighborhood, used bad reputation". The day in Oblomovka passes senselessly, in petty worries and conversations. “Oblomov himself, the old man, is also not without work. He sits at the window all morning and strictly observes everything that is happening in the yard ... And his wife is very busy: she talks for three hours with Averka, the tailor, how to alter Ilyusha's jacket from her husband's jersey, she draws with chalk and watches that Averka did not steal the cloth; then he will go into the girl's room, ask each girl how much lace to weave on the day; then he will invite Nastasya Ivanovna, or Stepanida Agapovna, or another of his retinue, to take a walk in the garden with him. practical purpose: to see how the apple is poured, whether yesterday's one, which is already ripe, has fallen ... But the main concern was the kitchen and dinner. The whole house conferred about dinner." After dinner everyone sleeps. The coachman sleeps in the stable, the gardener under a bush in the garden, some of the retinue in the hayloft, etc.

The next time that Oblomov dreams about is that he is a little older, and the nanny tells him fairy tales. “Although the adult Ilya Ilyich later learns that there are no rivers of honey and milk, there are no good sorceresses, although he jokes with a smile over the tales of his nanny, but this smile is insincere, it is accompanied by a secret sigh: his fairy tale is mixed with life, and he is powerless sometimes sad, why a fairy tale is not life, and life is not a fairy tale ... Everything pulls him in that direction, where they only know that they are walking, where there are no worries and sorrows; he always has the disposition to lie on the stove, walk around in a ready-made, unearned dress and eat at the expense of a good sorceress.

Life in Oblomovka is sluggish, extremely conservative. Ilyusha is cherished, "like an exotic flower in a greenhouse." "Seeking manifestations of power turned inward and drooped, withering." Parents “dreamed of an embroidered uniform for him, imagined him as an adviser in the chamber, and his mother even as a governor; but they would like to achieve all this somehow cheaper, with various tricks to get around the stones and obstacles secretly scattered along the path of enlightenment and honor, without bothering to jump over them, that is, for example, to study lightly, not to the exhaustion of the soul and body, not to loss of the blessed fullness acquired in childhood, but in such a way as to only comply with the prescribed form and somehow get a certificate in which it would be said that Ilyusha had passed all the sciences and arts.

Zakhar wakes up Oblomov. Stoltz arrived.

VIII XII
Part Four: III VII VIII

PART ONE

In Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the large houses, the population of which would have been the size of an entire county town, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov was lying in bed in his apartment in the morning.

He was a man of about thirty-two or three years of age, of medium height, of pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with no definite idea, no concentration in his features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, settled on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed all over the face. From the face, carelessness passed into the poses of the whole body, even into the folds of the dressing gown.

Sometimes his eyes were darkened by an expression as if of weariness or boredom; but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from the face the gentleness that was the dominant and basic expression, not only of the face, but of the whole soul; and the soul shone so openly and clearly in the eyes, in the smile, in every movement of the head and hand. And a superficially observant, cold person, glancing casually at Oblomov, would say: "There must be a kind man, simplicity!" A deeper and more sympathetic person, peering into his face for a long time, would walk away in pleasant thought, with a smile.

Ilya Ilyich's complexion was neither ruddy, nor swarthy, nor positively pale, but indifferent or seemed so, perhaps because Oblomov was somehow flabby beyond his years: from a lack of movement or air, or maybe that and another. In general, his body, judging by the dull, too white light of the neck, small plump hands, soft shoulders, seemed too pampered for a man.

His movements, when he was even alarmed, were also restrained by softness and laziness, not devoid of a kind of grace. If a cloud of care came over the face from the soul, the look became foggy, wrinkles appeared on the forehead, a game of doubt, sadness, fright began; but seldom did this anxiety solidify in the form of a definite idea, still more rarely did it turn into an intention. All anxiety was resolved with a sigh and faded into apathy or drowsiness.

How Oblomov's home costume went to his dead features and to his pampered body! He was wearing a dressing gown made of Persian material, a real oriental dressing gown, without the slightest hint of Europe, without tassels, without velvet, without a waist, very roomy, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice. The sleeves, in the same Asian fashion, went from fingers to shoulder wider and wider. Although this dressing gown had lost its original freshness and in some places replaced its primitive, natural gloss with another, acquired, it still retained the brightness of oriental color and the strength of the fabric.

The dressing gown had in the eyes of Oblomov a darkness of invaluable virtues: it is soft, flexible; the body does not feel it on itself; he, like an obedient slave, submits to the slightest movement of the body.

Oblomov always went home without a tie and without a vest, because he loved space and freedom. His shoes were long, soft and wide; when, without looking, he lowered his legs from the bed to the floor, he would certainly hit them at once.

Lying down with Ilya Ilyich was neither a necessity, like a sick person or a person who wants to sleep, nor an accident, like one who is tired, nor a pleasure, like a lazy person: this was his normal state. When he was at home - and he was almost always at home - he was always lying, and everyone was constantly in the same room where we found him, which served him as a bedroom, study and reception room. He had three more rooms, but he rarely looked in there, unless in the morning, and then not every day when a person swept his office, which was not done every day. In those rooms, the furniture was covered with covers, the curtains were lowered.

The room where Ilya Ilyich lay seemed at first glance to be beautifully furnished. There was a bureau of mahogany, two sofas upholstered in silk, beautiful screens embroidered with birds and fruits unknown in nature. There were silk curtains, carpets, a few paintings, bronzes, porcelain, and many beautiful little things.

But the experienced eye of a man of pure taste, with one cursory glance at everything that was here, would read only a desire to somehow maintain the decorum of inevitable decorum, if only to get rid of them. Oblomov, of course, only bothered about this when he cleaned his office. Refined taste would not be satisfied with these heavy, ungraceful mahogany chairs, wobbly bookcases. The back of one sofa sank down, the pasted wood lagged behind in places.

Exactly the same character was worn by paintings, and vases, and trifles.

The owner himself, however, looked at the decoration of his study so coldly and absent-mindedly, as if asking with his eyes: "Who dragged and instructed all this here?" From such a cold view of Oblomov on his property, and perhaps even from a colder view of the same object of his servant, Zakhar, the appearance of the office, if you look there more and more closely, struck by the neglect and carelessness that dominated it.

On the walls, near the paintings, cobwebs saturated with dust were molded in the form of festoons; mirrors, instead of reflecting objects, could rather serve as tablets for writing down some memoirs on them over the dust. Carpets were stained. There was a forgotten towel on the sofa; on the table, a rare morning, there was not a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone that had not been removed from yesterday's dinner, and there were no bread crumbs lying around.

If not for this plate, and not for a pipe just smoked leaning against the bed, or not for the owner himself lying on it, then one would think that no one lives here - everything was so dusty, faded and generally devoid of living traces of human presence . True, there were two or three open books on the shelves, a newspaper was lying around, and an inkwell with feathers stood on the bureau; but the pages on which the books were unfolded were covered with dust and turned yellow; it is clear that they were abandoned long ago; the number of the newspaper was last year's, and from the inkwell, if you dip a pen into it, only a frightened fly would have escaped with a buzz.

Ilya Ilyich woke up, contrary to his usual habit, very early, at eight o'clock. He is very concerned about something. On his face alternately appeared not the fear, not the melancholy and annoyance. It was evident that he was overcome by an internal struggle, and the mind had not yet come to the rescue.

The fact is that on the eve of Oblomov received from the village, from his headman, a letter of unpleasant content. It is known what kind of troubles the headman can write about: crop failure, arrears, a decrease in income, etc. Although the headman wrote exactly the same letters to his master last year and in the third year, this last letter also had an effect as strong as any an unpleasant surprise.

Is it easy? We had to think about the means to take some action. However, we must do justice to the care of Ilya Ilyich about his affairs. According to the first unpleasant letter from the headman, received several years ago, he had already begun to create in his mind a plan for various changes and improvements in the management of his estate.

According to this plan, it was supposed to introduce various new economic, police and other measures. But the plan was still far from being fully thought out, and the headman's unpleasant letters were repeated every year, prompting him to activity and, consequently, disturbing the peace. Oblomov was aware of the need to do something decisive before the end of the plan.

As soon as he woke up, he immediately set out to get up, wash himself and, after drinking tea, think carefully, figure something out, write it down and generally do this business properly.

For half an hour he lay still, tormented by this intention, but then he reasoned that he would still have time to do this even after tea, and tea can be drunk, as usual, in bed, especially since nothing prevents thinking while lying down.

And so he did. After tea, he had already risen from his bed and almost got up; glancing at the shoes, he even began to lower one foot from the bed towards them, but immediately picked it up again.

It struck half past ten, Ilya Ilyich started up.

What am I really? he said aloud with annoyance. - You need to know your conscience: it's time to get down to business! Just let yourself go and...

Zakhar! he shouted.

In the room, which was separated only by a short corridor from Ilya Ilyich's office, there was heard at first like the grumbling of a chained dog, then the sound of feet jumping off from somewhere. It was Zakhar who jumped off the couch, on which he usually spent his time, sitting immersed in a slumber.

An elderly man entered the room, in a gray frock coat, with a hole under the arm, from which a piece of shirt stuck out, in a gray waistcoat, with copper buttons, with a skull bare as a knee, and with immensely wide and thick blond with graying whiskers, of which each it would be three beards.

Zakhar did not try to change not only the image given to him by God, but also his costume, in which he walked in the village. The dress was sewn for him according to the pattern he had taken out of the village. He also liked the gray frock coat and waistcoat because in this half-uniform he saw a faint recollection of the livery that he had once worn when seeing the late gentlemen to church or on a visit; and the livery in his memoirs was the only representative of the dignity of the Oblomov family.

Nothing more reminded the old man of the lordly, wide and quiet life in the wilderness of the village. The old gentlemen have died, the family portraits have remained at home and, tea, are lying around somewhere in the attic; the legends about the ancient way of life and the importance of the surname are all dying out or live only in the memory of the few old people who remained in the village. Therefore, a gray frock coat was dear to Zakhar: in it, and even in some signs preserved in the face and manners of the master, reminiscent of his parents, and in his whims, to which, although he grumbled, both to himself and aloud, but which between he respected it inwardly, as a manifestation of the lord's will, the master's right, he saw faint hints of obsolete greatness.

Without these whims, he somehow did not feel the master over him; without them, nothing revived his youth, the village that they left long ago, and the legends about this old house, the only chronicle kept by old servants, nannies, mothers and passed down from generation to generation.

The Oblomovs' house was once rich and famous in its own area, but then, God knows why, everything became poorer, smaller, and finally imperceptibly lost among the not old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other the faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as a shrine.

That is why Zakhar loved his gray coat so much. Perhaps he valued his whiskers because in his childhood he saw many old servants with this ancient, aristocratic decoration.

Ilya Ilyich, immersed in thought, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood in front of him silently. Finally he coughed.

What you? asked Ilya Ilyich.

Did you call?

Called? Why did I call - I do not remember! he answered, stretching. - Go to yourself for now, and I will remember.

Zakhar left, and Ilya Ilyich continued to lie and think about the accursed letter.

A quarter of an hour has passed.

Well, full lie! he said; - Zakhar!

Again the same jump and grumbling stronger. Zakhar entered, and Oblomov again plunged into thought. Zakhar stood for about two minutes, unfavorably, looking a little sideways at the master, and finally went to the door.

Where are you? - suddenly asked Oblomov.

You don't say anything, so why stand there for nothing? - Zakhar croaked, for lack of another voice, which, according to him, he lost while hunting with dogs, when he rode with an old master and when he blew like a strong wind in his throat.

He stood half-turned in the middle of the room and kept looking sideways at Oblomov.

Are your feet so dry that you can't stand up? You see, I'm preoccupied - just wait! Haven't stayed there yet? Look for the letter I received yesterday from the headman. Where are you doing it?

Which letter? I didn’t see any letter,” said Zakhar.

You took it from the postman: so dirty!

Where did they put him - why should I know? - said Zakhar, patting the papers and various things lying on the table with his hand.

You never know anything. There, in the basket, look! Or fell behind the sofa? Here, the back of the sofa has not yet been repaired; what would you call a carpenter to fix? After all, you broke it. You won't think of anything!

I did not break, - Zakhar answered, - she broke herself; it will not be a century for her to be: someday she must break.

Ilya Ilyich did not consider it necessary to prove the contrary.

Did you find it? he only asked.

Here are some letters.

Well, it’s not like that anymore,” Zakhar said.

Okay, come on! Ilya Ilyich said impatiently. - I'll get up, I'll find it myself.

Zakhar went to his room, but as soon as he put his hands on the couch in order to jump on it, a hasty cry was heard again: "Zakhar, Zakhar!"

Oh you, Lord! - Zakhar grumbled, going back to the office. - What is this torment? If only death would come sooner!

What do you want? - he said, holding on to the door of the office with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of displeasure, so sideways that he had to see the master half-heartedly, and the master could only see one immense whisker, from which you just expect two to fly out - three birds.

Handkerchief, quick! You yourself could guess: you do not see! Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly.

Zakhar did not show any particular displeasure or surprise at this order and reproach from the master, probably finding both of them very natural on his part.

And who knows where the handkerchief is? he grumbled, going around the room and feeling every chair, although it could be seen even so that nothing was lying on the chairs.

You lose everything! he remarked, opening the door to the drawing-room to see if anyone was there.

Where? Search here! I haven't been there since the third day. Yes, rather! - said Ilya Ilyich.

Where is the scarf? I don't have a scarf! - said Zakhar, throwing up his hands and looking around in all corners. “Yes, there he is,” he suddenly wheezed angrily, “under you!” There the end sticks out. Lie on it yourself, and ask for a handkerchief!

And without waiting for an answer, Zakhar went out. Oblomov felt a little embarrassed at his own mistake. He quickly found another reason to make Zakhar guilty.

What a cleanliness you have everywhere: dust, dirt, my God! There, there, look in the corners - you're not doing anything!

If I don’t do anything ... - Zakhar spoke in an offended voice, - I try, I don’t regret my life! And I wash and sweep the dust almost every day ...

He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table on which Oblomov dined.

Get out, get out, - he said, - everything is swept up, tidied up, as if for a wedding ... What else?

And what's that? interrupted Ilya Ilyich, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. - And this? And this? - He pointed to the towel thrown from yesterday and to the forgotten plate with a slice of bread on the table.

Well, I’ll probably take it away, ”Zakhar said condescendingly, taking a plate.

Just this! And the dust on the walls, and the cobwebs? .. - said Oblomov, pointing to the walls.

I clean this up for the holy week: then I clean the images and remove the cobwebs ...

And books, paintings, sweep? ..

Books and pictures before Christmas: then Anisya and I will go through all the cupboards. Now when are you going to clean up? You are all at home.

I sometimes go to the theater and visit: if only ...

What a cleaning at night!

Oblomov looked reproachfully at him, shook his head and sighed, while Zakhar looked indifferently out the window and sighed too. The master seemed to think: “Well, brother, you are even more Oblomov than I myself,” and Zakhar almost thought: “You’re lying! You’re just a master of speaking tricky and miserable words, but you don’t care about dust and cobwebs ".

Do you understand, - said Ilya Ilyich, - that moths start from the dust? I sometimes even see a bed bug on the wall!

I have fleas too! Zakhar replied indifferently.

Is it good? After all, this is bullshit! Oblomov noted.

Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that the grin even covered his eyebrows and sideburns, which parted to the sides from this, and a red spot spread all over his face up to his forehead.

What is my fault that there are bugs in the world? he said with naive surprise. Did I make them up?

This is from impurity, - interrupted Oblomov. - What are you all lying about!

And I did not invent the impurity.

You have mice running around there at night - I can hear it.

And I didn't invent mice. There are a lot of this creature, like mice, cats, bedbugs, everywhere.

How can others not have moths or bedbugs?

Zakhar's face expressed incredulity, or, to put it better, calm confidence that this does not happen.

I have a lot of everything,” he said stubbornly, “you can’t see through every bug, you can’t fit into a crack in it.

And he himself, it seems, thought: "And what kind of sleep is it without a bug?"

You sweep, pick rubbish from the corners - and there will be nothing, - Oblomov taught.

Take it away, and tomorrow it will be typed again, - said Zakhar.

It won’t be enough, - the master interrupted, - it shouldn’t.

It will be enough - I know, - the servant kept repeating.

And it will be typed, so sweep it again.

Like this? Every day touch all the corners? Zahar asked. - What kind of life is this? Better go to your soul!

Why are others clean? Oblomov objected. - Look opposite, at the tuner: it’s nice to look, but there’s only one girl ...

And where will the Germans take rubbish, - Zakhar suddenly objected. - Look at how they live! The whole family has been eating bones for a whole week. The coat passes from the shoulders of the father to the son, and from the son again to the father. The dresses on the wife and daughters are short: they all tuck their legs under themselves like geese ... Where can they get rubbish? They don’t have it, like we do, so that in the closets there are a bunch of old, worn-out dresses for years, or a whole corner of bread crusts accumulated over the winter ... They don’t even have a crust lying around in vain: they make crackers, and drink with beer!

Zakhar even spat through his teeth, talking about such a stingy life.

Nothing to talk! - Ilya Ilyich objected, you better clean it up.

Sometimes I would take it away, but you don’t give it yourself, ”said Zakhar.

Went yours! You see, I'm in the way.

Of course, you; you are all sitting at home: how will you clean up in front of you? Go away for the day, and I'll clean it up.

Here's another thought up - to leave! Come on, you're better off.

Yeah right! Zakhar insisted. - Here, if only today they would leave, Anisya and I would clean everything up. And then we can’t manage it together: we still need to hire women, wash everything.

E! what ideas - women! Go to yourself, - said Ilya Ilyich.

He was no longer glad that he called Zakhar to this conversation. He kept forgetting that if you touch this delicate object just a little, you will not end up with trouble.

Oblomov would like it to be clean, but he would like it to be done somehow, imperceptibly, naturally; and Zakhar always started a lawsuit, as soon as they began to demand from him sweeping dust, washing floors, etc. In this case, he will begin to prove the need for a huge fuss in the house, knowing very well that the mere thought of this horrified his master.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov plunged into thought. A few minutes later another half hour struck.

What is it? - Ilya Ilyich said almost with horror. - Eleven o'clock soon, but I haven't got up yet, haven't washed my face yet? Zahar, Zahar!

Oh my God! Well! - I heard from the front, and then a well-known jump.

Ready to wash? - asked Oblomov.

Done a long time ago! Zakhar answered. - Why don't you get up?

Why don't you tell me it's ready? I would have gotten up a long time ago. Come on, I'm following you now. I have to study, I'll sit down to write.

Zakhar left, but returned a minute later with a scribbled and oily notebook and scraps of paper.

Now, if you write, by the way, if you please, and check the scores: you have to pay money.

What accounts? What money? Ilya Ilyich asked with displeasure.

From the butcher, from the greengrocer, from the laundress, from the baker: everyone asks for money.

Only about money and care! grumbled Ilya Ilyich. - A you that little by little don't submit scores, and all of a sudden?

After all, you all drove me away: tomorrow, yes tomorrow ...

Well, now why not until tomorrow?

Not! They are already very annoying: they don’t lend anymore. Today is the first number.

Oh! - Oblomov said with anguish. - New concern! Well, what are you standing? Put it on the table. I'll get up now, wash myself and look, - said Ilya Ilyich. - So, are you ready to wash up?

Ready! Zakhar said.

Well now...

He began, groaning, to push himself up in bed to get up.

I forgot to tell you, - Zakhar began, - just now, while you were still resting, the janitor's manager sent: he says that you must definitely move out ... you need an apartment.

Well, what is it? If you need it, then, of course, we will go. What are you doing to me? This is the third time you've told me about this.

They come to me too.

Say we'll go.

They say: you've been promising for a month, they say, but you still don't move out; we say we'll let the police know.

Let them know! Oblomov said decisively. - We ourselves will move, as it will be warmer, in three weeks.

Where in three weeks! The manager says that in two weeks the workers will come: they will break everything ... "Move out, he says, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow ..."

Eee! too nimble! See what else! Would you like to order now? Don't you dare remind me of the apartment. I already forbade you once; and you again. Look!

What am I to do? Zakhar replied.

What to do? - this is how he gets rid of me! answered Ilya Ilyich. - He asks me! What do I care? You do not bother me, but there as you want, and dispose of it, only so as not to move. Can't try for the master!

But how, father, Ilya Ilyich, I will arrange? Zakhar began with a soft hiss. - The house is not mine: how can one not move from someone else's house, if they are driven? If my house were, so I would with my great pleasure ...

Is there any way to persuade them? "We, they say, have been living for a long time, we pay regularly."

He spoke, - said Zakhar.

Well, what are they?

What! We set up our own: "Move, they say, we need to redo the apartment." They want to make one big apartment out of the doctor's office and this one, for the wedding of the master's son.

Oh my God! - Oblomov said with annoyance. - After all, there are such asses that get married!

He rolled onto his back.

You should have written, sir, to the landlord,” said Zakhar, “perhaps he would not have touched you, but would have told you to break down that apartment first.

Zakhar pointed with his hand somewhere to the right.

Well, as soon as I get up, I'll write ... You go to your room, and I'll think about it. You don’t know how to do anything,” he added, “I have to worry about this rubbish myself.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov began to think.

But he was at a loss as to what to think about: whether about the letter from the headman, whether about moving to a new apartment, whether to begin to settle scores? He was lost in the tide of worldly worries and kept lying, tossing and turning from side to side. From time to time, only jerky exclamations were heard: "Oh, my God! Life touches, it gets everywhere."

It is not known how long he would have remained in this indecision, but the bell rang in the hall.

Someone has come! - said Oblomov, wrapping himself in a dressing gown. - And I have not yet got up - a shame and nothing more! Who would it be so early?

And he, lying down, looked with curiosity at the door.

In Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the large houses, the population of which would have been the size of an entire county town, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov was lying in bed in his apartment in the morning.

He was a man of about thirty-two or three years of age, of medium height, of pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with no definite idea, no concentration in his features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, settled on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed all over the face. From the face, carelessness passed into the poses of the whole body, even into the folds of the dressing gown.

Sometimes his eyes were darkened by an expression as if of fatigue or boredom, but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from his face the softness that was the dominant and basic expression, not only of the face, but of the whole soul, and the soul shone so openly and clearly in the eyes. , in a smile, in every movement of the head, hands. And a superficially observant, cold person, glancing casually at Oblomov, would say: “There must be a kind man, simplicity!” A deeper and more sympathetic person, peering into his face for a long time, would walk away in pleasant thought, with a smile.

Ilya Ilyich's complexion was neither ruddy, nor swarthy, nor positively pale, but indifferent or seemed so, perhaps because Oblomov was somehow flabby beyond his years: from a lack of movement or air, or maybe that and another. In general, his body, judging by the dull, too white light of the neck, small plump hands, soft shoulders, seemed too pampered for a man.

His movements, when he was even alarmed, were also restrained by softness and laziness, not devoid of a kind of grace. If a cloud of concern came over the face from the soul, the look became foggy, wrinkles appeared on the forehead, a game of doubt, sadness, fright began, but rarely did this anxiety freeze in the form of a definite idea, even more rarely turned into an intention. All anxiety was resolved with a sigh and faded into apathy or drowsiness.

How Oblomov's home costume went to his dead features and to his pampered body! He was wearing a dressing gown made of Persian fabric, a real oriental dressing gown, without the slightest hint of Europe, without tassels, without velvet, without a waist, very roomy, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice. The sleeves, in the same Asian fashion, went from fingers to shoulder wider and wider. Although this dressing gown had lost its original freshness and in some places replaced its primitive, natural gloss with another, acquired, it still retained the brightness of oriental color and the strength of the fabric.

The dressing gown had in the eyes of Oblomov a darkness of invaluable virtues: it is soft, flexible, the body does not feel it on itself, it, like an obedient slave, submits to the slightest movement of the body.

Oblomov always went home without a tie and without a vest, because he loved space and freedom. His shoes were long, soft and wide, and when he lowered his legs from bed to the floor without looking, he would certainly fall into them immediately.

Lying down with Ilya Ilyich was neither a necessity, like a sick person or a person who wants to sleep, nor an accident, like one who is tired, nor a pleasure, like a lazy person: this was his normal state. When he was at home - and he was almost always at home - he was always lying, and everyone was constantly in the same room where we found him, which served him as a bedroom, study and reception room. He had three more rooms, but he rarely looked in there, unless in the morning, and then not every day when a person swept his office, which was not done every day. In those rooms, the furniture was covered with covers, the curtains were lowered.

The room where Ilya Ilyich lay seemed at first glance to be beautifully furnished. There was a bureau of mahogany, two sofas upholstered in silk, beautiful screens embroidered with birds and fruits unknown in nature. There were silk curtains, carpets, a few paintings, bronzes, porcelain, and many beautiful little things.

But the experienced eye of a man of pure taste, with one cursory glance at everything that was here, would read only a desire to somehow maintain the decorum of inevitable decorum, if only to get rid of them. Oblomov, of course, only bothered about this when he cleaned his office. Refined taste would not be satisfied with these heavy, ungraceful mahogany chairs, wobbly bookcases. The back of one sofa sank down, the pasted wood lagged behind in places.

Exactly the same character was worn by paintings, and vases, and trifles.

The owner himself, however, looked at the decoration of his office so coldly and absent-mindedly, as if asking with his eyes: “Who dragged and instructed all this here?” From such a cold view of Oblomov on his property, and perhaps even from a colder view of the same object of his servant, Zakhar, the appearance of the office, if you look there more and more closely, struck by the neglect and carelessness that dominated it.

On the walls, near the paintings, cobwebs saturated with dust were molded in the form of festoons; mirrors, instead of reflecting objects, could rather serve as tablets for writing down some notes on them from the dust. Carpets were stained. There was a forgotten towel on the sofa, on the table a rare morning there was not a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone that had not been removed from yesterday's dinner, and there were no bread crumbs lying around.

If not for this plate, and not for a pipe just smoked leaning against the bed, or not for the owner himself lying on it, then one would think that no one lives here - everything was so dusty, faded and generally devoid of living traces of human presence . True, there were two or three open books on the bookcases, a newspaper was lying around, and an inkwell with feathers stood on the bureau, but the pages on which the books were unfolded were covered with dust and turned yellow, it is clear that they had been abandoned a long time ago, the number of the newspaper was last year, and from an inkwell, if you dip a pen in it, only a frightened fly would escape with a buzz.

Ilya Ilyich woke up, contrary to his usual habit, very early, at eight o'clock. He is very concerned about something. On his face alternately appeared not the fear, not the melancholy and annoyance. It was evident that he was overcome by an internal struggle, and the mind had not yet come to the rescue.

The fact is that on the eve of Oblomov received from the village, from his headman, a letter of unpleasant content. It is known what kind of troubles the headman can write about: crop failure, arrears, a decrease in income, etc. Although the headman wrote exactly the same letters to his master last year and in the third year, this last letter also had an effect as strong as any an unpleasant surprise.

Is it easy? We had to think about the means to take some action. However, we must do justice to the care of Ilya Ilyich about his affairs. According to the first unpleasant letter from the headman, received several years ago, he had already begun to create in his mind a plan for various changes and improvements in the management of his estate.

According to this plan, it was supposed to introduce various new economic, police and other measures. But the plan was still far from being fully thought out, and the headman's unpleasant letters were repeated every year, prompting him to activity and, consequently, disturbing the peace. Oblomov was aware of the need to do something decisive before the end of the plan.

As soon as he woke up, he immediately set out to get up, wash himself and, after drinking tea, think carefully, figure something out, write it down and generally do this business properly.

For half an hour he lay still, tormented by this intention, but then he reasoned that he would still have time to do this even after tea, and tea can be drunk, as usual, in bed, especially since nothing prevents thinking while lying down.

And so he did. After tea, he already got up from his bed and almost got up, looking at his shoes, he even began to lower one foot from the bed towards them, but immediately picked it up again.

It struck half past ten, Ilya Ilyich started up.

What am I really? he said aloud with annoyance. - You need to know your conscience: it's time to get down to business! Just let yourself go and...

Zakhar! he shouted.

In the room, which was separated only by a short corridor from Ilya Ilyich's office, there was heard at first like the grumbling of a chained dog, then the sound of feet jumping off from somewhere. It was Zakhar who jumped off the couch, on which he usually spent his time, sitting immersed in a slumber.

An elderly man entered the room, in a gray frock coat, with a hole under the arm, from which a piece of shirt stuck out, in a gray waistcoat, with copper buttons, with a skull bare as a knee, and with immensely wide and thick blond with graying whiskers, of which each it would be three beards.

Zakhar did not try to change not only the image given to him by God, but also his costume, in which he walked in the village. The dress was sewn for him according to the pattern he had taken out of the village. He also liked the gray frock coat and waistcoat because in this half-uniform he saw a faint recollection of the livery that he once wore when seeing the late gentlemen to church or on a visit, and the livery in his memoirs was the only representative of the dignity of the Oblomov family.

Nothing more reminded the old man of the lordly, wide and quiet life in the wilderness of the village. The old gentlemen have died, the family portraits have remained at home and, tea, are lying around somewhere in the attic, the legends about the ancient way of life and the importance of the family are dying out or live only in the memory of the few old people left in the village. Therefore, a gray frock coat was dear to Zakhar: in it, and even in some signs preserved in the face and manners of the master, reminiscent of his parents, and in his whims, to which, although he grumbled, both to himself and aloud, but which between he respected it inwardly, as a manifestation of the lord's will, the master's right, he saw faint hints of obsolete greatness.

Without these whims, he somehow did not feel the master over him, without them nothing revived his youth, the village that they left long ago, and the legends about this old house, the only chronicle kept by old servants, nannies, mothers and passed down from generation to generation. genus.

The Oblomovs' house was once rich and famous in its own area, but then, God knows why, everything became poorer, smaller, and finally imperceptibly lost among the not old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other the faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as a shrine.

That is why Zakhar loved his gray coat so much. Perhaps he valued his whiskers because in his childhood he saw many old servants with this ancient, aristocratic decoration.

Ilya Ilyich, immersed in thought, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood in front of him silently. Finally he coughed.

What you? asked Ilya Ilyich.

Did you call?

Called? Why did I call - I do not remember! he answered, stretching. - Go to yourself for now, and I will remember.

Zakhar left, and Ilya Ilyich continued to lie and think about the accursed letter.

A quarter of an hour has passed.

Well, full lie! - he said, - you have to get up ... But anyway, let me read the letter from the headman again with attention, and then I’ll get up. - Zakhar!

Again the same jump and grumbling stronger. Zakhar entered, and Oblomov again plunged into thought. Zakhar stood for about two minutes, unfavorably, looking a little sideways at the master, and finally went to the door.

Where are you? - suddenly asked Oblomov.

You don't say anything, so why stand there for nothing? - Zakhar croaked, for lack of another voice, which, according to him, he lost while hunting with dogs, when he rode with an old master and when he blew like a strong wind in his throat.

He stood half-turned in the middle of the room and kept looking sideways at Oblomov.

Are your feet so dry that you can't stand up? You see, I'm preoccupied - just wait! Haven't stayed there yet? Look for the letter I received yesterday from the headman. Where are you doing it?

Which letter? I didn’t see any letter,” said Zakhar.

You took it from the postman: so dirty!

Where did they put him - why should I know? - Zakhar said, patting the papers and various things lying on the table with his hand.

You never know anything. There, in the basket, look! Or fell behind the sofa? Here, the back of the sofa has not yet been repaired, why would you call the carpenter and fix it? After all, you broke it. You won't think of anything!

I did not break, - Zakhar answered, - she broke herself, she will not be a century old: someday she must break.

Ilya Ilyich did not consider it necessary to prove the contrary.

Did you find it? he only asked.

Here are some letters.

Well, it’s not like that anymore,” Zakhar said.

Okay, come on! Ilya Ilyich said impatiently. - I'll get up, I'll find it myself.

Zakhar went to his room, but as soon as he put his hands on the couch in order to jump on it, a hasty cry was heard again: “Zakhar, Zakhar!”

Oh you, Lord! - Zakhar grumbled, going back to the office. - What is this torment? If only death would come sooner!

What do you want? - he said, holding on to the door of the office with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of displeasure, so sideways that he had to see the master half-heartedly, and the master could only see one immense whisker, from which you just expect two to fly out - three birds.

Handkerchief, quick! You yourself could guess: you do not see! Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly.

Zakhar did not show any particular displeasure or surprise at this order and reproach from the master, probably finding both of them very natural on his part.

And who knows where the handkerchief is? he grumbled, going around the room and feeling each chair, although it could be seen even so that nothing was lying on the chairs.

You lose everything! he remarked, opening the door to the drawing-room to see if anyone was there.

Where? Search here! I haven't been there since the third day. Yes, rather! - said Ilya Ilyich.

Where is the scarf? I don't have a scarf! - said Zakhar, throwing up his hands and looking around in all corners. “Yes, there he is,” he suddenly wheezed angrily, “under you!” There the end sticks out. Lie on it yourself, and ask for a handkerchief!

And without waiting for an answer, Zakhar went out. Oblomov felt a little embarrassed at his own mistake. He quickly found another reason to make Zakhar guilty.

What a cleanliness you have everywhere: dust, dirt, my God! There, there, look in the corners - you're not doing anything!

If I don’t do anything ... - Zakhar spoke in an offended voice, - I try, I don’t regret my life! And I wash and sweep the dust almost every day ...

He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table on which Oblomov dined.

Get out, get out, - he said, - everything is swept up, tidied up, as if for a wedding ... What else?

And what's that? interrupted Ilya Ilyich, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. - And this? And this? - He pointed to the towel thrown from yesterday and to the forgotten plate with a slice of bread on the table.

Well, I’ll probably take it away, ”Zakhar said condescendingly, taking a plate.

Just this! And the dust on the walls, and the cobwebs? .. - said Oblomov, pointing to the walls.

I clean this up for the holy week: then I clean the images and remove the cobwebs ...

And books, paintings, sweep? ..

Books and pictures before Christmas: then Anisya and I will go through all the cupboards. Now when are you going to clean up? You are all at home.

I sometimes go to the theater and visit: if only ...

What a cleaning at night!

Oblomov looked reproachfully at him, shook his head and sighed, while Zakhar looked indifferently out the window and sighed too. The master, it seems, thought: “Well, brother, you are even more Oblomov than I myself,” and Zakhar almost thought: “You're lying! you are only a master of speaking tricky and miserable words, but you don’t care about dust and cobwebs.

Do you understand, - said Ilya Ilyich, - that moths start from the dust? I sometimes even see a bed bug on the wall!

I have fleas too! Zakhar replied indifferently.

Is it good? After all, this is bullshit! Oblomov noted.

Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that the grin even covered his eyebrows and sideburns, which parted to the sides from this, and a red spot spread all over his face up to his forehead.

What is my fault that there are bugs in the world? he said with naive surprise. Did I make them up?

This is from impurity, - interrupted Oblomov. - What are you all lying about!

And I did not invent the impurity.

You have mice running around there at night - I can hear it.

And I didn't invent mice. There are a lot of this creature, like mice, cats, bedbugs, everywhere.

How can others not have moths or bedbugs?

Distrust was expressed on Zakhar's face, or, to put it better, calm confidence that this does not happen.

I have a lot of everything,” he said stubbornly, “you can’t see through every bug, you can’t fit into a crack in it.

And he himself, it seems, thought: “Yes, and what kind of sleep is it without a bug?”

You sweep, pick rubbish from the corners - and there will be nothing, - Oblomov taught.

Take it away, and tomorrow it will be typed again, - said Zakhar.

It won’t be enough, - the master interrupted, - it shouldn’t.

It will be enough - I know, - the servant kept repeating.

And it will be typed, so sweep it again.

Like this? Every day touch all the corners? Zahar asked. - What kind of life is this? Better go to your soul!

Why are others clean? Oblomov objected. - Look opposite, at the tuner: it’s nice to look, but only one girl ...

And where will the Germans take rubbish, - Zakhar suddenly objected. - Look at how they live! The whole family has been eating bones for a whole week. The coat passes from the shoulders of the father to the son, and from the son again to the father. The dresses on his wife and daughters are short: they all tuck their legs under themselves like geese ... Where can they get rubbish? They don’t have it, like we do, so that in the closets a bunch of old, worn-out dresses lie over the years or a whole corner of bread crusts accumulated over the winter ... They don’t even have a crust lying around in vain: they make crackers, and drink with beer!

Zakhar even spat through his teeth, talking about such a stingy life.

Nothing to talk! - Ilya Ilyich objected, you better clean it up.

Sometimes I would take it away, but you don’t give it yourself, ”said Zakhar.

Went yours! You see, I'm in the way.

Of course, you are all sitting at home: how will you clean up in front of you? Go away for the day, and I'll clean it up.

Here's another thought up - to leave! Come on, you're better off.

Yeah right! Zakhar insisted. - Here, if only today they would leave, Anisya and I would clean everything up. And then we can’t manage it together: we still need to hire women, wash everything.

E! what ideas - women! Go to yourself, - said Ilya Ilyich.

He was no longer glad that he called Zakhar to this conversation. He kept forgetting that if you touch this delicate object just a little, you will not end up with trouble.

Oblomov would like it to be clean, but he would like it to be done somehow, imperceptibly, of course, and Zakhar always started a lawsuit, as soon as they began to demand from him sweeping dust, washing floors, etc. He in this case, he will begin to prove the need for enormous fuss in the house, knowing very well that the mere thought of this terrified his master.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov plunged into thought. A few minutes later another half hour struck.

What is it? - Ilya Ilyich said almost with horror. - Eleven o'clock soon, but I haven't got up yet, haven't washed my face yet? Zahar, Zahar!

Oh my God! Well! - I heard from the front, and then a well-known jump.

Ready to wash? - asked Oblomov.

Done a long time ago! Zakhar answered. - Why don't you get up?

Why don't you tell me it's ready? I would have gotten up a long time ago. Come on, I'm following you now. I have to study, I'll sit down to write.

Zakhar left, but returned a minute later with a scribbled and oily notebook and scraps of paper.

Now, if you write, by the way, if you please, and check the scores: you have to pay money.

What accounts? What money? Ilya Ilyich asked with displeasure.

From the butcher, from the greengrocer, from the laundress, from the baker: everyone asks for money.

Only about money and care! grumbled Ilya Ilyich. - A you that little by little don't submit scores, and all of a sudden?

After all, you all drove me away: tomorrow, yes tomorrow ...

Well, now why not until tomorrow?

Not! They are already very annoying: they don’t lend anymore. Today is the first number.

Oh! - Oblomov said with anguish. - New concern! Well, what are you standing? Put it on the table. I'll get up now, wash myself and look, - said Ilya Ilyich. - So, are you ready to wash up?

Ready! Zakhar said.

Well now...

He began, groaning, to push himself up in bed to get up.

I forgot to tell you, - Zakhar began, - just now, while you were still resting, the janitor's manager sent: he says that you definitely need to move out ... you need an apartment.

Well, what is it? If you need it, then, of course, we will go. What are you doing to me? This is the third time you've told me about this.

They come to me too.

Say we'll go.

They say: you've been promising for a month, they say, but you still don't move out, we, they say, will let the police know.

Let them know! Oblomov said decisively. - We ourselves will move, as it will be warmer, in three weeks.

Where in three weeks! The manager says that in two weeks the workers will come: they will break everything ... “Move out, he says, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow ...”

Eee! too nimble! See what else! Would you like to order now? Don't you dare remind me of the apartment. I already forbade you once, and you again. Look!

What am I to do? Zakhar replied.

What to do? - this is how he gets rid of me! answered Ilya Ilyich. - He asks me! What do I care? You do not bother me, but there as you want, and dispose of it, only so as not to move. Can't try for the master!

But how, father, Ilya Ilyich, I will arrange? Zakhar began with a soft hiss. - The house is not mine: how can one not move from someone else's house, if they are driven? If my house were, so I would with my great pleasure ...

Is there any way to persuade them? “We, they say, have been living for a long time, we pay regularly.”

He spoke, - said Zakhar.

Well, what are they?

What! They set up their own: “Move, they say, we need to redo the apartment.” They want to make one big apartment out of the doctor's office and this one, for the wedding of the master's son.

Oh my God! - Oblomov said with annoyance. - After all, there are such asses that get married!

He rolled onto his back.

You should have written, sir, to the landlord,” said Zakhar, “perhaps he would not have touched you, but would have told you to break down that apartment first.

Zakhar pointed with his hand somewhere to the right.

Well, as soon as I get up, I'll write ... You go to your room, and I'll think about it. You don’t know how to do anything,” he added, “I have to worry about this rubbish myself.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov began to think.

But he was at a loss as to what to think about: whether about the letter from the headman, whether about moving to a new apartment, whether to begin to settle scores? He was lost in the tide of worldly worries and kept lying, tossing and turning from side to side. From time to time only jerky exclamations were heard: “Oh, my God! It touches life, it reaches everywhere.

It is not known how long he would have remained in this indecision, but the bell rang in the hall.

Someone has come! - said Oblomov, wrapping himself in a dressing gown. - And I have not yet got up - a shame and nothing more! Who would it be so early?

And he, lying down, looked with curiosity at the door.