Oblomov's novel read chapter by chapter full content. Online reading of the book Oblomov I

Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov

PART ONE

In Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the large houses, the population of which would increase by a whole county town, lay in bed in the morning, in his apartment, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov.

He was a man about thirty-two or three years old, of average height, pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with the absence of any definite idea, any concentration in the facial features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, sat on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed throughout the face. From the face, carelessness passed into the poses of the whole body, even into the folds of the dressing gown.

Sometimes his gaze darkened with an expression as if of fatigue or boredom; but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from the face the softness that was the dominant and fundamental 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: “He must be a good man, simplicity!” A deeper and prettier man, having peered into his face for a long time, would have walked away in pleasant thought, with a smile.

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

His movements, even when he was alarmed, were also restrained by softness and laziness, not without a kind of grace. If a cloud of care came over your face from your soul, your gaze became cloudy, wrinkles appeared on your forehead, and a game of doubt, sadness, and fear began; but rarely did this anxiety congeal in the form of a definite idea, and even more rarely did it turn into an intention. All anxiety was resolved with a sigh and died away in apathy or dormancy.

How well Oblomov’s home suit suited his calm facial features and pampered body! He was wearing a robe made of Persian material, a real oriental robe, 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 constant Asian fashion, went wider and wider from the fingers to the shoulder. Although this robe had lost its original freshness and in places replaced its primitive, natural gloss with another, acquired one, it still retained the brightness of the oriental paint and the strength of the fabric.

The robe had in Oblomov’s eyes a darkness of invaluable merits: 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 walked around the house without a tie and without a vest, because he loved space and freedom. His shoes were long, soft and wide; when he, without looking, lowered his feet from the bed to the floor, he certainly fell into them immediately.

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

The room where Ilya Ilyich was lying seemed at first glance to be beautifully decorated. There was a mahogany bureau, two sofas upholstered in silk, beautiful screens with embroidered birds and fruits unprecedented in nature. There were silk curtains, carpets, several paintings, bronze, porcelain and many beautiful little things.

But the experienced eye of a person with pure taste, with one quick glance at everything that was here, would only read a desire to somehow observe the decorum of inevitable decency, just to get rid of them. Oblomov, of course, only bothered about this when he was cleaning his office. Refined taste would not be satisfied with these heavy, ungraceful mahogany chairs and rickety bookcases. The back of one sofa sank down, the glued wood came loose in places.

The paintings, vases, and small items bore exactly the same character.

The owner himself, however, looked at the decoration of his office so coldly and absent-mindedly, as if he was asking with his eyes: “Who brought and installed all this here?” Because of such a cold view of Oblomov on his property, and perhaps also from an even colder view of the same subject by his servant, Zakhar, the appearance of the office, if you examined it more closely, struck you with the neglect and negligence that prevailed in 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 in the dust for memory. The carpets were stained. There was a forgotten towel on the sofa; On rare mornings there was not a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone on the table that had not been cleared away from yesterday’s dinner, and there were no bread crumbs lying around.

If it weren’t for this plate, and the freshly smoked pipe leaning against the bed, or the owner himself lying on it, then one would think that no one lived here - everything was so dusty, faded and generally devoid of living traces of human presence . On the shelves, however, there were two or three open books, a newspaper, and an inkwell with feathers 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 a long time ago; The issue of the newspaper was last year, and if you dipped a pen into it from the inkwell, a frightened fly would only escape with a buzz.

Ilya Ilyich woke up, contrary to usual, very early, at eight o’clock. He is very concerned about something. His face alternated between fear, melancholy and annoyance. It was clear that he was overcome by an internal struggle, and his mind had not yet come to the rescue.

The fact is that Oblomov the day before received an unpleasant letter from the village, from his village elder. It is known what kind of troubles the headman can write about: crop failure, arrears, decreased income, etc. Although the headman wrote exactly the same letters to his master last year and in the third year, this too last letter had the same impact as any unpleasant surprise.

Is it easy? It was necessary to think about means to take some measures. However, we must give justice to Ilya Ilyich’s care for his affairs. Following 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, various new economic, police and other measures were supposed to be introduced. But the plan was still far from being fully thought out, and the headman’s unpleasant letters were repeated annually, prompting him to activity and, therefore, disturbing the peace. Oblomov was aware of the need to do something decisive before the plan was completed.

As soon as he woke up, he immediately intended to get up, wash his face and, having drunk tea, think carefully, figure out something, write down and generally do this matter properly.

For half an hour he lay there, tormented by this intention, but then he decided that he would still have time to do this after tea, and he could drink tea, as usual, in bed, especially since nothing prevents him from thinking while lying down.

So I did. After tea he had already risen from his bed and was about to get up; Looking at the shoes, he even began to lower one foot from the bed towards them, but immediately picked it up again.

Half past nine struck, Ilya Ilyich perked up.

- What am I really? - he said out loud with annoyance. – You need to know your conscience: it’s time to get down to business! Just give yourself free reign and...

Ilya Ilyich Oblomov, main character novel, lived on Gorokhovaya Street. This man was approximately 32-33 years old. He was of average height and rather pleasant-looking. Ilya Ilyich's eyes were dark gray. There was no concentration in his features, no trace of any idea. Sometimes Oblomov’s gaze was darkened by an expression of some kind of boredom or fatigue, which, however, did not drive away from his face the softness inherent not only in his face, but in his entire figure and soul.

Oblomov looked flabby beyond his years and, in addition, his body seemed too pampered for a man. No anxiety prompted him to action; usually it was resolved with a sigh and died away in apathy or doze.

Oblomov spent most of the day, and sometimes the whole day, lying down in his favorite dressing gown, so spacious that he could wrap around him twice.

Ilya Ilyich’s apartment consisted of four rooms, but he only used one; in the rest, the furniture was covered with covers and the curtains were drawn. All the rooms, including the one where Ilya Ilyich was constantly located, were “decorated” with a fringe of cobwebs; a thick layer of dust on the objects indicated that cleaning was done here very rarely.

Ilya Ilyich woke up very early, contrary to usual, at eight o’clock. The reason for this was a letter from the headman, sent the day before, which reported a crop failure, arrears, a decrease in income, etc. After the first letter (this was the third), sent several years ago, our hero began to plan various improvements and changes in the management of his estate , but until now this plan remained unfinished. The thought that some kind of decision urgently needed to be made depressed Oblomov, and when half past ten struck, he began to call Zakhar.

Zakhar entered. Lost in thought, Ilya Ilyich did not notice him for a long time. Finally he coughed. Zakhar asked why he was called, to which Oblomov replied that he did not remember and sent his servant back.

About a quarter of an hour passed. Ilya Ilyich called Zakhar again and ordered him to find a letter from the headman. And after some period of time, he scolded him with all his might for the dirt and disorder, and all because he could not find the handkerchief that was under him in the bed.

As soon as Ilya Ilyich began to rise in bed to get up, Zakhar informed him that the owners were asking to vacate the apartment. Oblomov turned on his back and began to think. But he didn't know what to think about, about bills, about moving to new apartment or about the headman’s letter. So he tossed and turned from side to side, unable to do anything.

When the bell rang in the hallway, Ilya Ilyich was still lying in bed. "Who would it be so early?" - he thought. This ends the summary of chapter 1 of the novel "Oblomov".

Summary of the chapters of the novel "Oblomov"

Part 1	Part 2	Part 3	Part 4

"Oblomov - 01"

* PART ONE *

In Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the large houses, the population of which would be equal to the entire county town, I was lying in bed in the morning, in my apartment,

Ilya Ilyich Oblomov.

He was a man about thirty-two or three years old, of average height, pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with the absence of any definite idea, any concentration in his facial features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, sat on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed throughout the face. From the face, carelessness passed into the poses of the whole body, even into the folds of the dressing gown.

Sometimes his gaze darkened with an expression as if of fatigue or boredom; but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from the face the softness that was the dominant and fundamental 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 in passing at Oblomov, would say: “He must be a good man, simplicity!”

A deeper and prettier man, having peered into his face for a long time, would have walked away in pleasant thought, with a smile.

The robe had in Oblomov’s eyes a darkness of invaluable merits: 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.

He had three more rooms, but he rarely looked in there, perhaps in the morning, and then not every day, when a man was cleaning his office, which was not done every day. IN

In those rooms, the furniture was covered with covers, the curtains were drawn.

There were silk curtains, carpets, several paintings, bronze, porcelain and many beautiful little things.

The back of one sofa sank down, the glued wood came loose in places.

The paintings, vases, and small items bore exactly the same character.

The owner himself, however, looked at the decoration of his office so coldly and absent-mindedly, as if he was asking with his eyes: “Who brought and installed all this here?” From such a cold view of Oblomov towards his property, and perhaps from an even colder view of his servants on the same subject,

Zahara, the appearance of the office, if you examined it more closely, struck you with the neglect and negligence that prevailed in it.

The carpets were stained. There was a forgotten towel on the sofa; On rare mornings there was not a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone on the table that had not been cleared away from yesterday’s dinner, and there were no bread crumbs lying around.

Ilya Ilyich woke up, contrary to usual, very early, at eight o’clock.

He is very concerned about something. His face alternated between fear, melancholy and annoyance. It was clear that he was overcome by an internal struggle, and his mind had not yet come to the rescue.

The fact is that Oblomov the day before received an unpleasant letter from the village, from his village elder. It is known what kind of troubles the headman can write about: crop failure, arrears, 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 had as strong an effect as any an unpleasant surprise.

Is it easy? It was necessary to think about means to take some measures.

However, we must give justice to Ilya Ilyich’s care for his affairs.

Following 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.

As soon as he woke up, he immediately intended to get up, wash his face and, having drunk tea, think carefully, figure out something, write down and generally do this matter properly.

So I did. After tea he had already risen from his bed and was about to get up; Looking at the shoes, he even began to lower one foot from the bed towards them, but immediately picked it up again.

Half past nine struck, Ilya Ilyich perked up.

What am I really? - he said out loud with annoyance. - You need to know your conscience: it’s time to get down to business! Just give yourself free reign and...

Zakhar! - he shouted.

In a room separated only by a small corridor from the office

Ilya Ilyich, at first one could hear exactly the grumbling of a chained dog, then the sound of feet jumping from somewhere. It was Zakhar who jumped off the couch, where he usually spent time, sitting deep in a doze.

entered the room old man, in a gray frock coat, with a hole under the arm, from which a piece of a shirt was sticking out, in a gray vest, with copper buttons, with a skull as bare as a knee and with immensely wide and thick brown and gray sideburns, of which each would be three beards long .

Zakhar did not try to change not only the image given to him by God, but also his costume, which he wore in the village. His dress was made according to a sample he had taken from the village. He also liked the gray frock coat and waistcoat because in this semi-uniform clothing he saw a faint memory of the livery that he had once worn when accompanying the late gentlemen to church or on a visit; and the livery in his memories was the only representative of the dignity of the house

Oblomov.

Nothing else reminded the old man of the lordly, wide and peaceful life in the wilderness of the village. The old gentlemen have died, the family portraits are left at home and, of course, are lying around somewhere in the attic; legends about ancient life and the importance of the family name are all dying out or live only in the memory of the few old people left in the village. Therefore, the gray frock coat was dear to Zakhar: in it, and also in some of the signs preserved in the master’s face and manners, reminiscent of his parents, and in his whims, which, although he grumbled, both to himself and out loud, but which between thus he respected internally, as a manifestation of the lordly will, the master's right; he saw faint hints of outdated greatness.

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

The Oblomov house was once rich and famous in its own right, but then, God knows why, it grew 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 if it were a shrine.

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

Ilya Ilyich, deep 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.

After all, you called?

Did you call? Why did I call you - I don’t remember! - he answered stretching. -

Go to your room for now, and I’ll remember.

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

About a quarter of an hour passed.

Well, stop lying down! - he said, - you have to get up... But by the way, let me read the headman’s letter with attention again, and then I’ll get up. - Zakhar!

Again the same jump and the grunt 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 going? - Oblomov suddenly asked.

You don’t say anything, so why stand here for nothing? - wheezed

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

Have your legs become so withered that you can’t stand? You see, I'm preoccupied - just wait! Have you stayed there yet? Find the letter that I received from the headman yesterday. Where are you taking him?

Which letter? “I haven’t seen any letter,” said Zakhar.

You accepted it from the postman: it’s so dirty!

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

You never know anything. There, in the basket, look! Or did it fall behind the sofa? The back of the sofa has not yet been repaired; Why should you call a carpenter to fix it? After all, you broke it. You won't think about anything!

“I didn’t break it,” Zakhar answered, “she broke herself; It won’t last forever: it has to break someday.

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

Found it, or what? - he only asked.

Here are some letters.

“Well, not anymore,” said Zakhar.

Well, okay, go ahead! - Ilya Ilyich said impatiently. - I’ll get up and find it myself.

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

Oh, my God! - Zakhar grumbled, going back to the office. - What kind of torment is this? If only death would come sooner!

What do you want? - he said, holding the door of the office with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of disfavour, from such an angle that he had to see the master with half an eye, and the master could only see one immense sideburn, from which you would expect two to fly out - three birds.

Handkerchief, quickly! You could have guessed it yourself: you don’t see! - Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly.

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

Who knows where the scarf is? - he grumbled, walking around the room and feeling every chair, although it was already possible to see that there was nothing on the chairs.

You're losing everything! - he remarked, opening the door to the living room to see if there was anything there.

Where? Look here! I haven't been there since the third day. Hurry up! - said

Ilya Ilyich.

Where is the scarf? No scarf! - Zakhar said, spreading his arms and looking around in all corners. “Yes, there he is,” he suddenly wheezed angrily, “below you!” That's where the end sticks out. You lie on it yourself, and ask for a scarf!

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

How clean you are everywhere: dust, dirt, my God! Look, look in the corners - you’re not doing anything!

Since I’m not doing anything...” Zakhar spoke in an offended voice, “

I try, I don’t regret my life! And I wash away dust and sweep almost every day...

He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table on which Oblomov was having lunch.

There, there,” he said, “everything has been swept, tidied up, as if for a wedding...

What else?

And what's that? - Ilya Ilyich interrupted, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. - A

And this? - He pointed to a towel thrown away from yesterday and to a forgotten plate with a slice of bread on the table.

Well, I guess I’ll put that away,” Zakhar said condescendingly, taking the plate.

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

This is what I clean up for Holy Week: then I clean the images and remove the cobwebs...

What about the books and paintings?..

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

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

What a night cleaning!

Oblomov looked at him reproachfully, shook his head and sighed, and Zakhar indifferently looked out the window and also sighed. The master seemed to be thinking: “Well, brother, you are even more Oblomov than I am,” and Zakhar almost thought:

“You’re lying! You’re just a master at speaking sophisticated and pitiful words, but you don’t even care about dust and cobwebs.”

Do you understand,” said Ilya Ilyich, “that moths start from dust?” I

sometimes I even see a bug on the wall!

I also have fleas! - Zakhar responded indifferently.

Do you really think that's good? After all, this is disgusting! - Oblomov noted.

Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that the grin even covered his eyebrows and sideburns, which moved apart as a result, and a red spot spread across his entire face right up to his forehead.

How is it my fault that there are bedbugs in the world? - he said with naive surprise. - Did I make them up?

“It’s from uncleanness,” Oblomov interrupted. - Why are you lying?

And I didn’t invent the uncleanness.

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

And I didn’t invent mice. There are a lot of these creatures, like mice, cats, and bedbugs, everywhere.

How come others don’t have moths or bedbugs?

Zakhar's face expressed incredulity, or, better to say, calm confidence that this was not happening.

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

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

You sweep, pick up the rubbish from the corners - and nothing will happen,” Oblomov taught.

You take it away, and tomorrow it will be full again,” said Zakhar.

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

“He’ll get enough, I know,” the servant insisted.

If it gets dirty, sweep it up again.

Like this? Do you go through all the corners every day? - Zakhar asked. - What kind of life is this? God better send your soul!

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

“Where will the Germans take the rubbish,” Zakhar suddenly objected. - Look how they live! The whole family has been gnawing on the bone for a week. The coat passes from the father's shoulders to the son, and from the son again to the father. My wife and daughters are wearing short dresses: everyone tucks their legs under them like geese... Where can they get dirty laundry?

They don’t have this, like we do, so that in the closets there is a heap of old, worn-out clothes lying in the closets over the years, or a whole corner of bread crusts has accumulated over the winter...

They don’t even have the crust lying around in vain: they’ll make crackers and drink them with beer!

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

There's nothing to talk about! - Ilya Ilyich objected, you better clean up.

Sometimes I would have removed it, but you yourself don’t allow it,” said Zakhar.

Fuck you! That's it, you see, I'm in the way.

Of course, you; You’re all sitting at home: how can you clean up in front of you? Leave for the whole day and I'll clean it up.

Here's another idea - to leave! Come on, you better get to yourself.

Yeah right! - Zakhar insisted. - If only we had left today, we would have

Anisya and removed everything. And we can’t handle it together: we still need to hire women and clean everything up.

Eh! what an idea - women! “Go ahead,” said Ilya Ilyich.

He was not glad that he called Zakhar to this conversation. He kept forgetting that barely touching this delicate object would cause trouble.

Oblomov would like it to be clean, but he would like it to happen somehow, imperceptibly, by itself; and Zakhar always started a lawsuit, as soon as they began to demand that he sweep away dust, wash floors, etc. In this case, he will begin to prove the need for a huge fuss in the house, knowing very well that the very thought of this horrified his master.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov was lost in thought. A few minutes later another half hour struck.

What is this? - Ilya Ilyich said almost with horror. - Eleven o’clock is soon, and I haven’t gotten up yet, haven’t washed my face yet? Zakhar, Zakhar!

Oh, my God! Well! - was heard from the hallway, and then the famous jump.

Are you ready to wash your face? - 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 need to study, I’ll sit down to write.

Zakhar left, but a minute later he returned with a notebook covered in writing and greasy and scraps of paper.

Now, if you’re going to write, it would be a good time to check your abacus:

I need to pay money.

What scores? 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! - Ilya Ilyich grumbled. - Why don’t you file your bills little by little, and all of a sudden?

You all chased me away: tomorrow and tomorrow...

Well, now, can’t we see it until tomorrow?

No! They really pester you: they won’t lend you money anymore. Today is the first day.

Oh! - Oblomov said sadly. - New concern! Well, why are you standing there? Put it on the table. “I’ll get up now, wash myself and take a look,” said Ilya Ilyich. - So, are you ready to wash your face?

Ready! - said Zakhar.

Well, now...

He began, groaning, to rise in bed to stand up.

“I forgot to tell you,” Zakhar began, “just now, while you were still sleeping, the manager sent a janitor: he says that we definitely need to move out...

I need an apartment.

Well, what is it? If necessary, then, of course, we will go. Why are you pestering me? This is the third time you've told me about this.

They pester me too.

Tell me we'll go.

They say: you’ve been promising for a month now, but you still haven’t moved out; We, they say, will let the police know.

Let them know! - Oblomov said decisively. “We’ll move ourselves when it gets warmer, in three weeks.”

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

Uh-uh! too fast! See, one more thing! Would you like to order it now? A

Don’t you dare remind me about the apartment. I already forbade you once; and you again.

What should I do? - Zakhar responded.

What to do? - this is how he gets rid of me! - Ilya answered

Ilyich. - He's asking me! What do I care? Don’t bother me, do whatever you want, just so you don’t have to move. Can't try hard for the master!

But, father, Ilya Ilyich, how can I give orders? - Zakhar began in a soft hiss. - The house is not mine: how can I not move from someone else’s house if they are driving me away?

If it were my house, then with great pleasure I would...

Is it possible to persuade them somehow? “We, they say, have been living for a long time and pay regularly.”

“I spoke,” said Zakhar.

Well, what about them?

What! We got things right: “Move, they say we need to remodel the apartment.” They want to turn this doctor's room into one big apartment for the wedding of the owner's son.

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

He turned on his back.

“You would write, sir, to the owner,” said Zakhar, “so maybe he wouldn’t touch you, but would first order that apartment over there to be demolished.”

At the same time, Zakhar pointed with his hand somewhere to the right.

Well, okay, as soon as I get up, I’ll write... You go to your room, and I’ll think about it.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov began to think.

But he was at a loss what to think about: should he write about the headman’s letter, should he move to a new apartment, should he begin to settle his scores? He was lost in the rush of everyday worries and kept lying there, tossing and turning from side to side. From time to time we could only hear abrupt exclamations: “Oh, my God! It touches life, it reaches us everywhere.”

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

Someone has already come! - said Oblomov, wrapping himself in a robe. - And I haven’t gotten up yet - it’s a shame and that’s all! Who would it be so early?

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

A young man of about twenty-five entered, radiant in health, with laughing cheeks, lips and eyes. Envy took in looking at him.

He was combed and dressed impeccably, dazzling with the freshness of his face, linen, gloves and tailcoat. Along the vest lay an elegant chain with many tiny charms. He took out a thin cambric handkerchief, inhaled the aromas of the East, then casually ran it over his face, over his shiny hat and dipped his patent leather boots.

Ah, Volkov, hello! - said Ilya Ilyich.

“Hello, Oblomov,” said the brilliant gentleman, approaching him.

Don't come, don't come: you're coming from the cold! - he said.

O darling, sybarite! - Volkov said, looking for where to put his hat, and, seeing dust everywhere, he didn’t put it anywhere; He parted both tails of his coat to sit down, but, looking carefully at the chair, remained on his feet.

You haven't gotten up yet! What kind of dressing gown are you wearing? They stopped wearing these a long time ago,” he shamed Oblomov.

“This is not a dressing gown, but a robe,” said Oblomov, lovingly wrapping himself in the wide flaps of the robe.

Are you healthy? - Volkov asked.

What health! - Oblomov said, yawning. - Badly! The tides were exhausting. A

How are you doing?

I? Nothing: great and fun - very fun! - the young man added with feeling.

Where are you from so early? - asked Oblomov.

From the tailor. Look, is the tailcoat good? - he said, tossing and turning in front of

Oblomov.

Great! It’s sewn with great taste,” said Ilya Ilyich, “but why is it so wide at the back?”

This is a tailcoat: for riding.

A! That's what! Do you ride a horse?

Why! To this day I also ordered a tailcoat on purpose. After all, today is the first of May: Goryunov and I are going to Ekateringhof. Oh! You do not know? Goryunov Misha was produced - that’s what makes us different today,” Volkov added in delight.

That's how it is! - said Oblomov.

“He has a red horse,” Volkov continued, “they have red horses in their regiment, but I have a black horse.” What will you do: on foot or in a carriage?

Yes... no way,” said Oblomov.

The first of May will not be in Ekateringhof! What are you doing, Ilya Ilyich! - Volkov said with amazement. - Yes, everything is there!

Well, that's all! No, not all! - Oblomov noted lazily.

Go, darling, Ilya Ilyich! Sofya Nikolaevna and Lydia will be the only two in the carriage; opposite in the carriage there is a bench: if only you could go with them...

No, I won't sit on the bench. And what am I going to do there?

Well, do you want Misha to give you another horse?

God knows what he'll come up with! - Oblomov said almost to himself. - What did the Goryunovs give you?

Oh! - Volkov said, flushing, - should I say?

Speak!

You won't tell anyone - honestly? - Volkov continued, sitting down on the sofa with him.

Perhaps.

“I’m... in love with Lydia,” he whispered.

Bravo! How long ago? She seems so cute.

That's three weeks! - Volkov said with a deep sigh. - And Misha in

In love with Dashenka.

Which Dashenka?

Where are you from, Oblomov? Doesn't know Dashenka! The whole city is crazy about how she dances! Today we are at the ballet; he will throw the bouquet. We need to introduce him: he is timid, still a beginner... Ah! after all, you need to go get camellias...

Where else? That's enough, come over for dinner: we'd like to talk. I have two misfortunes...

I can’t: I’m having lunch with Prince Tyumenev; All the Goryunovs will be there and she, she...

Lidinka,” he added in a whisper. - Why did you leave the prince? What a fun house! Which leg is it placed on? And the dacha! Drowned in flowers! The gallery was added, gothique. In the summer, they say, there will be dancing and live paintings. Will you be visiting?

No, I don't think I will.

Oh, what a house! This winter on Wednesdays there were never less than fifty people, and sometimes there were up to a hundred...

Oh my God! It must be hellishly boring!

How is this possible? Boredom! Yes, the more, the merrier. Lydia was there, I didn’t notice her, but suddenly...

In vain I try to forget her And I want to conquer passion with reason... -

he sang and sat down, lost in thought, on a chair, but suddenly jumped up and began to wipe the dust from his dress.

What dust you have everywhere! - he said.

All Zakhar! - Oblomov complained.

Well, I have to go! - said Volkov. - For camellias for Misha’s bouquet. Au revoir.

Come and have tea in the evening, from the ballet: tell us what happened there,

Oblomov invited.

I can’t, I gave my word to the Mussinskys: their day is today. Let's go too.

Would you like me to introduce you?

No, what to do there?

At the Mussinskys? For mercy's sake, there are half a city there. How to do what? This is the kind of house where they talk about everything...

This is what’s boring about everything,” said Oblomov.

Well, visit the Mezdrovs,” Volkov interrupted, “they talk about one thing there, about the arts; All you hear is: the Venetian school, Beethoven and Bach,

Leonardo da Vinci...

A century of talking about the same thing - what boredom! Pedants, they must be! - Oblomov said, yawning.

You won't be pleased. There aren't enough houses! Now everyone has days: the Savinovs have lunch on Thursdays, the Maklashins have Fridays, the Vyaznikovs have Sundays, and Prince Tyumenev has Wednesdays. My days are busy! - Volkov concluded with shining eyes.

And aren’t you too lazy to hang around every day?

Here, laziness! What kind of laziness? Have fun! - he said carelessly. - You read the morning, you have to be au courant of everything, know the news. Thank God, my service is such that I don’t need to be in office. Only twice a week I will sit and dine with the general, and then you will go on visits, where you have not been for a long time;

well, and there... new actress, then in Russian, then in French theater.

There will be an opera, I'll subscribe. And now I’m in love... Summer begins;

Misha was promised a vacation; Let's go to their village for a month, for a change. There's hunting there. They have excellent neighbors, they give bals champetres. Lydia and I will walk in the grove, ride in a boat, pick flowers... Ah!.. - And he turned over with joy. “However, it’s time... Goodbye,” he said, trying in vain to look at himself front and back in the dusty mirror.

Wait,” Oblomov held back, “I wanted to talk to you about business.”

Sorry, no time,” Volkov was in a hurry, “next time!” - Would you like to eat oysters with me? Then tell me. Let's go, Misha is giving us a treat.

No, God bless you! - said Oblomov.

Goodbye.

He went and returned.

Did you see this? - he asked, showing his hand as if it were gloved.

What it is? - Oblomov asked in bewilderment.

And new lacets! You see how well it tightens: you don’t have to worry about the button for two hours; Pull the string and you're done. This is just from Paris.

Would you like me to bring you a pair to try?

Okay, bring it! - said Oblomov.

And look at this; Isn't it very nice? - he said, finding one keychain in the pile. - Business card with a folded corner.

I can't make out what is written.

Pr. - prince M. - Michel. - said Volkov, - but the surname Tyumenev was not registered; He gave this to me for Easter instead of an egg. But goodbye, au revoir.

I still have ten places left. - My God, what kind of fun is this in the world!

And he disappeared.

“Ten places in one day - unfortunate!” thought Oblomov. “And this is life!” He shrugged his shoulders strongly. “Where is the man here? Why is he fragmented and crumbling? Of course, it’s not bad to look into the theater and fall in love with some Lydia... she's cute! Pick flowers with her in the village, ride around with her.

Fine; “Yes, ten places in one day - unfortunate!” he concluded, turning over on his back and rejoicing that he did not have such empty desires and thoughts, that he was not running around, but lying here, preserving his human dignity and his peace.

A new call interrupted his thoughts.

A new guest entered.

He was a gentleman in a dark green tailcoat with coat of arms buttons, clean-shaven, with dark sideburns that evenly bordered his face, with a weary but calmly conscious expression in his eyes, with a heavily worn face, and a thoughtful smile.

Hello, Sudbinsky! - Oblomov greeted cheerfully. - I forcibly looked into an old colleague! Don't come, don't come! You're out of the cold.

Hello, Ilya Ilyich. “I’ve been planning to come to you for a long time,” said the guest, “but you know what a devilish service we have!” Look, I’m taking a whole suitcase to the report; and now, if they ask anything there, he told the courier to ride here. You can't have a moment to yourself.

Are you still on duty? So late? - asked Oblomov. - Sometimes you started at ten o'clock...

It happened - yes; but now it’s another matter: I’m leaving at twelve o’clock. - He emphasized the last word.

A! I guess! - said Oblomov. - Department Director! How long ago?

Sudbinsky nodded his head significantly.

To the saint, he said. - But how much is going on - it’s terrible! From eight to twelve o'clock at home, from twelve to five in the office, and in the evening I study. I'm completely unaccustomed to people!

Hm! Head of department - that's how it is! - said Oblomov. - Congratulations!

And together they served as clerical officials. I think next year you’ll be a civilian.

Where! God be with you! I still have to get the crown this year: I thought they’d present me for excellence, but now I’ve taken up a new position: I can’t do it two years in a row...

Come to dinner, let's drink to your promotion! - said Oblomov.

No, today I’m having lunch with the vice-director. We need to have a report ready by Thursday.

Hell of a job! You cannot rely on representations from the provinces. You need to check the lists yourself. Foma Fomich is so suspicious: he wants everything himself. Today we’ll sit down together after lunch.

Is it really after lunch? - Oblomov asked incredulously.

What did you think? It’s still good if I get off early so I can at least have time

Ekateringof for a ride... Yes, I stopped by to ask: would you go for a walk? I would stop by.

I’m not feeling well, I can’t! - Oblomov said, frowning. - Yes, and there’s a lot to do... no, I can’t!

It's a pity! - said Sudbinsky. - It's a good day. Only today I hope to breathe.

Well, what's new with you? - asked Oblomov.

Yes, a lot of things: in letters they stopped writing “my humble servant”, they write “accept my assurance”; Formal lists are not ordered to be submitted in two copies. We are adding three tables and two officials on special assignments.

Our commission was closed... A lot!

Well, what about our former comrades?

Nothing bye; Svinkin has lost his business!

Indeed? What about the director? - Oblomov asked in a trembling voice.

From old memory, he became scared.

He ordered the reward to be held until it was found. The matter is important: “about penalties.”

The director thinks,” Sudbinsky added almost in a whisper, “that he lost it... on purpose.”

Can't be! - said Oblomov.

No no! “It’s in vain,” he confirmed with importance and patronage.

Sudbinsky. - Svinkin is a flighty head. Sometimes the devil knows what results he will give you, he will confuse all the certificates. I was exhausted with him; but no, he’s not seen doing anything like that... He won’t do it, no, no! There's a file lying around somewhere; will be found later.

So this is how it is: everything is in the works! - said Oblomov, - you are working.

Horror, horror! Well, of course, it’s a pleasure to serve with a person like Foma Fomich: he doesn’t leave you without rewards; whoever does nothing will not forget those.

As the deadline expired - for the difference, so he represents; whoever has not reached the deadline for the rank, to the cross, will get money...

How much do you get?

So what: one thousand two hundred rubles in salary, seven hundred and fifty special canteens, six hundred in apartments, nine hundred allowances, five hundred for traveling, and rewards up to a thousand rubles.

Ugh! damn it! - Oblomov said, jumping out of bed. - Is your voice good? Definitely an Italian singer!

What else is this! Over there Peresvetov gets extra money, but he does less work than me and doesn’t understand anything. Well, of course, he doesn't have that reputation.

“They value me very much,” he added modestly, lowering his eyes, “the minister recently said about me that I am “an adornment of the ministry.”

Well done! - said Oblomov. - Just work from eight o'clock to twelve, from twelve to five, and at home - oh, oh!

He shook his head.

What would I do if I didn’t serve? - asked Sudbinsky.

You never know! I would read, write... - said Oblomov.

Even now all I do is read and write.

Yes, that’s not it; you would print...

Not everyone can be a writer. “So you don’t write,” he objected.

Sudbinsky.

But I have property in my hands,” Oblomov said with a sigh. - I

I'm thinking new plan; I am introducing various improvements. I’m suffering, I’m suffering... But you’re doing someone else’s, not your own.

What to do! You have to work if you take money. I'll rest in the summer: Foma

Fomich promises to invent a business trip specifically for me... here, here I’ll get runs for five horses, daily allowance of three rubles a day, and then a reward...

They're hurting! - Oblomov said with envy; then he sighed and thought.

I need money: I’m getting married in the fall,” added Sudbinsky.

What you! Indeed? On whom? - Oblomov said with participation.

Not kidding, on Murashina. Do you remember when they lived near me in the dacha? You drank tea with me and, it seems, saw her.

No, I do not remember! Pretty? - asked Oblomov.

Yes, honey. If you want, we'll go and have dinner with them...

Oblomov hesitated.

Yes... okay, just...

“Last week,” Sudbinsky said.

Yes, yes, last week,” Oblomov was delighted, “my dress is not ready yet.” Well, is it a good game?

Yes, my father is an active state councilor; He gives ten thousand, the apartment is government-owned. He gave us a whole half, twelve rooms; The furniture is official, heating, lighting too: you can live...

Yes, you can! Still would! What is Sudbinsky like! - added, not without envy,

I invite you to the wedding, Ilya Ilyich, as best man: look...

Of course, of course! - said Oblomov. - Well, what about Kuznetsov, Vasiliev,

Kuznetsov has been married for a long time, Makhov took my place, and Vasilyev was transferred to Poland. Ivan Petrovich was given Vladimir, Oleshkin - His Excellency.

He's a good guy! - said Oblomov.

Kind kind; it costs.

“Very kind, soft, even character,” Oblomov said.

So obligatory,” added Sudbinsky, “and there’s no way, you know, to curry favor, to spoil things, to put one’s foot in front of him, to get ahead of him... he does everything he can.”

Wonderful person! It happened that you made a mistake on paper, overlooked it, summed up the wrong opinion or laws in a note, nothing: he just told someone else to redo it.

Great person! - Oblomov concluded.

But our Semyon Semyonich is so incorrigible,” said Sudbinsky, “

only a master of throwing dust in the eyes. What he recently did: an idea was received from the provinces about the construction of dog kennels at buildings belonging to our department to protect government property from theft;

our architect, a efficient, knowledgeable and honest man, drew up a very moderate estimate; suddenly it seemed too big to him, and let’s make inquiries, what might it cost to build a dog kennel? I found it about thirty kopecks less -

now a memo...

Another call rang.

“Goodbye,” said the official, “I’ve been chatting, I’ll need something there...

“Sit still,” Oblomov insisted. - By the way, I’ll consult with you: I have two misfortunes...

No, no, I’d better stop by again one of these days,” he said as he left.

“I’m stuck, dear friend, up to my ears,” Oblomov thought, following him with his eyes. “And blind, and deaf, and dumb for everything else in the world. But he will come out into the people, in time he will manage his affairs and grab ranks... we also call it a career! But how little a person is needed here: his mind, his will, his feelings - why is this luxury? And he will live out his life, and much, much will not move in him...

And meanwhile he works from twelve to five in the office, from eight to twelve at home - miserable!

He experienced a feeling of peaceful joy that he could stay on his couch from nine to three, from eight to nine, and was proud that he did not have to go with a report, write papers, that there was room for his feelings and imagination.

Oblomov was philosophizing and did not notice that a very thin, dark-haired gentleman, covered with sideburns, a mustache and a goatee, was standing at his bedside. He was dressed with deliberate negligence.

Hello, Ilya Ilyich.

Hello, Penkin; don't come, don't come: you're out of the cold! -

Oblomov said.

Oh, you weirdo! - he said. - Still the same incorrigible, carefree sloth!

Yes, carefree! - said Oblomov. - Now I’ll show you a letter from the headman: you’re racking your brains, racking your brains, and you say: carefree! Where are you from?

From the bookstore: I went to see if the magazines were out. Have you read my article?

I'll send it to you, read it.

About what? - Oblomov asked through a strong yawn.

About trade, about the emancipation of women, about the wonderful April days that befell us, and about the newly invented composition against fires. How come you don't read this? After all, this is our daily life. And most of all, I advocate for a real direction in literature.

Do you have a lot to do? - asked Oblomov.

Yes, that's enough. Two articles for the newspaper every week, then I write analyzes of fiction writers, and then I wrote a story...

About how in one city the mayor hits the townspeople in the teeth...

Yes, this is indeed a real direction,” Oblomov said.

Is not it? - confirmed the delighted writer. - I am pursuing this idea and I know that it is new and bold. One traveler witnessed these beatings and, during a meeting with the governor, complained to him. He ordered the official who was going there for the investigation to casually verify this and generally collect information about the personality and behavior of the mayor. The official called the townspeople together to ask about trade, but in the meantime, let’s investigate about this too. What about the bourgeoisie? They bow and laugh and praise the mayor. The official began to find out the side, and he was told that the townspeople -

They are terrible swindlers, they sell rot, they weigh, they even measure the treasury, they are all immoral, so these beatings are righteous punishment...

Therefore, the beatings of the mayor appear in the story as the fatum of the ancient tragedians? - said Oblomov.

Exactly,” Penkin picked up. - You have a lot of tact, Ilya Ilyich, you should write! Meanwhile, I managed to show both the arbitrariness of the mayor and the corruption of morals among the common people; the poor organization of the actions of subordinate officials and the need for strict but legal measures... Isn't it true that this idea... is quite new?

Yes, especially for me,” said Oblomov, “I read so little...

In fact, you don’t see any books! - said Penkin. - But, I beg you, read one thing; a magnificent poem, one might say, is being prepared:

"The love of a bribe-taker for a fallen woman." I can't tell you who

What is it?

The entire mechanism of our social movement has been revealed, and everything is in poetic colors. All springs are touched; all the steps of the social ladder have been moved. Here, as if for a trial, the author summoned a weak but vicious nobleman and a whole swarm of bribe takers deceiving him; and all the categories of fallen women have been sorted out... French, German, Chukhonka, and all, all... with amazing, burning fidelity... I heard excerpts - the author is great! You can hear either Dante or Shakespeare...

That's enough! - Oblomov said in amazement, standing up.

Penkin suddenly fell silent, seeing that he had really gone far.

Why? It makes noise, people talk about it...

Let them in! Some people have nothing else to do but talk.

There is such a calling.

Yes, at least read it out of curiosity.

What didn't I see there? - said Oblomov. - Why do they write this: they’re just to amuse themselves...

How about yourself: what loyalty, what loyalty! Looks like a laugh. Exactly living portraits. Whenever they take someone, a merchant, an official, an officer, a watchman, they will definitely stamp him out alive.

Why are they fighting: out of fun, perhaps, that we won’t take someone, but they will surely come out? But there is no life in anything: there is no understanding of it and sympathy, there is no what you call humanity. Only one pride.

They portray thieves, fallen women, as if they were catching them on the street and taking them to prison. In their story one can hear not “invisible tears”, but only visible, rough laughter, anger...

What else is needed? And great, you said it yourself: this is seething anger

The bilious persecution of vice, the laughter of contempt at fallen man... that's all!

No, not all! - Oblomov said, suddenly inflamed. - Play a thief fallen woman, a pompous fool, and don’t forget the person right there. Where is the humanity? You want to write with one head! - Oblomov almost hissed. -

Do you think that thoughts don’t require a heart? No, she is fertilized by love.

Extend your hand to a fallen person to lift him up, or weep bitterly over him if he dies, and do not mock him. Love him, remember yourself in him and treat him as you would treat yourself, then I will begin to read you and bow my head before you...” he said, lying down again calmly on the sofa. -

“They portray a thief, a fallen woman,” he said, “but they forget the person or do not know how to portray him.” What kind of art is there, what poetic colors have you found? Denounce debauchery and dirt, but please, without pretending to be poetry.

So, would you like to depict nature: roses, a nightingale, or a frosty morning, while everything is boiling and moving around? We need one bare physiology of society; We have no time for songs now...

Give me a man, a man! - said Oblomov. - Love him...

To love a usurer, a bigot, a thief or a stupid official -

What are you? And it’s clear that you don’t study literature! - got excited

No, they must be punished, expelled from the civilian environment, from society...

Eject from the civilian environment! - suddenly spoke with inspiration

Oblomov, standing in front of Penkin. - This means forgetting what was present in this worthless vessel highest principle; that he is a spoiled person, but he is still a person, that is, you yourself. Spew out! How will you be cast out from the circle of humanity, from the bosom of nature, from the mercy of God? - he almost shouted with flaming eyes.

That's enough! - in turn, Penkin said with amazement.

Oblomov saw that he too had gone far. He suddenly fell silent, stood for a minute, yawned and slowly lay down on the sofa.

Both fell into silence.

What are you reading? - Penkin asked.

I... yes, all the travel is bigger.

Silence again.

So will you read the poem when it comes out? “I would bring it...” asked Penkin.

Oblomov made a negative sign with his head.

Well, shall I send you my story?

Oblomov nodded in agreement.

However, it’s time for me to go to the printing house! - said Penkin. - Do you know why I came to you? I wanted to invite you to go to Ekateringof; I have a stroller.

Tomorrow I need to write an article about the festivities: if we would observe together, if I didn’t notice, you would tell me; It would be more fun. Let's go...

No, he’s not feeling well,” said Oblomov, wincing and covering himself with a blanket, “

I'm afraid of dampness, now it hasn't dried yet. But you should come to lunch today:

we would talk... I have two misfortunes...

No, our editorial office is all at Saint-Georges today, and from there we’ll go for a walk. And write at night and send light to the printing house. Goodbye.

Goodbye, Penkin.

“Write at night,” Oblomov thought, “when can I sleep? And hey, he’ll earn five thousand a year! That’s bread! But write everything, waste your thought, your soul on trifles, change beliefs, trade your mind and imagination, rape your nature, worry, boil, burn, know no peace and keep moving somewhere... And write everything, write everything, like a wheel, like a car: write tomorrow, the day after tomorrow; the holiday will come, summer will come - and he writes everything? When will you stop and rest?

He turned his head to the table, where everything was smooth, and the ink had dried, and the pen was not visible, and he was glad that he was lying there, carefree, like a newborn baby, that he was not scattered, not selling anything...

“And the headman’s letter, and the apartment?” - he suddenly remembered and thought.

But then they call again.

What kind of party am I having today? - said Oblomov and waited to see who would come in.

A man of uncertain years entered, with an uncertain physiognomy, at a time when it is difficult to guess the age; neither handsome nor ugly, neither tall nor short, neither blond nor dark-haired. Nature did not give him any sharp, noticeable feature, neither bad nor good. Many called him Ivan Ivanovich, others - Ivan Vasilich, others - Ivan Mikhailych.

His last name was also called differently: some said that he was Ivanov, others called him Vasiliev or Andreev, others thought that he was Alekseev.

A stranger who sees him for the first time will be told his name - he will forget now, and he will forget his face; what he says will not be noticed. His presence will not add anything to society, just as his absence will not take anything away from it.

Wit, originality and other features, like special signs on the body, are not in his mind.

Perhaps he would at least be able to tell everything he saw and heard, and at least occupy others with this, but he had never been anywhere: how he was born in

Petersburg, never went anywhere; therefore, he saw and heard what others knew.

Is this person likable? Does he love, hate, suffer?

It seems that one should love, and not love, and suffer, because no one is spared from this. But he somehow manages to love everyone. There are people in whom, no matter how hard you try, you cannot arouse in any way the spirit of enmity, vengeance, etc. Whatever you do with them, they all caress. However, we must give them justice that their love, if divided into degrees, never reaches the level of heat. Although they say about such people that they love everyone and therefore are kind, but, in essence, they do not love anyone and are kind only because they are not evil.

If in the presence of such a person others give alms to a beggar, he will throw his penny to him, and if they scold him, or drive him away, or laugh at him, he will scold him and laugh with others. He cannot be called rich, because he is not rich, but rather poor; but you can’t really call him poor either, because, however, only because there are many poorer than him.

He has an income of about three hundred rubles a year, and, on top of that, he serves in some unimportant position and receives an unimportant salary: he does not suffer need and does not borrow money from anyone, and it would even be in no one’s head to borrow from him is not coming.

In the service, he does not have a special permanent occupation, because his colleagues and superiors could not notice what he was doing worse, what he was doing better, so that they could determine what exactly he was capable of. If they let him do both, he will do it in such a way that the boss always finds it difficult how to respond to his work; he will look, look, read, read, and will only say: “Leave it, I’ll look later... yes, it’s almost as it should be.”

You will never catch a trace of care, a dream on his face, which would show that at that moment he is talking to himself, or you will never see him directing an inquisitive glance at some external object that he would like to assimilate into his knowledge.

He meets an acquaintance on the street: “Where to?” - he will ask. “Yes, I’m going to work, or to the store, or to visit someone.” - "Come along with me,

He will say, “We’ll go to the post office, or we’ll go to the tailor, or we’ll take a walk,” and he goes with him, goes to the tailor, and to the post office, and walks in the opposite direction from where he was going.

Hardly anyone except his mother noticed his birth, very few notice him during his life, but, probably, no one will notice how he disappears from the world; no one will ask, no one will regret him, no one will rejoice at his death. He has neither enemies nor friends, but many acquaintances. Perhaps only the funeral procession will attract the attention of a passerby, who will honor this vague face for the first time with the honor due to him - a deep bow; maybe even another, curious one, will run ahead of the procession to find out about the name of the deceased and immediately forget it.

All this Alekseev, Vasiliev, Andreev, or whatever you want, is some kind of incomplete, impersonal allusion to the human mass, a dull echo, a vague reflection of it.

Even Zakhar, who in frank conversations, at meetings at the gate or in a shop, made different descriptions of all the guests who visited his master, always found it difficult when it was his turn to do this... let’s say,

Alekseeva. He thought for a long time, for a long time he caught some angular feature that he could cling to, in the appearance, in the manners or in the character of this person, finally, waving his hand, he expressed himself like this: “And this one has no skin, no face, no knowledge.” !"

A! - Oblomov met him. - Is it you, Alekseev? Hello. Where?

Don't come, don't come: I won't give you my hand: you're out of the cold!

What are you talking about, how cold! “I didn’t think about coming to you today,” said Alekseev, “

yes Ovchinin met and took him to his place. I'm behind you, Ilya Ilyich.

Where is this going?

Yes, let’s go to Ovchinin. There Matvey Andreich Alyanov, Kazimir

Albertych Phaylo, Vasily Sevastyanich Kolymyagin.

Why are they gathered there and what do they need from me?

Ovchinin invites you to dinner.

Hm! Dinner... - Oblomov repeated monotonously.

And then everyone goes to Ekateringof: they told them to tell you to hire a stroller.

What to do there?

Why! There's a party there today. Don't you know: today is the first of May?

Sit down; We’ll think about it... - said Oblomov.

Get up! It's time to get dressed.

Wait a little: it’s early.

How early! They asked at twelve o'clock; Let's have dinner early, at two o'clock, and go for a walk. Let's go quickly! Should I tell you to get dressed?

Where to dress? I haven't washed my face yet.

So wash yourself.

Alekseev began to walk back and forth around the room, then stopped in front of a picture that he had seen a thousand times before, glanced briefly out the window, took some thing from the shelf, turned it over in his hands, looked from all sides and put it down again, and there he began to walk again , whistling - this is all so as not to interfere with Oblomov to get up and wash. Ten minutes passed like this.

What are you doing? - Alekseev suddenly asked Ilya Ilyich.

Are you all lying down?

Do you really need to get up?

Why! They are waiting for us. You wanted to go.

Where is this going? I didn't want to go anywhere...

Now, Ilya Ilyich, just now they said that we were going to have lunch at Ovchinin’s, and then to Ekateringof...

I'll be the one driving through the damp! And what didn’t I see there? “It’s going to rain, it’s cloudy outside,” Oblomov said lazily.

There is not a cloud in the sky, and you made up rain. Is it cloudy because your windows haven’t been washed for some time? Dirt, dirt on them! You can't see God forbid, and one curtain is almost completely drawn.

Yes, just go ahead and mention this to Zakhar, and he’ll soon offer women and drive them out of the house for the whole day!

Oblomov was lost in thought, and Alekseev drummed his fingers on the table at which he was sitting, absentmindedly running his eyes over the walls and ceiling.

So what about us? What to do? Will you dress like that or stay that way? -

he asked after a few minutes.

Yes to Ekateringof?..

This Ekateringof was given to you, really! - Oblomov responded with annoyance. -

Don't you want to sit here? Is it cold in the room or does it smell bad, why are you looking over there?

No, I always feel good with you; “I’m happy,” Alekseev said.

And if it’s good here, why would you want to go somewhere else? Better stay with me for the whole day, have dinner, and then in the evening - God bless you!.. Yes, I forgot: where should I go! Tarantiev will come to dinner: today is Saturday.

If it is so... I’m good... like you... - said Alekseev.

And I didn’t tell you about my affairs? - Oblomov asked briskly.

What matters? “I don’t know,” Alekseev said, looking at him with all his eyes.

Why don't I get up for so long? After all, I was lying here all the time thinking about how I could get out of trouble.

What's happened? - Alekseev asked, trying to make a frightened face.

Two misfortunes! I don’t know what to do.

Which ones?

They are driving me out of the apartment; Imagine - you have to move out: withdrawals, fuss...

scary to think about! After all, I lived in an apartment for eight years. The owner played a trick on me:

“Move out, he says, quickly.”

Hurry up! He’s in a hurry, so it’s necessary. This is very unbearable -

move:

“There’s always a lot of trouble with moving,” said Alekseev, “they’ll get lost, they’ll kill you.”

Very boring! And you have such a nice apartment... what are you paying?

Where can you find another one like that,” said Oblomov, “and in a hurry?”

The apartment is dry, warm; the house is quiet: they only robbed once! The ceiling over there seems to be fragile: the plaster has completely come off, but nothing is falling down.

Tell me please! - Alekseev said, shaking his head.

How can I arrange this so as not to move out? - Oblomov thought to himself, thoughtfully.

Do you have an apartment rented under a contract? - Alekseev asked, looking around the room from ceiling to floor.

Yes, but the contract expired; I've been paying monthly all this time...

I just don’t remember since when.

What do you think? - Alekseev asked after some silence, -

move out or stay?

“I don’t think so,” said Oblomov, “I don’t even want to think about it.”

Let Zakhar come up with something.

But some people love to move so much,” said Alekseev, “the only pleasure they find is how to change their apartment...

Well, let these “some” move. And I can’t stand any changes! What is this, an apartment! - Oblomov spoke. - But look what the headman writes to me. I'll show you the letter now... where the hell is it?

Zakhar, Zakhar!

Oh you, heavenly mistress! - Zakhar wheezed, jumping from the stove, -

When will God take me away?

He entered and looked dully at the master.

Why didn't you find the letter?

Where can I find him? Do I know what kind of letter you need? I can not read.

Look anyway,” said Oblomov.

“You yourself read some letter last night,” Zakhar said, “but I haven’t seen it since.”

Where is it? - Ilya Ilyich objected with annoyance. - I didn't swallow it. I

I remember very well what you took from me and put it somewhere over there. And look, where it is!

He shook the blanket: a letter fell out of its folds onto the floor.

Here you are all at me!.. - Well, well, go, go! - Oblomov and Zakhar shouted at each other at the same time.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov began to read the letter, written as if with kvass, on gray paper, with a seal made of brown sealing wax. Huge pale letters stretched in a solemn procession, without touching each other, along a plumb line, from the top corner to the bottom. The procession was sometimes interrupted by a large, pale-ink stain.

“Dear sir,” Oblomov began, “your honor, our father and breadwinner, Ilya Ilyich...”

Here Oblomov skipped several greetings and wishes for health and continued from the middle:

- “I inform your lordly grace that in your estate, our breadwinner, everything is fine. There has been no rain for five weeks: you know, the Lord God is angry that there is no rain. The old people will not remember this kind of drought: the spring crop is burning like a fire. the worm destroyed the place, the early frosts ruined another place;

let us die. And on Midsummer Day, three more men left: Laptev, Balochov, and Vaska, the blacksmith’s son, especially left. I sent the women away from their husbands: the women did not return, but live, I hear, in Chelki, and my godfather went to Chelki from

Verkhleva; the manager sent him there: a plow, listen, they brought it from overseas, and the manager sent the godfather to Chelki to look at this plow. I punished my godfather about the runaway men; He bowed to the police officer, he said: “Give me the paper, and then every means will be fulfilled, to bring the peasants to the courtyards in their place of residence,” and, besides, he said nothing, but I fell at his feet and tearfully begged; he shouted in good obscenities: “Go, go! You’ve been told what will be done - give me the paper!” But I didn’t submit any papers. And there is no one to hire here:

everyone went to the Volga, went to work on the barges - such stupid people have become here today, our breadwinner, father, Ilya Ilyich! This year our canvas will not be at the fair: the drying room and bleaching room were locked and Sychuga was assigned to watch day and night: he is a tough guy; Yes, so as not to steal anything from the master, I watch him day and night. Others drink heavily and ask for rent. IN

arrears shortage: this year we will send the income to the incomer, it will be, our father, our benefactor, about two thousand in exchange for the year that has passed, if only the drought does not completely ruin it, otherwise we will send it, which is what we propose to your grace.”

Then followed expressions of devotion and the signature: “Your elder, the most humble servant Prokofy Vytyagushkin put his own hand.” Inability to read and write was marked as a cross. “And his brother-in-law wrote from the words of the elder. Demka Krivoy.”

Oblomov looked at the end of the letter.

There is no month or year,” he said, “the letter must have been lying around with the headman since last year; here is Midsummer and drought! When I came to my senses!

He thought about it.

A? - he continued. - What do you think: he offers “two thousand in exchange”! How long will this remain? How long, I mean, am I last year received? -

he asked, looking at Alekseev. - I didn't tell you then?

Alekseev turned his eyes to the ceiling and thought.

“We need to ask Stolz how he will arrive,” Oblomov continued, “it seems like seven, eight thousand... it’s bad not to write it down!” So now he puts me on six!

After all, I will die of hunger! What is there to live here?

Why worry so much, Ilya Ilyich? - said Alekseev. - You should never give in to despair: if you grind it, there will be flour.

Do you hear what he writes? I could send some money or console me somehow, but he just makes trouble for me, as if to laugh at me! And every year! Now I’m not myself! “Two thousand in exchange”!

Yes, a big loss,” said Alekseev, “two thousand is no joke!” Here

Alexey Loginich, they say, will also receive this year only twelve thousand instead of seventeen...

So twelve, not six,” interrupted Oblomov. - The headman completely upset me! If it really is like this: crop failure and drought, then why upset us in advance?

Yes... it really is... - Alekseev began, - it shouldn’t be; but what kind of delicacy can one expect from a man? These people don't understand anything.

Well, what would you do if you were me? - Oblomov asked, looking questioningly at Alekseev, with sweet hope that maybe he would come up with something to calm him down.

You have to think, Ilya Ilyich, you can’t suddenly decide,” said Alekseev.

Should I write to the governor? - Ilya Ilyich said thoughtfully.

Who is your governor? - asked Alekseev.

Ilya Ilyich did not answer and became thoughtful. Alekseev fell silent and was also thinking about something.

Oblomov, crumpling the letter in his hands, rested his head in his hands, and rested his elbows on his knees, and sat like that for some time, tormented by a surge of restless thoughts.

If only Stolz would come soon! - he said. - He writes that it will be soon, but the devil knows where he is wandering! He would have sorted it out.

He became sad again. Both were silent for a long time. Finally, Oblomov was the first to wake up.

This is what you need to do! - he said decisively and almost got out of bed, - and do it as quickly as possible, there is no need to hesitate... First of all...

At this time a desperate bell rang in the hall, so Oblomov and

Alekseev shuddered, and Zakhar instantly jumped off the couch.

At home? - someone asked loudly and rudely in the hallway.

Where should we go at this time? - Zakhar answered even more rudely.

A man of about forty entered, belonging to a large breed, tall, bulky in the shoulders and throughout the body, with large facial features, a large head, a strong, short neck, large protruding eyes, thick lips. A quick glance at this man gave rise to the idea of something rough and unkempt. It was clear that he was not chasing the elegance of the suit. It was not always possible to see him clean shaven. But he apparently didn’t care;

he was not embarrassed by his suit and wore it with a kind of cynical dignity.

It was Mikhei Andreevich Tarantiev, Oblomov’s fellow countryman.

Tarantiev looked at everything gloomily, with half-contempt, with obvious hostility towards everything around him, ready to scold everything and everyone in the world, as if some one had been offended by injustice or not recognized in some dignity, finally, as if persecuted by fate a strong character who involuntarily, unsadly submits to her.

His movements were bold and sweeping; he spoke loudly, smartly and almost always angrily; if you listen at some distance, it sounds as if three empty carts are driving across a bridge. He was never embarrassed by anyone’s presence and did not mince his words, and in general was constantly rude in his dealings with everyone, not excluding his friends, as if he made him feel that by talking to a person, even having lunch or dinner with him, he was doing him a favor. honor.

Tarantiev was a man of a lively and cunning mind; no one can judge any general everyday question or legal complicated matter better than him: he will now construct a theory of action in this or that case and very subtly summarize the evidence, and in conclusion he will almost always be rude to anyone who consults with him about something.

Meanwhile, twenty-five years ago he himself was assigned to some office as a scribe, and in this position he lived until his gray hairs. It never occurred to him or anyone else that he should go higher.

The fact is that Tarantiev was a master only of talking; in words he decided everything clearly and easily, especially when it came to others; but as soon as it was necessary to move a finger, to move from a place - in a word, to apply the theory he had created to the case and give it a practical move, to show management, speed - he was a completely different person: here he was not enough - he suddenly felt difficult, and he was unwell, sometimes it was awkward, then another thing would happen, which he also wouldn’t take up, and if he did, God forbid what would happen.

Like a child: he won’t pay attention there, he doesn’t know some trifles, he’ll be late there and end up abandoning the task halfway or starting at it from the end and messing everything up so much that it’s impossible to fix it, and then he’ll scold him later will become.

His father, a provincial clerk of the old days, intended his son to inherit the art and experience of handling other people's affairs and his deftly accomplished field of service in a public place; but fate decreed otherwise. The father, who himself once studied Russian with copper money, did not want his son to lag behind the times, and wanted to teach him something other than the tricky science of running errands. For three years he sent him to the priest to study Latin.

A naturally capable boy at the age of three, he learned Latin grammar and syntax and began to understand Cornelius Nepos, but his father decided that it was enough that he knew that even this knowledge gave him a huge advantage over the older generation and that, finally, further classes may, perhaps, harm the service in public places.

Sixteen-year-old Micah, not knowing what to do with his Latin, began to forget it in his parents’ house, but, in anticipation of the honor of being present in the zemstvo or district court, he was present at all his father’s feasts, and in this school, among frank conversations, The young man's mind developed to subtlety.

With youthful impressionability, he listened to the stories of his father and his comrades about various civil and criminal cases, about curious cases that passed through the hands of all these clerks of the old days.

But all this came to nothing. Micah did not develop into a businessman and a trickster, although all his father’s efforts tended towards this and, of course, would have been crowned with success if fate had not destroyed the old man’s plans. Micah really mastered the whole theory of his father’s conversations, all that remained was to apply it to business, but after his father’s death he did not have time to go to court and was taken to St. Petersburg by some benefactor, who found him a place as a scribe in one department, and then forgot about German

So Tarantiev remained only a theorist for the rest of his life. In the St. Petersburg service, he had nothing to do with his Latin and subtle theory to do right and wrong at his own discretion; and meanwhile he carried and was aware of a dormant power within himself, locked inside him by hostile circumstances forever, without hope of manifestation, as, according to fairy tales, the spirits of evil, deprived of the power to harm, were locked in close enchanted walls. Perhaps because of this awareness of the useless strength in himself, Tarantyev was rude in his manners, unkind, constantly angry and scolding.

He looked with bitterness and contempt at his real occupations: rewriting papers, filing files, etc. Only one last hope smiled at him in the distance: to go to serve as a wine farmer. On this road he saw the only profitable replacement for the field bequeathed to him by his father and not achieved. And in anticipation of this, the theory of activity and life, ready-made and created for him by his father, the theory of bribes and deceit, having bypassed its main and worthy field in the provinces, was applied to all the little details of his insignificant existence in St. Petersburg, crept into all of his friendly relations for lack of official ones.

He was a bribe-taker at heart, according to theory, he managed to take bribes, in the absence of business and applicants, from colleagues, from friends, God knows how and for what - he forced, wherever and whomever he could, either by cunning or importunity, to treat himself, he demanded from everyone undeserved respect, he was picky. He was never embarrassed by the shame of a worn dress, but he was no stranger to anxiety if in the future he did not have a huge dinner, with a decent amount of wine and vodka.

Because of this, in the circle of his acquaintances, he played the role of a large guard dog, which barks at everyone, does not allow anyone to move, but which at the same time will certainly grab a piece of meat on the fly, from where and wherever it flies.

These were Oblomov’s two most zealous visitors.

Why did these two Russian proletarians go to see him? They knew very well why: drink, eat, smoke good cigars. They found a warm, peaceful shelter and always received the same, if not warm, then indifferent welcome.

But why Oblomov allowed them to come to him - he was hardly aware of this. And it seems, then, why else at this time in our remote Oblomovki, in every wealthy house, was there a swarm of similar persons of both sexes, without bread, without crafts, without hands for productivity and only with a stomach for consumption, but almost always with rank and title .

There are also sybarites who need such additions in life: they are bored without anything extra in the world. Who will hand over a lost snuffbox or pick up a handkerchief that has fallen to the floor? To whom can you complain about a headache with the right to participate, tell a bad dream and demand an interpretation? Who will read a book for bedtime and help you fall asleep? And sometimes such a proletarian is sent to the nearest city to buy something and help with the housework - he shouldn’t be poking around himself!

Tarantiev made a lot of noise, brought Oblomov out of immobility and boredom.

He shouted, argued and put on some kind of performance, saving the lazy master himself from the need to speak and do. Into the room where sleep and peace reigned, Tarantiev brought life, movement, and sometimes news from the outside.

Oblomov could listen, look, without lifting a finger, at something lively, moving and speaking in front of him. In addition, he still had the simplicity to believe that Tarantiev was really capable of advising him of something worthwhile. Oblomov endured Alekseev’s visits for another, no less important reason. If he wanted to live his own way, that is, lie silently, doze or walk around the room, Alekseev seemed not to be there: he was also silent, dozing or looking at a book, looking at pictures and little things with a lazy yawn until he cried. He could have stayed like this for at least three days. If Oblomov was bored with being alone and he felt the need to express himself, speak, read, reason, show excitement, there was always a submissive and ready listener and participant who shared in equal agreement his silence, his conversation, his excitement, and his way of thinking, whatever it is.

Other guests did not come in often, for a minute, like the first three guests; Living ties with all of them were increasingly severed. Oblomov would sometimes be interested in some news, a five-minute conversation, then, satisfied with this, he would remain silent. They had to reciprocate, take part in what interested them. They were swimming in the crowd of people; everyone understood life in their own way, just as Oblomov did not want to understand it, and they confused him into it: he did not like all this, it repulsed him, it was not to his liking.

There was one person after his heart: he also did not give him peace; he loved news, and light, and science, and all of life, but somehow deeper, sincere - and

Although Oblomov was affectionate with everyone, he sincerely loved him alone, believed him alone, perhaps because he grew up, studied and lived with him. This is Andrey

Ivanovich Stolts.

He was away, but Oblomov was waiting for him from hour to hour.

“Hello, fellow countryman,” Tarantyev said abruptly, extending his shaggy hand to Oblomov. - Why are you still lying there like a log?

Don't come, don't come: you're coming from the cold! - said Oblomov, covering himself with a blanket.

He wanted to lift Oblomov out of bed, but he warned him by quickly lowering his feet and immediately hitting both shoes with them.

“I wanted to get up now,” he said, yawning.

I know how you get up: you would lie here until lunch. Hey Zakhar! Where are you, old fool? Let's hurry up and get dressed, master.

But first, get your own Zakhar, and then bark! -

Zakhar spoke, entering the room and looking angrily at Tarantiev. - They trampled on it like a peddler! - he added.

Well, he’s still talking, you little beast! - Tarantyev said and raised his leg to hit Zakhar passing by from behind; but Zakhar stopped, turned to him and bristled.

Just touch it! - he wheezed furiously. - What it is? I'll leave...

He said as he walked back to the doors.

Well done to you, Mikhei Andreich, how restless you are! Why are you touching him? - said Oblomov. - Come on, Zakhar, whatever you need!

Zakhar returned and, glancing sideways at Tarantiev, quickly slipped past him.

Oblomov, leaning his elbows on him, reluctantly, like a very tired man, got up from bed and, reluctantly moving to a large chair, sank into it and remained motionless as he sat down.

Zakhar took lipstick, a comb and brushes from the table, lubricated his head, made a parting and then combed his hair with a brush.

Are you going to wash your face now? - he asked.

“I’ll wait a little longer,” answered Oblomov, “and you go.”

Oh, and are you here? - Tarantyev suddenly said, turning to Alekseev while Zakhar was combing Oblomov’s hair. - I haven’t even seen you. Why are you here?

What is your relative, what a pig! I wanted to tell you everything...

Which relative? “I don’t have any relative,” the dumbfounded Alekseev answered timidly, bulging his eyes at Tarantiev.

Well, this one, who else serves here, what’s his name?.. His name is Afanasyev. Why not a relative? - relative.

“Yes, I’m not Afanasyev, but Alekseev,” said Alekseev, “I don’t have a relative.”

Not a relative yet! Same as you, nondescript, and his name is the same

Vasily Nikolaich.

By God, not relatives; my name is Ivan Alekseich.

Well, anyway, he looks like you. Only he is a pig; you tell him this as soon as you see it.

“I don’t know him, I’ve never seen him,” said Alekseev, opening his snuff box.

Give me some tobacco! - said Tarantiev. - Yes, your language is simple, not French?

“That’s right,” he said after sniffing. - Why not French? - he added sternly later. “Yes, I’ve never seen such a pig as your relative,”

continued Tarantiev. “I borrowed fifty rubles from him once, for about two years now.” Well, is fifty rubles a lot of money? How can you not forget? No, he remembers: a month later, wherever he meets: “What about the debt?” -

speaks. I'm tired of it! Moreover, yesterday he came to our department: “That’s right, he said, you received your salary, now you can pay it back.” I gave him a salary:

He went to disgrace himself in front of everyone, and he found the door by force. "Poor man, you have to do it yourself!" As if I don't need it! What kind of rich man am I that I should pay him fifty rubles! Give me a cigar, fellow countryman.

“The cigars are over there, in the box,” answered Oblomov, pointing to the bookcase.

He sat thoughtfully in an armchair, in his lazy, beautiful pose, not noticing what was happening around him, not listening to what was said. He lovingly examined and stroked his small, white hands.

Eh! Are they still the same? - Tarantiev asked sternly, taking out a cigar and looking at Oblomov.

Yes, the same,” Oblomov answered mechanically.

Did I tell you to buy others, foreign ones? That's how you remember what they tell you! Make sure it’s there by next Saturday, otherwise I won’t come for a long time. Look, what rubbish! - he continued, lighting a cigar and blowing one cloud of smoke into the air, and drawing another into himself. - No smoking.

“You came early today, Mikhei Andreich,” Oblomov said, yawning.

Well, I'm boring you, or what?

No, I just noticed; You usually come straight to dinner, but now it’s only the first hour.

I came early on purpose to find out what kind of dinner it would be. You keep feeding me rubbish, so I’ll find out that you ordered something to be cooked today.

Find out there, in the kitchen,” said Oblomov.

Tarantiev left.

Have mercy! - he said turning back. - Beef and veal! Eh, brother

Oblomov, you don’t know how to live, and you’re also a landowner! What kind of gentleman are you? You live like a bourgeois; You don’t know how to treat a friend! Well, did you buy Madeira?

I don’t know, ask Zakhar,” said Oblomov, almost without listening to him, “

there must be wine there.

Is this the old one, from a German? No, please buy it in an English store.

Well, that’s enough,” said Oblomov, “or else send more!”

Wait, give me the money, I’ll go by and bring it; I still need to go somewhere.

Oblomov rummaged in the drawer and took out the then red ten-ruble note.

Madeira costs seven rubles,” said Oblomov, “and here it’s ten.”

So give everything: they will give back, don’t be afraid!

He snatched the banknote from Oblomov’s hands and quickly hid it in his pocket.

Well, I’ll go,” said Tarantyev, putting on his hat, “and I’ll be there by five o’clock; I need to go somewhere: they promised me a place in a drinking establishment, so they told me to visit... Well, Ilya Ilyich: would you hire a stroller today, in

Should I go to Ekateringof? And he would have taken me.

Oblomov shook his head in denial.

What, laziness or money? Oh you bag! - he said. - Well, goodbye for now...

Wait, Mikhei Andreich,” interrupted Oblomov, I need to consult with you about something.

What else is there? Speak quickly: I have no time.

Yes, two misfortunes suddenly befell me. They're driving me out of the apartment...

Apparently you don’t pay: and it serves it right! - said Tarantiev and wanted to go.

Come on! I always pay it forward. No, they want to finish another apartment... Wait a minute! Where are you going? Teach me what to do: they’re in a hurry, so they can move out in a week...

What kind of adviser did you get?.. You’re in vain to imagine...

“I’m not imagining anything at all,” said Oblomov, “don’t make noise or shout, but rather think about what to do.” You are a practical person...

Tarantiev was no longer listening to him and was thinking about something.

Well, so be it, thank me,” he said, taking off his hat and sitting down, “

and ordered champagne to be served for dinner: your work is done.

What's happened? - asked Oblomov.

Will there be champagne?

Perhaps, if the advice is worth...

No, you yourself are not worth advice. What can I advise you for nothing?

“Ask him,” he added, pointing to Alekseev, “or his relative.”

Well, well, that's enough, speak up! - asked Oblomov.

Here's what: tomorrow, please, move into an apartment...

Eh! What did you come up with! I knew that myself...

Wait, don't interrupt! - Tarantiev shouted. - Tomorrow move to an apartment with my godmother, on the Vyborg side...

What kind of news is this? To the Vyborg side! Yes, they say that wolves run there in winter.

Sometimes they run in from the islands, but what does that matter to you?

There is boredom, emptiness, no one there.

You're lying! My godfather lives there: she has her own house, with large gardens. She is a noble woman, a widow, with two children; Her single brother lives with her:

head, not like this one sitting here in the corner,” he said, pointing to

Alekseeva, - he’ll put you and me in our belts!

What do I care about all this? - said impatiently

Oblomov. - I won't move there.

But I'll make sure you don't move. No, if you asked for advice, listen to what they say.

“I won’t move,” Oblomov said decisively.

Well, to hell with you! - Tarantyev answered, putting his hat on his head and walking towards the door.

You're such a weirdo! - Tarantyev said, turning back. -What do you think is sweet here?

Like what? It’s close to everything,” Oblomov said, “there are shops, a theater, and friends... the city center, everything...

What-oh? - Tarantiev interrupted. - How long have you been out of the yard, tell me?

How long have you been to the theater? What friends do you go to? Why the hell do you need this center, let me ask!

Well, why? You never know why!

You see, and you don’t know! And there, think: you will live with my godfather, a noble woman, in peace, quietly; no one will touch you; no noise, no din, clean, tidy. Look, you live as if in an inn, and you’re also a gentleman, a landowner! And there it is clean, quiet; there is someone to say a word with, how you miss you. No one will come to you except me. Two kids -

play with them as much as you want! What do you want? And what a benefit, what a benefit. What are you paying here?

Fifteen thousand.

And there’s a thousand rubles for almost a whole house! What bright, nice rooms! She has long wanted to have a quiet, orderly tenant - so I am appointing you...

Oblomov absentmindedly shook his head in denial.

You're lying, you'll move! - said Tarantiev. - Just think that it will cost you half as much: you will gain five hundred rubles on one apartment. Your table will be twice as good and cleaner; neither the cook nor Zakhar will steal...

A grumbling sound was heard in the hallway.

And there’s more order,” Tarantiev continued, because now it’s bad to sit at your table! If you grab pepper - no, you haven’t bought vinegar, your knives haven’t been cleaned;

the linen, you say, disappears, dust is everywhere - well, it’s disgusting! And there the woman will be in charge: neither for you, nor for your fool, Zakhar...

The grumbling in the hall became louder.

This old dog,” Tarantyev continued, “will not have to think about anything: you will live on everything you are ready for.” What is there to think about? Move and that's the end...

How come I suddenly, out of the blue, go to the Vyborg side...

Go with him! - said Tarantyev, wiping sweat from his face. - Now it's summer:

after all, it’s the same as a dacha. Why are you rotting here in the summer, in Gorokhovaya?..

There is Bezborodkin Garden, Okhta is nearby, the Neva is two steps away, your own garden - no dust, no stuffiness! There’s nothing to think about: I’ll fly to her right now before lunch - you give me a cab - and move tomorrow...

What kind of person is this! - said Oblomov. “Suddenly he’ll come up with the devil knows what: to the Vyborg side... It’s no wonder to come up with that.” No, you manage to come up with something to stay here. I've been living here for eight years, and I don't want to change it...

It's over: you'll move. I’m on my way to my godfather’s now, I’ll check on the place another time...

He was about to leave.

Wait, wait! Where are you going? - Oblomov stopped him. - I still have something more important to do. Look at the letter I received from the headman, and decide what I should do.

You see, what a freak you are! - Tarantiev objected. - You can’t do anything yourself. All me and me! Well, where are you good for? Not a person: just straw!

Where is the letter? Zakhar, Zakhar! He's doing it somewhere again! - said

Here is the headman’s letter,” said Alekseev, taking the crumpled letter.

Yes, here it is,” Oblomov repeated and began to read aloud.

What are you going to say? What do i do? - Ilya Ilyich asked after reading. -

Droughts, shortages...

A lost, completely lost man! - said Tarantiev.

But why is he missing?

How can he not be lost?

Well, if you’re lost, then tell me what to do?

What is this?

After all, it is said that there will be champagne: what else do you want?

Champagne for finding an apartment: after all, I did you a favor, but you don’t feel it, you’re still arguing; you are ungrateful! Go find the apartment yourself! What about the apartment? The main thing is how calm you will be: just like your own sister. Two kids, a single brother, I’ll come by every day...

“Okay, okay,” Oblomov interrupted, “now tell me, what should I do with the headman?”

No, add porter to dinner, I’ll say so.

Now here's the porter! Not enough for you...

Well, goodbye,” said Tarantiev, putting on his hat again.

Oh, my God! Here the headman writes that the income is “two thousand as a change,” and he also added porter! Okay, buy some porter.

Give me more money! - said Tarantiev.

After all, you will still have change from the little red one.

And for a cab driver to the Vyborg side? - answered Tarantiev.

Oblomov took out another ruble and gave it to him with annoyance.

The headman is your swindler - that’s what I’ll tell you,” Tarantiev began, hiding the ruble in his pocket, “and you believe him, with your mouth open.” See what song he sings!

Droughts, crop failures, arrears and the men left. He's lying, he's lying! I heard that in our area, in the Shumilova estate, all debts were paid off with last year’s harvest, but suddenly you have a drought and a crop failure. Shumilovskoye is only fifty miles away from you: why didn’t they burn any bread there? I invented more arrears!

What was he watching? Why did you launch it? Where do these arrears come from? Are there any jobs or sales in our area? Oh, he is a robber! Yes, I would have learned it! And the men dispersed because he himself, the tea, tore something off them and dismissed them, but he didn’t even think of complaining to the police officer.

It can’t be,” Oblomov said, “he even conveys the police officer’s answer in a letter - it’s so natural...

Oh you! You don't know anything. Yes, all scammers write naturally - believe me! For example,” he continued, pointing to Alekseev, “an honest soul sits like a sheep, but will he write naturally? - Never. A

his relative, even though he is a pig and a beast, will write. And you won’t write naturally! Therefore, your headman is a beast because he wrote it deftly and naturally. You see how he tidied it up, word by word: “Move it to a place of residence.”

What should we do with him? - asked Oblomov.

Change it now.

Who will I nominate? How do I know men? The other one might be worse. I haven't been there for twelve years.

Go to the village yourself: you can’t do without it; stay there for the summer, and come straight to your new apartment in the fall. I'll see to it that she's ready.

To a new apartment, to the village, on your own! What desperate measures are you proposing! - Oblomov said with displeasure. - No, to avoid extremes and stick to the middle...

Well, brother Ilya Ilyich, you will be completely lost. Yes, if I were you, I would have mortgaged the estate a long time ago and bought another one or a house here, in a good place: it’s worth your village. And then I would mortgage the house and buy another...

Give me your property, so people would hear about me.

Stop bragging, and figure out how to not move out of the apartment, and not go to the village, and so that things get done... - Oblomov noted.

Will you ever move? - said Tarantiev. - After all, look at yourself: where are you good for? What use are you to the fatherland? He can’t go to the village!

Now it’s too early for me to go,” answered Ilya Ilyich, “first let me finish the plan for the transformations that I intend to introduce to the estate... But you know what,

Mikhei Andreich? - Oblomov suddenly said. - Go ahead. You know the matter, you also know the places; and I wouldn't regret the expense.

Am I your manager, or what? - Tarantiev objected arrogantly. - Yes, and I’m out of the habit of dealing with men...

What to do? - Oblomov said thoughtfully. - Really, I don’t know.

Well, write to the police chief: ask him if the headman told him about the staggering men,” Tarantyev advised, “and ask him to stop by the village;

then write to the governor and instruct the police officer to report the elder’s behavior.

“Accept, they say, Your Excellency, fatherly sympathy and look with the eye of mercy at the inevitable, terrible misfortune that threatens me, resulting from the violent actions of the headman, and the extreme ruin to which I must inevitably be subjected, with my wife and minors, left without any charity and a piece of bread , twelve children..."

Oblomov laughed.

How will I get so many children if they ask me to show them the children? -

he said.

You lie, write: with twelve children; it will slip past the ears, they won’t make inquiries, but it will be “natural”... The governor will give the letter to the secretary, and you will write to him at the same time, of course with an attachment, and he will make the order. Yes, ask your neighbors: who do you have there?

Dobrynin is close there,” said Oblomov, “I often saw him here;

he's there now.

And write to him, ask him nicely: “You will do me a favor and oblige me as a Christian, as a friend and as a neighbor.” Yes, attach some St. Petersburg gift to the letter... cigars, or something. Here's what you should do, otherwise you don't understand anything. Lost man! My headman would have danced: I would have given it to him! When is the mail there?

The day after tomorrow,” said Oblomov.

So sit down and write now.

After all, the day after tomorrow, so why now? - Oblomov noted. - It’s possible tomorrow. “Listen, Mikhei Andreich,” he added, “complete your

“good deeds”: so be it, I’ll also add some fish or bird to dinner.

What else? - Tarantiev asked.

Sit down and write. How long will it take you to write three letters? - You are so

"naturally" you tell... - he added, trying to hide a smile, - and there

Ivan Alekseich would rewrite...

Eh! What inventions! - answered Tarantiev. - So that I start writing! It’s not even my third day in office: as soon as I sit down, a tear starts flowing from my left eye; It’s obvious that I’m puffed up, and my head is numb as soon as I bend over... You’re lazy, you’re lazy!

You will perish, brother, Ilya Ilyich, not for a penny!

Oh, if only Andrei would come soon! - said Oblomov. - He would have sorted everything out...

I've found a benefactor! - Tarantiev interrupted him. - Damn German, scoundrel!..

Tarantiev had some kind of instinctive aversion to foreigners. IN

in his eyes, Frenchman, German, Englishman were synonyms for a swindler, deceiver, cunning or robber. He did not even make a distinction between nations: they were all the same in his eyes.

Listen, Mikhei Andreich,” Oblomov spoke sternly, “I asked you to be more restrained in your language, especially about a person close to me...

About a loved one! - Tarantiev objected with hatred. - What kind of relative is he to you? German - known.

Closer than any relative: I grew up with him, studied with him and will not allow insolence...

Tarantiev turned purple with anger.

A! If you change me for a German,” he said, “then I won’t set foot in front of you again.”

He put on his hat and went to the door. Oblomov instantly softened.

You should respect my friend in him and speak more carefully about him - that’s all I demand! It seems like a small service, -

he said.

Respect a German? - Tarantiev said with the greatest contempt. - What is this for?

I already told you, if only because he grew up and studied with me.

Great importance! You never know who studied with whom!

Now, if he were here, he would have saved me a long time ago from all sorts of troubles, without asking for either porter or champagne... - said Oblomov.

A! You reproach me! So to hell with you and your porter and champagne!

Here, take your money... Where the hell did I put it? I completely forgot where I put the damned ones?

He took out some kind of greasy, scribbled piece of paper.

No, not them!.. - he said. -Where am I taking them?..

He rummaged through his pockets.

Don't bother, don't bother! - said Oblomov. “I’m not reproaching you, but I’m only asking you to speak more decently about the person who is close to me and who has done so much for me...

A lot of! - Tarantiev objected angrily. - Just wait, he will do even more - you listen to him!

Why are you telling me this? - asked Oblomov.

But by the time your German beats you up, you will know how to exchange a fellow countryman, a Russian, for some kind of tramp...

Listen, Mikhei Andreich... - began Oblomov.

There is no point in listening, I listened a lot, I suffered grief from you! God knows how many insults he suffered... Tea, in Saxony his father didn’t even see bread, but he came here to raise his nose.

Why are you disturbing the dead? What is the father's fault?

“Both are to blame, father and son,” Tarantiev said gloomily, waving his hand.

No wonder my father advised to beware of these Germans, and he didn’t know all sorts of people in his lifetime!

Why don't you like your father, for example? - asked Ilya Ilyich.

And the fact that he came to our province in only a frock coat and boots in September, and then suddenly left an inheritance for his son - what does that mean?

He left his son an inheritance of only forty thousand. He took some as a dowry for his wife, and acquired the rest by teaching his children and managing the estate: he received a good salary. You see that the father is not to blame. What is the son’s fault now?

Good boy! Suddenly, out of his father’s forty, he made three hundred thousand capital, and in the service he became a servant, and a scientist... now he’s still traveling! The arrows are everywhere! Would a real good Russian person do all this? A Russian person will choose just one thing, and even then slowly, little by little, somehow, or whatever!

It would be good if he entered into a farm-out - well, it’s clear why he got rich; otherwise nothing, just fu-fu! Unclean! I would put these people on trial! Now he’s staggering God knows where! - Tarantiev continued. - Why does he wander around foreign lands?

He wants to learn, see everything, know everything.

Study! Haven't you taught him enough yet? What is this for? He is lying, don’t believe him: he deceives you to your face, like a small child. Do the big ones learn anything?

Do you hear what he is saying? The court councilor will study! You went to school, but are you studying now? Is he (he pointed to Alekseev)

studies? Is his relative studying? Who from good people studies? What is he doing there, in a German school, or something, sitting and teaching lessons? He's lying! I heard that he went to look at and order some kind of car: apparently, it’s a vice for Russian money! I

If only he had been sent to prison... Some kind of shares... Oh, these shares make my soul so sad!

Oblomov burst out laughing.

Why are you baring your teeth? Am I not telling the truth? - said Tarantiev.

Well, let's leave it at that! - Ilya Ilyich interrupted him. “You go with God wherever you want, but I’ll write all these letters with Ivan Alekseevich and try to quickly sketch out my plan on paper: by the way, do it at the same time...

Tarantiev was about to go into the hall, but suddenly returned again.

I completely forgot! I came to you for business in the morning,” he began, not at all rudely.

Tomorrow they invited me to a wedding: Rokotov is getting married. Let me, fellow countryman, put on your tailcoat; mine, you see, has dried off a little...

How is it possible! - said Oblomov, frowning at this new demand. -

My tailcoat doesn't fit you...

Fit; It doesn't fit! - Tarantiev interrupted. - Do you remember, I tried on your frock coat: how it was made for me! Zakhar, Zakhar! Come here, you old brute! -

shouted Tarantiev.

Zakhar growled like a bear, but did not move.

Call him, Ilya Ilyich. What is it you have? - complained

Tarantiev.

Zakhar! - Oblomov called.

Oh, wish you there! - was heard in the hallway along with the jump of legs from the couch.

Well, what do you want? - he asked, turning to Tarantiev.

Give me my black tailcoat! - Ilya Ilyich ordered. - Here's Micah

Andreich will try it on to see if it fits him: tomorrow he has to go to his wedding...

“I won’t give you a tailcoat,” Zakhar said decisively.

How dare you when the master orders? - Tarantiev shouted. - Why don’t you, Ilya Ilyich, send him to a restraining house?

Yes, that’s what was still missing: an old man in a strait house! - said

Oblomov. - Give it, Zakhar, tailcoat, don’t be stubborn!

I'm not giving it! - Zakhar answered coldly. “Let them first bring back the vest and our shirt: he’s been staying there for five months.” They took it just like that for a name day, and remember what their name was; the vest is velvet, and the shirt is thin, Dutch:

costs twenty-five rubles. I won't give you a tailcoat!

Well, goodbye! To hell with you bye! - Tarantiev concluded heartily, leaving and shaking his fist at Zakhar. - Look, Ilya Ilyich, I’ll rent you an apartment -

do you hear? - he added.

Okay, okay! - Oblomov said impatiently, just to get rid of him.

“And you write here what you need,” Tarantyev continued, “and don’t forget to write to the governor that you have twelve children, “small or small.” And at five o’clock the soup should be on the table! Why didn’t you order the pie to be made?

But Oblomov was silent; He had not listened to him for a long time and, closing his eyes, thought about something else.

With Tarantiev’s departure, there was unbroken silence in the room for about ten minutes. Oblomov was upset by both the headman’s letter and the upcoming move to an apartment, and was partly tired of Tarantiev’s chatter. Finally he sighed.

Why don't you write? - Alekseev asked quietly. - I would fix the feather for you.

Clean it up, and God bless you, go somewhere! - said Oblomov. - I

I’ll do one, and you’ll rewrite it after lunch.

“Very good, sir,” answered Alekseev. - In fact, I’ll interfere somehow... And I’ll go while I tell them not to wait for us at Ekateringhof.

Goodbye, Ilya Ilyich.

But Ilya Ilyich did not listen to him: he, having tucked his legs under him, almost lay down in a chair and, having become sad, plunged into either dozing or thoughtfulness.

Oblomov, a nobleman by birth, a collegiate secretary by rank, has been living in St. Petersburg for twelve years without a break.

At first, during the life of his parents, he lived more crampedly, lived in two rooms, and was content only with the servant Zakhar who had taken him out of the village; but after the death of his father and mother, he became the sole owner of three hundred and fifty souls, which he inherited in one of the remote provinces, almost in Asia.

Instead of five, he already received from seven to ten thousand rubles in income banknotes; then his life took on others, more wide sizes. He rented a larger apartment, added a cook to his staff, and got a couple of horses.

He was still young then, and if it cannot be said that he was alive, then at least he was more alive than now; He was also full of various aspirations, he kept hoping for something, expecting a lot both from fate and from himself; He was preparing everything for the field, for the role - first of all, of course, in the service, which was the purpose of his visit to St. Petersburg. Then he thought about his role in society; finally, in the distant future, at the turn from youth to mature years, family happiness flashed and smiled in his imagination.

But days passed by days, years followed by years, the fluff turned into a coarse beard, the rays of the eyes were replaced by two dull points, the waist became rounded, the hair began to grow mercilessly, he turned thirty years old, and he did not move a single step in any field and was still standing at the threshold of his arena, in the same place where he was ten years ago.

But he kept getting ready and preparing to start life, he kept drawing in his mind the pattern of his future; but with every year that flashed over his head, he 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. Because of this, the main field - service, at first, puzzled him in the most unpleasant way.

Brought up in the depths of the province, among the gentle and warm morals and customs of his homeland, passing from the embraces of his relatives, friends and acquaintances for twenty years, he was so imbued with family principles that his future service seemed to him in the form of some kind of family occupation , like, for example, lazily writing down income and expenses in a notebook, as his father did.

He believed that the officials of one place formed a friendly, close family among themselves, vigilantly caring for mutual peace and pleasure, that visiting a public place is by no means an obligatory habit that must be adhered to every day, and that slush, heat or simply indisposition will always serve as sufficient and legal excuses for not holding office.

But how upset he was when he saw that there would have to be an earthquake at the very least in order for a healthy official not to come to work, and, as luck would have it, earthquakes do not happen in St. Petersburg; Flooding, of course, could also serve as a barrier, but even that rarely happens.

Oblomov became even more thoughtful when packages with the inscription necessary and very necessary flashed before his eyes, when he was forced to make various certificates, extracts, rummage through files, write notebooks two fingers thick, which, as if to laugh, were called notes; Moreover, everyone demanded quickly, everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere, did not stop at anything: before they had time to let go of one thing, they would again furiously grab onto another, as if all the power was in it, and, having finished, they would forget it and they rush to the third - and there is never an end to this!

Once or twice he was raised at night and forced to write “notes”; several times he was extracted from guests by courier - all in connection with these same notes.

All this brought great fear and boredom into him. "When to live. When to live?" -

he repeated.

He had heard about the boss at home that he was the father of his subordinates, and therefore he formed the most funny, most family-like concept about this person. He imagined him as something like a second father, who only breathes, as if for business and not for business, all the time, rewarding his subordinates and taking care not only of their needs, but also of their pleasures.

Ilya Ilyich thought that the boss was so deeply in the position of his subordinate that he would carefully ask him: how did he sleep at night, why were his eyes cloudy and did he have a headache?

But he was severely disappointed on the very first day of his service. With the arrival of the boss, there was a rush and bustle, everyone was embarrassed, everyone knocked each other down, others were nervous, fearing that they were not good enough as is to appear to the boss.

This happened, as Oblomov noted later, because there are bosses who see not only respect for themselves, but even jealousy, and sometimes even ability to serve, in the stupefied face of a subordinate who jumped out to meet them.

Ilya Ilyich did not need to be so afraid of his boss, a kind and pleasant person: he never did anything bad to anyone, his subordinates were as happy as possible and did not want anything better. No one ever heard an unpleasant word from him, no shouting, no noise; he never demands anything, but asks for everything. To do something - he asks, to visit himself -

asks and to be put under arrest - asks. He never told anyone you; to everyone:

both to one official and to everyone together.

But all the subordinates were somehow timid in the presence of their boss; They answered his affectionate question not in their own, but in some other voice, in which they did not speak with others.

And Ilya Ilyich suddenly became timid, without knowing why, when the boss entered the room, and his voice began to disappear and some other voice appeared, thin and nasty, as soon as the boss began talking to him.

Ilya Ilyich suffered from fear and melancholy in the service, even under a kind, condescending boss. God knows what would have happened to him if he had ended up with someone strict and demanding!

Oblomov served somehow for two years; Perhaps he would have held out for the third time, before receiving the rank, but a special case forced him to leave the service earlier.

He once sent some necessary paper instead of Astrakhan to

Arkhangelsk.

The matter was explained; They began to look for the culprit.

All the others waited with curiosity how the boss would call Oblomov, how coldly and calmly he would ask, “was he the one who sent the paper to Arkhangelsk,” and everyone was perplexed in what voice Ilya Ilyich would answer him. Some believed that he would not answer at all: he could not.

Looking at the others, Ilya Ilyich himself became frightened, although he and everyone else knew that the boss would limit himself to a remark; but his own conscience was much stricter than a reprimand.

Oblomov did not wait for the well-deserved punishment, went home and sent a medical certificate.

This certificate said: “I, the undersigned, testify, with my seal attached, that the collegiate secretary Ilya

Oblomov is obsessed with thickening the heart with expansion of the left ventricle

(Hypertrophia cordis cum dilatatione ejus ventriculi sinistri), as well as chronic pain in the liver (hetitis), which threatens the health and life of the patient with dangerous development, which attacks occur, presumably, from daily work. Therefore, in order to prevent the repetition and intensification of painful attacks, I consider it necessary to stop for a while.

Oblomov goes to work and generally prescribes abstinence from mental pursuits and all activities.”

But this helped only for a while: he had to recover, and after that, in the long term, he again had to go to office every day. Oblomov could not bear it and resigned. Thus ended - and then was not resumed - his government activities.

His role in society worked out better for him.

In the first years of his stay in St. Petersburg, in his early, young years, his calm facial features were more often animated, his eyes shone for a long time with the fire of life, rays of light, hope, and strength flowed from them. He was worried, like everyone else, he hoped, he rejoiced at trifles and suffered from trifles. But this was all a long time ago, back in that tender time when a person assumes a sincere friend in every other person and falls in love with almost any woman and is ready to offer his hand and heart to anyone, which some even manage to accomplish, often to great regret later on for the rest of their lives. life.

In these blissful days, Ilya Ilyich also received many soft, velvety, even passionate glances from the crowd of beauties, an abyss of promising smiles, two or three unprivileged kisses and even more friendly handshakes, with pain leading to tears.

However, he never gave himself up to beauties, was never their slave, not even a very diligent admirer, already because getting closer to women leads to great trouble. Oblomov was more limited to worshiping from afar, at a respectful distance.

Rarely did fate bring him into contact with a woman in society to such an extent that he could flare up for a few days and consider himself in love. From this he love affairs were not played out in novels: they stopped at the very beginning and in their innocence, simplicity and purity were not inferior to the love stories of some boarder at an older age.

Most of all, he ran around those pale, sad maidens, mostly with black eyes, in which “tormenting days and unrighteous nights” shine, maidens with sorrows and joys unknown to anyone, who always have something to entrust, to say, and when it is necessary to say , they shudder, burst into sudden tears, then suddenly wrap their arms around their friend’s neck, look into the eyes for a long time, then at the sky, say that their life is doomed to damnation, and sometimes faint. He walked around such maidens with fear. His soul was still pure and virgin; she, perhaps, was waiting for her love, her time, her pathetic passion, and then, over the years, it seems, she stopped waiting and despaired.

Ilya Ilyich said goodbye to the crowd of friends even more coldly. Immediately after the headman’s first letter about arrears and crop failure, he replaced his first friend, the cook, with a cook, then sold the horses and, finally, let the other “friends” go.

Almost nothing attracted him from home, and every day he settled more and more firmly in his apartment.

At first it became difficult for him to stay dressed all day, then he was lazy to dine at a party, except for briefly familiar, mostly single houses, where he could take off his tie, unbutton his vest, and where he could even “lounge” or take a nap for an hour.

Soon he became tired of the evenings: he had to put on a tailcoat and shave every day.

He read somewhere that only morning vapors are beneficial, and evening vapors are harmful, and he began to fear dampness.

Despite all these quirks, his friend, Stolz, managed to get him out into the open; 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, emerging from the series of daily phenomena of life; but nothing like this happened and was not foreseen ahead.

To all this, over the years, a kind of childish timidity returned, the expectation of danger and evil from everything that was not encountered in the sphere of his daily life - a consequence of being unaccustomed to various external phenomena.

He was not frightened, for example, by the crack in the ceiling in his bedroom: he was used to it; It also didn’t occur to him that the always stale air in the room and the constant sitting locked up was almost more detrimental to health than night dampness; that to fill the stomach every day is a kind of gradual suicide; but he got used to it and wasn’t afraid.

He was not used to movement, to life, to crowds and bustle.

He felt stuffy in the crowded crowd; He got into the boat with the misguided hope of getting safely to the other shore; he rode in a carriage, expecting that the horses would carry him away and break him.

Either he was attacked by nervous fear: he was frightened by the silence surrounding him, or he simply didn’t know what - he would get goosebumps all over his body. He sometimes fearfully glances sideways at a dark corner, expecting his imagination to play a trick on him and show him a supernatural phenomenon.

This is how his role in society played out. He lazily waved his hand at all the youthful hopes that deceived him or were deceived by him, all the tenderly sad, bright memories that make some people’s hearts beat even in old age.

What was he doing at home? Read? Did you write? Studied?

Yes: if he comes across a book or a newspaper, he will read it.

If he hears about some wonderful work, he will have an urge to get to know it; he searches, asks for books, and if they bring them soon, he will begin to work on them, an idea about the subject will begin to form in him; one more step - and he would have mastered it, but look, he is already lying, looking apathetically at the ceiling, and the book lies next to him, unread, incomprehensible.

Cooling overcame him even faster than passion: he never returned to the abandoned book.

Meanwhile, he studied, like others, like everyone else, that is, until he was fifteen years old, in a boarding school; then the old Oblomovs, after a long struggle, decided to send

Ilyusha to Moscow, where he, willy-nilly, followed the course of science to the end.

His timid, apathetic character prevented him from fully revealing his laziness and whims in strangers, at school, where no exceptions were made in favor of spoiled sons. He, of necessity, sat upright in class, listened to what the teachers said, because there was nothing else he could do, and with difficulty, with sweat, with sighs, he learned the lessons assigned to him.

He generally considered all this to be a punishment sent down by heaven for our sins.

He did not look beyond the line under which the teacher, when assigning a lesson, drew a line with his fingernail, did not make any questions to him and did not demand explanations. He was content with what was written in the notebook and did not show any annoying curiosity, even when he did not understand everything that he listened to and taught.

If he somehow managed to get through a book called statistics, history, political economy, he was completely satisfied.

When Stolz brought him books that he still needed to read beyond what he had learned, Oblomov looked at him silently for a long time.

And you, Brutus, are against me! - he said with a sigh, starting to read his books.

Such immoderate reading seemed unnatural and difficult to him.

Why all these notebooks, which waste a lot of paper, time and ink? Why educational books? Why, finally, six or seven years of seclusion, all the strictness, punishment, sitting and languishing over lessons, the ban on running, playing pranks, having fun, when everything is not over yet?

“When will we live?” he asked himself again. “When will we finally put into circulation this capital of knowledge, most of which will not be needed for anything in life? Political economy, for example, algebra, geometry

What am I going to do with them in Oblomovka?"

And the story itself only plunges you into melancholy: you learn, you read that the time of disaster has come, man is unhappy; now he gathers his strength, he works, he fights, he endures and works terribly, he prepares everything clear days. Now they have come - here at least history itself could rest: no, the clouds appeared again, the building collapsed again, work and chaos again... The clear days will not stop, they run - and life continues to flow, everything flows, everything breaks and breaks.

Serious reading tired him. The thinkers failed to stir up his thirst for speculative truths.

But the poets touched him to the quick: he became a young man like everyone else. And for him came a happy, unfaithful, smiling moment of life for everyone, the flourishing of strength, hopes for existence, desires for good, valor, activity, the era of a strong heartbeat, pulse, trembling, enthusiastic speeches and sweet tears. His mind and heart brightened: he shook off his drowsiness, his soul asked for activity.

Stolz helped him prolong this moment as long as it was possible for such a nature as his friend’s. He caught Oblomov with the poets and kept him under the spell of thought and science for a year and a half.

Taking advantage of the enthusiastic flight of a young dream, he inserted goals other than pleasure into his reading of poets, more strictly indicated the path of his and his life in the distance, and carried him into the future. Both were worried, cried, made solemn promises to each other to follow a reasonable and bright path.

Stolz's youthful heat infected Oblomov, and he burned with a thirst for work, a distant but charming goal.

But the flower of life blossomed and did not bear fruit. Oblomov sobered up and only occasionally, on Stolz’s instructions, perhaps, read this or that book, but not suddenly, slowly, without greed, but lazily ran his eyes along the lines.

No matter how interesting the place where he stopped was, if the hour for lunch or sleep found him at this place, he put the book down with the binding facing up and went to dinner or put out the candle and went to bed.

If they gave him the first volume, after reading it he did not ask for the second, but when they brought it, he read it slowly.

Then he didn’t even get through the first volume, but most spent his free time with his elbow on the table and his head on his elbow; sometimes, instead of an elbow, he used the book that Stolz forced him to read.

This is how Oblomov completed his educational career. The date on which he listened to his last lecture was the Herculean pillars of his learning.

The head of the institution, with his signature on the certificate, like a teacher before with a fingernail on a book, drew a line beyond which our hero no longer considered it necessary to extend his academic aspirations.

His head represented a complex archive of dead deeds, persons, eras, figures, religions, unrelated political-economic, mathematical or other truths, tasks, provisions, etc.

It was like a library, consisting of only scattered volumes on different parts of knowledge.

The teaching had a strange effect on Ilya Ilyich: between science and life there lay a whole abyss, which he did not try to cross. His life was on its own, and his science was on its own.

He studied all existing and long-defunct rights, took a course in practical legal proceedings, and when, on the occasion of some theft in the house, he needed to write a paper to the police, he took a sheet of paper, a pen, thought, thought, and sent for a clerk .

The village elder settled the accounts. “What was science supposed to do here?” -

he reasoned in bewilderment.

And he returned to his solitude without the burden of knowledge that could give direction to the thoughts freely wandering in his head or idly dormant.

What was he doing? Yes, he continued to draw a pattern own life. In it, not without reason, he found so much wisdom and poetry that you could never exhaust it without books and learning.

Having betrayed his service and society, he began to solve the problem of existence differently, thought about his purpose and finally discovered that the horizon of his activity and life lies within himself.

He realized that he had inherited family happiness and care for the estate.

Until then, he didn’t really know his own affairs: he sometimes took care of him

He didn’t keep a good track of his income or expenses, he never made a budget - nothing.

Old man Oblomov, just as he accepted the estate from his father, passed it on to his son. Although he lived all his life in the countryside, he did not think wisely, did not rack his brains over various undertakings, as today’s people do: how to open some new sources of land productivity or spread and strengthen old ones, etc. How and with what The fields were sown under my grandfather; the ways of selling field products were then, the same remained with him.

However, the old man was very pleased if a good harvest or a high price gave more income than last year: he called it a blessing from God. He just didn’t like inventions and pretensions to acquiring money.

“Our fathers and grandfathers were no more stupid than us,” he said in response to some harmful, in his opinion, advice, “but they lived happily ever after; We will also live: God willing, we will be well-fed.

Receiving, without any crafty tricks, from the estate as much income as he needed to have lunch and dinner without measure every day, with his family and various guests, he thanked God and considered it a sin to try to acquire more.

If the clerk brought him two thousand, hiding the third in his pocket, and with tears referred to hail, drought, crop failure, old Oblomov was baptized and also said with tears: “It’s God’s will; you can’t argue with God! We must thank the Lord for the fact that There is".

Since the death of the old people, economic affairs in the village not only have not improved, but, as can be seen from the headman’s letter, they have become worse. It's clear that

Ilya Ilyich had to go there himself and find out on the spot the reason for the gradual decrease in income.

He was planning to do this, but kept putting it off, partly because the trip was a feat for him, almost new and unknown.

He made only one trip in his life, on a long one, among feather beds, caskets, suitcases, hams, rolls, all kinds of fried and boiled cattle and poultry, and accompanied by several servants.

So he made the only trip from his village to Moscow and took this trip as the norm for all trips in general. And now, he heard, they don’t drive like that: you have to gallop headlong!

Then Ilya Ilyich postponed his trip also because he was not properly prepared to take care of his business.

He was no longer like his father or grandfather. He studied, lived in the world: all this led him to various alien considerations. He understood that acquisition is not only not a sin, but that it is the duty of every citizen to maintain the general welfare through honest labor.

Because of this, most of the pattern of life, which he drew in his solitude, was occupied by a new, fresh plan for organizing the estate and managing the peasants, in accordance with the needs of the time.

The main idea of the plan, the layout, the main parts - everything has long been ready in his head; All that remained were details, estimates and figures.

He has been working tirelessly on the plan for several years, thinking and reflecting while walking, lying down, and in front of people; sometimes he supplements, sometimes he changes various articles, sometimes he renews in his memory what was invented yesterday and forgotten at night; and sometimes, suddenly, like lightning, a new, unexpected thought will flash and boil in your head - and work will begin.

He is not some petty executor of someone else’s, ready-made idea; he himself is the creator and the executor of his ideas.

As soon as he gets out of bed in the morning, after tea he will immediately lie down on the sofa, rest his head on his hand and think, sparing no effort, until his head is finally tired from hard work and when his conscience says: enough has been done today for the common good.

Only then does he decide to take a break from his work and change his caring posture to another, less businesslike and strict, more convenient for dreams and bliss.

Freed from business concerns, Oblomov loved to withdraw into himself and live in the world he created.

The pleasures of lofty thoughts were available to him; he was no stranger to universal human sorrows. He wept bitterly in the depths of his soul at other times over the misfortunes of mankind, experienced unknown, nameless suffering, and melancholy, and a longing for somewhere far away, probably to the world where Stolz used to take him.

Sweet tears will flow down his cheeks...

It also happens that he is filled with contempt for human vice, for lies, for slander, for the evil spilled in the world and is inflamed with the 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, his muscles move, his veins tense, intentions are transformed into aspirations: he, driven by moral strength, in one minute quickly changes two or three poses, with sparkling eyes, stands up halfway on the bed, stretches out his hand and looks around with inspiration... The aspiration is about to come true, turn into a feat... and then, Lord! What miracles, what good consequences could be expected from such a high effort!..

But, you see, the morning flashes by, the day is already moving towards evening, and with it Oblomov’s tired forces tend to rest: storms and unrest are humbled in the soul, the head is sobered from thoughts, the blood slowly makes its way through the veins.

Oblomov quietly, thoughtfully turns over on his back and, fixing his sad gaze out the window, towards the sky, sadly watches the sun setting magnificently behind someone’s four-story house.

And how many, how many times did he see off the sunset like that!

The next morning there is life again, again excitement, dreams! He sometimes likes to imagine himself as some kind of invincible commander, before whom not only

Napoleon, but Eruslan Lazarevich means nothing; he will invent a war and the reason for it: for example, peoples from Africa will pour into Europe, or he will organize new crusades and fight, decide the fate of peoples, ruin cities, spare, execute, perform feats of kindness and generosity.

Or he will choose the arena of a thinker, a great artist: everyone worships him; he reaps laurels; the crowd chases after him, exclaiming: “Look, look, here comes Oblomov, our famous Ilya Ilyich!”

In bitter moments he suffers from worries, turns over from side to side, lies face down, sometimes even gets completely lost; then he will get out of bed on his knees and begin to pray fervently, earnestly, begging the sky to somehow ward off the threatening storm.

Then, having handed over the care of his fate to the heavens, he becomes calm and indifferent to everything in the world, and the storm is there as it pleases.

So he used his moral forces, he was often so worried for whole days, and only then would he wake up with a deep sigh from a charming dream or from painful worries, when the day was leaning toward evening and the sun began to magnificently descend in a huge ball behind the four-story building.

Then he again sees him off with a thoughtful look and a sad smile and peacefully rests from his worries.

No one knew or saw this inner life Ilya Ilyich: everyone thought that Oblomov was so-so, just lying down and eating to his health, and that there was nothing more to expect from him; that he hardly even has thoughts in his head. That’s how they talked about him everywhere they knew him.

Stolz knew in detail about his abilities, about his internal volcanic work of an ardent head, a humane heart and could testify, but

Stolz was almost never in St. Petersburg.

Only Zakhar, who spent his entire life around his master, knew even more in detail his entire inner life; but he was convinced that he and the master were doing business and living normally, as they should, and that they should not live differently.

Zakhar was over fifty years old. He was no longer a direct descendant of those Russians

Kalebs, knights of the lackey, without fear or reproach, filled with devotion to their masters to the point of self-forgetfulness, who were distinguished by all the virtues and had no vices.

This knight was both fearful and reproachful. He belonged to two eras, and both put their stamp on him. From one he inherited boundless devotion to the Oblomov family, and from the other, later, sophistication and corruption of morals.

Passionately devoted to his master, he, however, rarely does not lie to him about something. The servant of old times used to keep the master from wastefulness and intemperance, and Zakhar himself loved to drink with his friends at the master’s expense; the former servant was as chaste as a eunuch, but this one kept running to a godfather of suspicious character. He will save the master's money more tightly than any chest, and Zakhar strives to count out the master's ten-kopeck coin at some expense and will certainly appropriate for himself the copper hryvnia or nickel lying on the table. In the same way, if Ilya Ilyich forgets to demand change from Zakhar, she will never return to him.

He did not steal more than sums of money, perhaps because he measured his needs in hryvnias and kopecks or was afraid of being noticed, but, in any case, not from an excess of honesty.

Old Caleb would rather die, like a well-trained hunting dog, over the food he was entrusted with than touch; and this one looks like he’s going to eat and drink something that isn’t ordered; he only cared that the master ate more, and was sad when he didn’t eat; and this one is sad when the master eats to ashes everything he puts on the plate.

Moreover, Zakhar is a gossip. In the kitchen, in the shop, at meetings at the gate, he complains every day that there is no life, that such a bad gentleman has never been heard of: he is capricious, and stingy, and angry, and that you cannot please him in anything, that , in a word, it is better to die than to live with him.

Zakhar did this not out of anger or out of a desire to harm the master, but according to the habit he inherited from his grandfather and father - to curse the master at every opportunity.

Sometimes, out of boredom, from a lack of material for conversation, or in order to inspire more interest in the audience listening to him, he would suddenly spread some incredible story about the master.

“My guy got into the habit of going to that widow,” he wheezed quietly, by proxy, “yesterday he wrote a note to her.”

Or he will announce that his master is such a gambler and drunkard as the world has ever produced; that all night long until the morning he plays cards and drinks bitter drinks.

But nothing happened: Ilya Ilyich does not go to the widow, rests peacefully at night, does not take cards in his hands.

Zakhar is untidy. He rarely shaves and although he washes his hands and face, it seems that he mostly pretends to wash; and you can’t wash it off with any soap. When he goes to the bathhouse, his hands turn from black to red for only two hours, and then black again.

He is very awkward: whether he opens gates or doors, he opens one half, the other closes; runs to that one, this one shuts up.

He never immediately picks up a handkerchief or any other thing from the floor, but always bends down three times, as if catching it, and perhaps on the fourth he picks it up, and then sometimes he drops it again.

If he carries a bunch of dishes or other things across the room, then from the very first step the upper things begin to desert to the floor. First she will fly alone; he suddenly makes a late and useless movement to prevent her from falling, and drops two more. He looks, open-mouthed in surprise, at the things falling, and not at those that remain in his hands, and therefore holds the tray askance, and things continue to fall - and so sometimes he will bring one glass or plate to the other end of the room, and sometimes with abuse and curses he himself will throw away the last thing left in his hands.

Walking around the room, he will touch either his foot or his side on a table or a chair; he does not always hit the open half of the door directly, but hits his shoulder against the other, and curses both halves, or the owner of the house, or the carpenter who made them.

Almost all the things in Oblomov’s office are broken or broken, especially small ones that require careful handling - and all by the grace of Zakhar.

He applies his ability to pick up a thing equally to all things, without making any difference in the way he handles this or that thing.

They are told, for example, to remove it from a candle or pour water into a glass: he will use as much force for this as is necessary to open the gate.

God forbid, when Zakhar is inflamed with zeal to please the master and decides to remove, clean, install, quickly, put everything in order at once!

There was no end to the troubles and losses: it is unlikely that an enemy soldier breaking into a house would cause so much damage. Breaking began, various things fell, dishes were broken, chairs were overturned; it ended with him having to be kicked out of the room, or he himself would leave with abuse and curses,

Fortunately, he was very rarely inflamed by such zeal.

All this happened, of course, because he received his upbringing and acquired manners not in the cramped and twilight of luxurious, whimsically decorated offices and boudoirs, where God knows what was taught, but in the countryside, in peace, space and free air.

There he got used to serving, without anything restricting his movements, around massive things: he handled more and more healthy and solid tools, such as a shovel, a crowbar, iron door brackets and chairs that you couldn’t move from their place.

Another thing, a candlestick, a lamp, a banner, a paperweight, stands in place for three or four years - nothing; As soon as he takes it, you look - it breaks.

“Ah,” he will sometimes say to Oblomov with surprise. -

Look, sir, what a wonder: I just picked up this little thing, and it fell apart!

Or he won’t say anything at all, but will secretly quickly put him back in his place and then assure the master that he himself broke it; and sometimes it is justified, as we saw at the beginning of the story, by the fact that a thing must have an end, even if it is iron, that it will not live forever.

In the first two cases it was still possible to argue with him, but when, in extreme cases, he armed himself with the last argument, then any contradiction was useless, and he remained right without appeal.

Zakhar once drew for himself a certain circle of activity forever, which he never voluntarily crossed.

In the morning he put on the samovar, cleaned his boots and the dress that the master asked for, but by no means the one that he didn’t ask for, even though it had been hanging for ten years.

Then he swept - not every day, however - the middle of the room, without reaching the corners, and wiped the dust only from the table on which nothing stood, so as not to remove things.

Then he already considered himself entitled to doze on the couch or chat with

Anisya in the kitchen and with the servants at the gate, not caring about anything.

If he was ordered to do anything beyond this, he carried out the order reluctantly, after arguing and being convinced of the uselessness of the order or the impossibility of fulfilling it.

It was impossible by any means to force him to add a new permanent article to the circle of activities he had outlined for himself.

If he was ordered to clean, wash some thing, or carry this, bring this, he, as usual, with a grumble, carried out the order; but if someone wanted him to do the same thing constantly himself, then this would be impossible to achieve.

Despite all this, that is, that Zakhar loved to drink, gossip, took nickels and hryvnias from Oblomov, broke and beat various things and was lazy, it still turned out that he was a deeply devoted servant 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. He looked at it as a natural thing that couldn’t be done otherwise, or, better said, he didn’t look at it at all, but acted like that, without any speculation.

He had no theories on this subject. It never occurred to him to analyze his feelings and relationships towards Ilya Ilyich; he did not invent them himself; they passed from his father, grandfather, brothers, servants, among whom he was born and raised, and turned into flesh and blood.

Zakhar would have died instead of his master, considering it his inevitable and natural duty, and not even considering it anything, but simply rushing to his death, just like a dog that, when meeting an animal in the forest, rushes at him, without reasoning why it should rush she, not her master.

But if it were necessary, for example, to sit all night next to the master’s bed, without closing his eyes, and the master’s health or even his life depended on this, Zakhar would certainly fall asleep.

Outwardly, he not only showed no servility towards the master, but was even rude and familiar in his behavior with him, became seriously angry with him for every little thing, and even, as has been said, slandered him at the gate; but still, this only temporarily obscured, but did not at all diminish, his blood-related, kindred feeling of devotion not to Ilya Ilyich himself, but to everything that bears the name

Oblomov, which is close, sweet, and dear to him.

Perhaps even this feeling was in conflict with his own view

Zakhara on Oblomov’s personality, perhaps the study of the master’s character inspired other beliefs in Zakhara. Probably, Zakhar, if they had explained to him the degree of his attachment to Ilya Ilyich, would have disputed this.

Zakhar loved Oblomovka like a cat loves his attic, a horse loves his stall, a dog loves his

the kennel in which she was born and raised. In the sphere of this attachment he had already developed his own special, personal impressions.

For example, he loved Oblomov’s coachman more than the cook, the cowgirl

Varvara is larger than both of them, and Ilya Ilyich is smaller than all of them; but still, Oblomov’s cook for him was better and higher than all other cooks in the world, and

Ilya Ilyich is taller than all the landowners.

He couldn't stand Tarasca, the bartender; but he would not have exchanged this Taraska for the best man in the whole world simply because Taraska was Oblomov’s.

He treated Oblomov familiarly and rudely, just as a shaman roughly and familiarly treats his idol: he sweeps it, and drops it, sometimes, perhaps, he hits with annoyance, but still, in his soul there is always a consciousness of superiority. the nature of this idol over his own.

The slightest reason was enough to evoke this feeling from the depths of Zakhar’s soul and make him look at the master with reverence, sometimes even burst into tears with emotion. God forbid that he would place some other master not only higher, even on an equal footing with his own! God forbid if anyone else decided to do this!

Zakhar looked somewhat down on all the other gentlemen and guests who came to Oblomov and served them - served tea and so on. - with some kind of condescension, as if he made them feel the honor that they enjoy while being with his master. He refused them rudely: “The master is resting,”

he said, arrogantly looking the newcomer up and down.

Sometimes, instead of gossip and slander, he suddenly began to immoderately exalt Ilya Ilyich on benches and at meetings at the gate, and then there was no end to the delight. He suddenly began to calculate the master's merits, intelligence, affection, generosity, kindness; and if his master did not have enough qualities for a panegyric, he borrowed from others and gave him nobility, wealth or extraordinary power.

If it was necessary to intimidate the janitor, the manager of the house, even the owner himself, he always intimidated the master. “Just wait, I’ll tell the master,” he said with a threat, “it’ll be too bad for you!” He had never suspected a stronger authority in the world.

But Oblomov’s external relations with Zakhar were always somehow hostile.

They, tenacious together, got tired of each other. A short, daily rapprochement between person and person is not free for either one or the other: a lot is needed on both sides life experience, logic and warmth, so that, while enjoying only the advantages, you do not prick or prick yourself with mutual shortcomings.

Ilya Ilyich already knew one immense virtue of Zakhar - devotion to himself, and got used to it, also believing, for his part, that it could not and should not be otherwise; having become accustomed to dignity once and for all, he no longer enjoyed it, and yet, despite his indifference to everything, he could not patiently endure Zakhar’s countless minor shortcomings.

If Zakhar, having in the depths of his soul the devotion to the master characteristic of ancient servants, differed from them in modern shortcomings, then Ilya

Ilyich, for his part, appreciating his inner devotion, no longer had that friendly, almost family-like disposition towards him that the former masters had towards their servants. He sometimes allowed himself to scold Zakhar loudly.

Zakhar was also bored with himself. Zakhar, having served as a footman in a manor house in his youth, was made uncle to Ilya Ilyich and from then on began to consider himself only an item of luxury, an aristocratic accessory to the house, intended to maintain completeness and splendor old surname, and not a necessity. Because of this, after dressing the little boy in the morning and undressing him in the evening, he did absolutely nothing the rest of the time.

Lazy by nature, he was also lazy by his lackey upbringing.

He put on airs in the household chores and did not bother to set up the samovar or sweep the floors. He either dozed in the hallway, or went away to chat in the common room, in the kitchen; Otherwise, for hours at a time, with his arms crossed on his chest, he would stand at the gate and look in all directions with sleepy thoughtfulness.

And after such a life, he was suddenly burdened with the heavy burden of carrying the service of an entire house on his shoulders! He serves the master, and sweeps, and cleans, he is also at his beck and call!

From all this, gloominess settled into his soul, and rudeness and harshness appeared in his disposition; This made him grumble every time the master’s voice forced him to leave the couch.

Despite, however, this outward gloominess and savagery, Zakhar was quite soft and kind heart. He even loved spending time with the kids. In the yard, at the gate, he was often seen with a bunch of children. He makes peace with them, teases them, arranges games, or simply sits with them, taking one on one knee, the other on the other, and some other naughty person will wrap his arms around his neck from behind or pull his sideburns.

And so Oblomov prevented Zakhar from living by constantly demanding his services and presence around him, while his heart, sociable disposition, love of inaction and the eternal, never-ending need to chew drew Zakhar first to his godfather, then to the kitchen, then to the bench, then to the gate.

They had known each other for a long time and lived together for a long time. Zakhar nursed the little one

Oblomov is in his arms, and Oblomov remembers him as a young, agile, gluttonous and crafty guy.

The ancient connection was ineradicable between them. How Ilya Ilyich could neither get up, nor go to bed, nor be combed and put on shoes, nor dine without help

Zakhara, so Zakhar could not imagine another master other than Ilya

Ilyich, there is no other existence than to dress him, feed him, be rude to him, dissemble, lie and at the same time inwardly reverence him.

Ivan Goncharov - Oblomov - 01, read the text

Part two

Andrei Stolts grew up in the village of Verkhlevo, which was once part of Oblomovka; here now his father serves as manager. Stolz developed into a personality, in many ways unusual, thanks to the double upbringing received from a strong-willed, strong, cold-blooded German father and a Russian mother, a sensitive woman who lost herself in the storms of life at the piano. The same age as Oblomov, he is the complete opposite of his friend: “he is constantly on the move: if society needs to send an agent to Belgium or England, they send him; you need to write some project or adapt a new idea to business - they choose it. Meanwhile, he goes out into the world and reads; when he succeeds, God knows.”

The first thing Stolz starts with is pulling Oblomov out of bed and taking him to visit different houses. Thus begins the new life of Ilya Ilyich.

Stolz seems to pour some of his ebullient energy into Oblomov, now Oblomov gets up in the morning and begins to write, read, take an interest in what is happening around him, and his acquaintances cannot be surprised: “Imagine, Oblomov has moved!” But Oblomov didn’t just move - his whole soul was shaken to the core: Ilya Ilyich fell in love. Stolz brought him into the Ilyinskys’ house, and in Oblomov a man awakens, endowed by nature with extraordinary strong feelings, - listening to Olga sing, Ilya Ilyich experiences a real shock, he finally woke up completely. But for Olga and Stolz, who have planned a kind of experiment on the eternally dormant Ilya Ilyich, this is not enough - it is necessary to awaken him to rational activity.

Meanwhile, Zakhar found his happiness - having married Anisya, a simple and kind woman, he suddenly realized that dust, dirt, and cockroaches should be fought, and not put up with. In a short time, Anisya puts Ilya Ilyich’s house in order, extending her power not only to the kitchen, as initially expected, but throughout the entire house.

But this general awakening did not last long: the very first obstacle, moving from the dacha to the city, gradually turned into that swamp that slowly but steadily sucks in Ilya Ilyich Oblomov, who is not adapted to making decisions, to taking the initiative. A long life in a dream cannot end immediately...

Olga, feeling her power over Oblomov, is unable to understand too much about him.

Part three

Having succumbed to Tarantiev’s intrigues at the moment when Stolz left St. Petersburg again, Oblomov moved to an apartment rented to him by Mikhei Andreevich, on the Vyborg side.

Unable to deal with life, unable to get rid of debts, unable to manage his estate and expose the swindlers around him, Oblomov ends up in the house of Agafya Matveevna Pshenitsyna, whose brother, Ivan Matveevich Mukhoyarov, is friends with Mikhei Andreevich, not inferior to him, but rather superior the latter with cunning and cunning. In Agafya Matveevna’s house, in front of Oblomov, at first imperceptibly, and then more and more clearly, the atmosphere of his native Oblomovka unfolds, what Ilya Ilyich treasures most in his soul.

Gradually, Oblomov’s entire household passes into the hands of Pshenitsyna. A simple, ingenuous woman, she begins to manage Oblomov’s house, cooking for him delicious dishes, establishing life, and again the soul of Ilya Ilyich plunges into a sweet sleep. Although occasionally the peace and serenity of this dream explodes with meetings with Olga Ilyinskaya, who is gradually becoming disillusioned with her chosen one. Rumors about the wedding of Oblomov and Olga Ilyinskaya are already scurrying between the servants of the two houses - having learned about this, Ilya Ilyich is horrified: nothing has been decided yet, in his opinion, and people are already moving from house to house conversations about what is most likely , that won't happen. “That’s all Andrei: he instilled love, like smallpox, in both of us. And what kind of life is this, all the excitement and anxiety! When will there be peaceful happiness, peace?” - Oblomov reflects, realizing that everything that happens to him is nothing more than the last convulsions of a living soul, ready for the final, already continuous sleep.

Days pass by days, and now Olga, unable to bear it, comes to Ilya Ilyich on the Vyborg side. He comes to make sure that nothing will awaken Oblomov from his slow descent into final sleep. Meanwhile, Ivan Matveyevich Mukhoyarov is taking over Oblomov’s estate affairs, entangling Ilya Ilyich so thoroughly and deeply in his clever machinations that the owner of blessed Oblomovka is unlikely to be able to get out of them. And at this moment Agafya Matveevna is also repairing Oblomov’s robe, which, it seemed, no one could fix. This becomes the last straw in the throes of Ilya Ilyich’s resistance - he falls ill with fever.

Part four

A year after Oblomov’s illness, life flowed along its measured course: the seasons changed, Agafya Matveevna prepared delicious dishes for the holidays, baked pies for Oblomov, brewed coffee for him with her own hands, celebrated Elijah’s Day with enthusiasm... And suddenly Agafya Matveevna realized that she had fallen in love master She became so devoted to him that at the moment when Andrei Stolts, who came to St. Petersburg on the Vyborg side, exposed Mukhoyarov’s dark deeds, Pshenitsyna renounced her brother, whom she had so revered and even feared until recently.

Having experienced disappointment in her first love, Olga Ilyinskaya gradually gets used to Stolz, realizing that her relationship with him is much more than just friendship. And Olga agrees to Stolz’s proposal...

And a few years later, Stolz reappears on the Vyborg side. He finds Ilya Ilyich, who has become “a complete and natural reflection and expression of ‹…› peace, contentment and serene silence. Looking and reflecting on his life and becoming more and more comfortable in it, he finally decided that he had nowhere else to go, nothing to look for...” Oblomov found his quiet happiness with Agafya Matveevna, who bore him a son, Andryusha. Stolz's arrival does not bother Oblomov: he asks his old friend just not to leave Andryusha...

And five years later, when Oblomov was no longer there, Agafya Matveevna’s house fell into disrepair, and the wife of the bankrupt Mukhoyarov, Irina Panteleevna, began to play the first role in it. Andryusha was asked to be raised by the Stoltsy. Living in the memory of the late Oblomov, Agafya Matveevna focused all her feelings on her son: “she realized that she had lost and her life shone, that God put his soul into her life and took it out again; that the sun shone in her and darkened forever...” And high memory forever connected her with Andrei and Olga Stolts - “the memory of the soul of the deceased, clear as crystal.”

And faithful Zakhar is there, on the Vyborg side, where he lived with his master, now asking for alms...

Oblomov's novel read chapter by chapter full content. Online reading of the book Oblomov I

"Oblomov - 01"

See also Ivan Goncharov - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Part two

Part three

Part four