Oblomov part 1 full content.

On Gorokhovaya Street in the morning, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov was lying in bed, a man of thirty-two or three years old, of average height, pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes. A thought was walking across his face, but at the same time there was no concentration, no definite idea on his face. His movements are soft and lazy.

He was wearing a robe “without tassels, without velvet, without a waist, very roomy, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice.” His shoes were long, soft and wide, they had no backs.

Ilya Ilyich's normal state was lying down. The room looked clean, but an experienced eye would immediately appreciate only the desire to maintain the appearance of cleanliness.

Ilya Ilyich woke up early and was preoccupied. The fact is that the day before he received a letter from the headman of the village. He wrote that there was a bad harvest again, there were arrears and some measures needed to be taken. Even after the first letter, Oblomov began to think about a plan for reorganizing the village, but it was never completed. Oblomov decided that he would get up now, but he lay there for half an hour, then another, and so it was already half past ten. Then Ilya Ilyich called Zakhar.

Zakhar is Oblomov’s servant, who came with him to the city from the village. He still wears the frock coat that he wore there in the village, because it is the only thing that reminds him of the bars.

There is an argument between Zakhar and Oblomov about the letter: Oblomov demands a letter from the headman, Zakhar says that he has not seen it. Then Oblomov scolds Zakhar for the dirt in the house, but Zakhar denies it, saying that he always sweeps and erases the dust. Zakhar gives his master bills from the greengrocer, the butcher, for the apartment, etc. Oblomov suffers from all the worries that have fallen on him. Among other things, the owner asks Ilya Ilya to move out of the apartment, since it needs to be remodeled. Oblomov tells Zakhar to persuade the owner to wait, but Zakhar advises the master to get up and write to the owner about the request himself. Oblomov is tired of Zakhar and sends him out of the room, while he himself plunges into thought. But then a bell rings in front of her.

A young man of about twenty-five walked in, perfectly combed and dressed to the nines. It was Volkov. Volkov informs Oblomov that he is going to Yekateringof today to celebrate May 1, and invites Oblomov to join him. Then he tells a bunch of secular news, to which Oblomov says that all this is hellish boredom. Volkov does not understand how evenings, balls, games, festivities can be boring. Oblomov wants to talk to Volkov about his affairs, but he bows and leaves.

When Volkov leaves, Oblomov reasons that this man is unhappy: “And this is life! Where is the man here? What does it crush and crumble into?”

The bell rings again. Sudbinsky arrived - a gentleman in a dark green tailcoat, with a weary face and a thoughtful smile. Sudbinsky was an old colleague of Oblomov. Sudbinsky complains about the service: since he became the head of the department, he doesn’t belong to himself for a minute, he’s always traveling. They remember colleagues, how they served together as clerical officials. Oblomov is surprised how Sudbinsky maintains such a daily routine. Sudbinsky replies that there is nothing to do, “if you need money,” especially since he will get married soon. Sudbinsky leaves, inviting Oblomov to be the best man at his wedding. Olomov reasons that his friend is completely mired in business, in his career, and is blind, and deaf, and dumb for everything else. “And how little of a person is needed here: his mind, will, feelings - why is this? Luxury! And he will live out his life, and many, many things will not move in him...”

Oblomov, busy with his thoughts, did not notice that another visitor was standing at his bedside, very thin, overgrown with sideburns and a mustache, dressed with deliberate carelessness. It was Penkin, a fiction writer who writes about trade, April days, the emancipation of women, etc. He tells Oblomov that he wrote a story about how in one city a mayor beats the townspeople in the teeth, advises him to read it, as well as poem “The love of a bribe-taker for a fallen woman.” But Olomov replies that he will not read it, since in these works “there is no life in anything: there is no understanding of it and no sympathy... and they forget the person or do not know how to portray him. Give me a man, a man!” Penkin does not quite understand what Oblomov wants from him, and invites him to go to Ekateringhof together, but Oblomov refuses. Penkin leaves, and Oblomov argues that his friend is wasting his thought and soul on trifles, selling his mind and imagination, raping his nature. Oblomov secretly rejoiced that “he is lying there, carefree, like a newborn baby, that he is not scattered, nothing is lost...”

The next visitor comes to Oblomov - Alekseev - a man whom no one has ever noticed, whose name no one knew exactly, he has neither friends nor enemies, but many acquaintances. Alekseev calls Ilya Ilyich to dinner with Ovchinin. Oblomov refuses, citing the fact that it is damp and about to rain. Oblomov tells Aleksey his troubles: moving from the apartment and the headman’s letter. Alekseev sympathizes with Oblomov, but cannot offer anything sensible, he says that everything will change. Oblomov hopes only for Stolz, who promised to be there soon, but he himself is not going. At this time, a desperate bell is heard in the hallway.

A man of about forty entered, large, with a large head, protruding eyes, thick lips. It was Mikhei Andreevich Tarantiev, Oblomov’s fellow countryman. Tarantiev had a lively and cunning mind, but at the same time, his work never went beyond words. He remained a theorist all his life, “and meanwhile he carried and realized within himself a dormant force, locked in him by hostile circumstances forever.” He was a big bribe-taker who “would certainly grab a piece of meat on the fly, no matter where or where he was flying from.” In Oblomov’s room, where sleep and peace reigned, Tarantiev always brought some kind of movement, life, news from the outside.

These were the kind of guests who visited Oblomov; Oblomov increasingly broke off living ties with his other acquaintances.

There was also a person in Oblomov’s life whom Ilya Ilyich loved more than anyone. This man “loved news, light, science, and all life, but somehow deeper, more sincere.” It was Andrei Ivanovich Stolts, who was now on leave and for whom Oblomov was waiting any minute.

Tarantiev finally tries to get Oblomov out of bed, and he succeeds. He demands from Oblomov that he treat him to breakfast and cigarettes, then he takes money from Oblomov for Madeira. Oblomov complains to the guest about his misfortunes. Tarantiev says that it serves Ilya Ilyich right, and invites him to move tomorrow to his godfather on the Vyborg side. Oblomov refuses, since it is very far away: there are no theaters or shops nearby. Tarantiev tells Ilya Ilyich that he hasn’t gone out for a long time, does it matter where he lives, so Oblomov isn’t going anywhere, he’ll move and that’s it. Then Oblomov complains to Tarantiev about the headman. The guest replies that the headman is a fraudster, he invented arrears, drought, crop failure, etc. He offers to change the headman, and also to go to the village himself and figure everything out on the spot, and it would also be nice to write letters. Let Oblomov sit down and write with Alekseev right now. Olomov doesn’t even want to hear about it so he can go to the village. Tarantiev is outraged by Ilya Ilyich’s lack of will and says that he will disappear. Oblomov says that if Stolz had been here, he would have sorted everything out instantly. Because of this phrase, Tarantyev flares up; he doesn’t like that some German is more dear to Oblomov than he, Tarantyev. Oblomov asks to respect Stolz, as he grew up with him. Finally, Tarantiev asks Oblomov to give him his tailcoat, because he has nothing to wear to the wedding. Olomov agrees, but Zakhar does not give him a tailcoat. Offended, Tarantiev leaves. Alekseev invites Oblomov to write letters, but he says that after lunch he will take care of everything. Alekseev leaves, and Oblomov, having tucked his feet under him, plunged either into a doze or into thoughtfulness.

Oblomov, a nobleman by birth, a collegiate secretary, has been living in St. Petersburg for 12 years now.

At first he lived in a small apartment, but when his parents died and he became the sole heir, he rented a larger apartment. Then he was still young and full of aspirations, desires and dreams. But the years passed, and he did nothing, only gained weight, still being “at the threshold of his arena, in the same place where he was ten years ago.”

I was especially puzzled by his service. He believed that officials were a big family, and service was some kind of family activity. But everything turned out to be different: everyone at the service was in a hurry, didn’t talk to each other, everyone demanded something and quickly. “All this brought great fear and boredom into him. “When to live?” When to live?’ he kept repeating.” So Oblomov served for two years. He would have lasted a third year if not for one incident. One day he sent an important paper to Arkhangelsk instead of Astrakhan, and punishment awaited him. But Oblomov did not wait for punishment, but went home and later sent a medical certificate. In this certificate, Oblomov was ordered not to go to work and to refrain from mental studies and any activity in general. After recovery, Oblomov resigned. He never served again.

His role in society also failed. He enjoyed the evenings and received many favorable glances from women. He tried to keep his distance from ladies, especially from “pale, sad maidens, mostly with black eyes.” His soul was waiting for some kind of pure virgin love, but over the years, it seems, it stopped waiting. Ilya Ilyich said goodbye to time and his friends.

Now nothing pulled him out of the house anymore, “and every day he settled more firmly and permanently in his apartment.” He stopped attending evenings, then began to be afraid of dampness, and therefore only left the house in the morning, and later stopped going out altogether.

And only Stolz managed to get Oblomov out of the house. But Stolz often left St. Petersburg, and without him Oblomov again plunged into solitude.

Gradually Oblomov lost the habit of life, of vanity, of movement.

What was he doing at home?

Sometimes he read, but books quickly bored him, as cooling quickly took hold of him.

He did not understand what he would do with all this baggage of knowledge in Oblomovka.

But the poets struck a chord with Oblomov, and “he shook off his drowsiness, his soul asked for activity.” Stolz tried as best he could to maintain this impulse in Oblomov. But the desire for activity quickly disappeared, and Oblomov again plunged into his slumber.

He graduated from an educational institution, but was unable to apply his knowledge in practice. “He had life on its own, and science on its own.” And then Oblomov realized that his destiny was family happiness and worries about the estate. Things on the estate were getting worse and worse every year; Oblomov had to go there himself. But he kept putting it off and putting it off, coming up with various reasons that hindered him.

In his head, Ilya Ilyich was building a plan for reorganizing the estate. He worked on it sparing no effort. When he wakes up in the morning, he lies and thinks, figures out something, “when his head finally gets tired of hard work and when his conscience says: enough has been done today for the common good.”

But Oblomov was not a stranger to universal human sorrows; he even sometimes cried over human misfortunes and suffering. It happened that he was filled with hatred of lies, of slander, and then he was ready to accomplish great deeds, perform feats. But the sun was setting, the day was ending, and with it, Oblomov’s dreams were ending.

And the next morning everything was repeated. Many times he imagined himself as some kind of invincible commander doing good on earth. But no one saw this inner life of Ilya Ilyich, except Stolz, but he was often not in St. Petersburg. Others thought “that Oblomov is so-so, he just lies there and eats for his health, and that there is nothing more to expect from him; that he hardly has any thoughts in his head.” Zakhar also knew, of course, the inner world of his master. But he believed that he and the master were living correctly, and they shouldn’t live any other way.

Zakhar was over fifty. It belonged to two eras that left their mark on it. “From one he inherited boundless devotion to the Oblomov family, and from the other, later, refinement and corruption of morals.”

He constantly lied to the master, loved to drink and gossip, little by little he stole money, ate what the servants were not supposed to, and was upset when the master ate everything to the crumbs, leaving nothing on the plate.

He was unkempt, rarely washed or shaved, was very clumsy, and constantly broke everything. All these qualities stemmed only from the fact that he received his upbringing “in the village, in peace, space and free air.”

He only did what he once accepted as part of his responsibilities; it was impossible to force him to do anything more than that. But, despite all this, it turned out that he was a devoted servant to his master. He could die for the sake of the master, but if, for example, he had to sit at the master’s bedside all night, and the latter’s life depended on it, Zakhar would certainly fall asleep.

Outwardly, Zakhar never showed obsequiousness to Oblomov, but he treated everything that had to do with the Oblomovs with reverence, it was all close, sweet, and dear to him.

Ilya Ilyich got used to the fact that Zakhar was completely devoted to him, and believed that it could not be otherwise. But Oblomov no longer had friendly feelings for Zakhar, like the previous masters, he even often quarreled with his servant.

Oblomov also bothered Zakhar. Since childhood, the little boy Zakhar was assigned to him as an uncle, and therefore considered himself only a luxury item. Because of this, after dressing the little boy in the morning and undressing him in the evening, he did nothing for days.

Zakhar was lazy, so when Oblomov’s entire household fell on him in St. Petersburg, he became gloomy, rude and cruel, constantly grumbling, grumbling, arguing with the master.

Zakhar and Oblomov knew each other for a long time, and the connection between them was indestructible. They couldn't imagine life without each other. Just as Oblomov would not get out of bed, would not eat, would not be dressed without Zakhar, so Zakhar could not imagine another master and another existence other than raising, feeding and dressing Oblomov.

Zakhar, closing the doors behind Tarantiev and Alekseev, reminded Oblomov that it was time to get up and write letters. But Oblomov did not get up, but lay there and thought over the plan for the estate. Oblomov was especially interested in the construction of a new house, he disassembled all the little details of its structure, then got to the fruit garden, imagined how he was sitting on the terrace in the evening and drinking tea, next to his wife, children, and childhood friend Stolz. And Olomov so wanted love, happiness, his home, family, children. Ilya Ilyich sees himself surrounded by friends who live nearby, and his face glows with happiness. But he had to wake up from the screaming of people in the yard.

Oblomov got up and asked Zakhar to cook something to eat. Zakhar says that there is nothing and there is no money. Then Oblomov asks to bring what you have. Zakhar brings food and reminds her of the apartment owner’s request to vacate her. Zakhar suggests writing a letter. Oblomov sits down to write, but he just can’t do it beautifully and competently. Finally, completely exhausted, Ilya Ilyich tears up the letter and throws it on the floor.

A doctor comes and, having examined Oblomov, says that if Ilya Ilyich lives in such a climate for another two or three years, leading a similar lifestyle, he will die. The doctor advises going abroad, avoiding mental stress, reading, writing, you can also rent a villa so that there are more flowers, and it would be nice to walk for eight hours a day. And then you have to go to Paris, where you can have fun without thinking, spin in the whirlwind of life; then take a steamship in England and take a ride to America. Oblomov is horrified by the doctor’s advice. The doctor leaves.

Zakhar returns to the room and reminds him about the move. Oblomov wants to drive him away. Zakhar advises Ilya Ilyich to go for a walk, check out the theater, and then he can move. But Oblomov resists, saying that there is no human strength to move, and he won’t be able to sleep in a new place for five nights in a row, and he could get sick. Zakhar says: “I thought that others were no worse than us, but they were moving...” This phrase infuriates Oblomov, he cannot understand how Zakhar could compare him with others. The word “others” hurt Oblomov’s pride, and he decided to show Zakhar the difference between him and others.

Oblomov says that the other is a cursed loaf who “cracks herring and potatoes,” cleans his own boots, dresses himself, doesn’t know what a servant is. The other one bows, asks, humiliates himself. And he, Oblomov, was brought up tenderly, never endured cold or hunger, never did anything himself. And how dare Zakhar compare him with another?! Zakhar understood little from Oblomov’s speech, but his lips trembled from inner excitement. Oblomov says that he takes care of Zakhara all day, even in his plan he assigned him the role of attorney for affairs, to whom the men bow at his feet. And look what he did: he doesn’t care about the master’s peace at all. After all, Oblomov does not spare himself for the sake of him and other peasants, he thinks about everything, he even retired.

Zakhar leaves, calling Oblomov a master of saying pitiful words.

Oblomov calmed down a little, turned over on his other side and began to think that maybe everything would work out by itself and there would be no need to move. He begins to wonder what the “other” really is? After all, probably, the “other” would have long ago written letters to both the owner of the apartment and the village elder, and maybe even moved out of the apartment. After all, he, Oblomov, could have done all this. But why can't it? “This is one of the clear, conscious moments in Oblomov’s life.” He understands that many aspects of his soul have not received development, and yet there is a bright beginning in him. But this treasure is filled with rubbish. Someone discarded it at the beginning of life’s journey from its direct human purpose. And he can no longer get out of the wilderness onto a straight path. His mind and will have long been paralyzed. And Oblomov felt bitter from such a confession to himself. He is trying to find the culprit. But, not finding one, Oblomov slowly falls asleep, thinking, why is he like this? The dream took him to another place, to another era, to other people.

IX Oblomov's Dream

We are in that peaceful corner where the sky lovingly embraces the earth, the sun shines brightly and hotly for six months, and then slowly goes to rest. The mountains there are like sloping hills. The river runs happily and playfully. Summer, spring, winter and autumn come exactly with the calendar; it does not happen that winter suddenly returns in the spring and covers everything with snow. “Neither storms nor destruction can be heard in that region.” A poet and a dreamer would be pleased with this simple area.

Three or four villages made up this corner, in which everything was quiet and sleepy. Silence and peace lie everywhere. This corner was impassable, and therefore there was nowhere to draw knowledge from. And people lived happily, thinking that it was impossible to live otherwise.

Among the villages there were Sosnovka and Vasilovka, known under the common name Oblomovka.

Ilya Ilyich woke up early. He is still small, “pretty, red, plump.” He sees his mother, who showers him with kisses. The boy asks her if they will go for a walk today? Mother says they will go. Then they go to their father for tea. Relatives and guests are sitting at the table, and they all pick up Ilyusha, shower him with affection and praise, and feed him buns and crackers. Material from the site

Then Ilyusha goes for a walk, but his mother warns him not to run too far. But Ilyusha does not listen to her. He rushed into the hayloft, then into the ravine, but the nanny stopped him in time, saying that this was not a child, but some kind of spinning top. And Ilyusha has to return. He wants to know everything, to experience everything, but his mother and nannies do not allow him to take a step.

The main concern of the Oblomovites was kitchen and lunch. From morning until noon food was prepared in huge quantities.

At noon, the house seemed to be dying out: the hour of everyone's afternoon nap had arrived. “It was some kind of all-consuming, invincible dream, a true likeness of death. Everything is dead, only from all corners comes a variety of snoring in all tones and modes.”

And at this time the child was left to his own devices, he examined everything, climbed into a ditch, into a ravine. But the heat gradually subsided, and everything in the house awakened. Drank tea. But then it begins to get dark, and the house begins to prepare dinner. After dinner, everyone goes to bed, and the nanny reads fairy tales to Ilya. Both Oblomov’s mind and imagination, “imbued with fiction, remained in his slavery until his old age.” Already an adult, Ilya Ilyich learns that there are no milk rivers, good sorceresses, etc. But “his fairy tale is mixed with life, and he is unconsciously sad sometimes, why is a fairy tale not life, and why is life not a fairy tale.” “The boy’s imagination was filled with strange ghosts; fear and sadness have settled in the soul for a long time, perhaps forever.”

Maybe Ilya Ilyich learned something, but Verkhlevka, where Stolz lived, was far from Oblomovka, and in the cold, rain and wind, Ilya’s parents did not let Ilya study.

Oblomov also dreams of a dark living room, his mother sits with her legs crossed, one tallow candle is burning in the room. The Oblomovites were very stingy, so they agreed to endure any inconvenience, but not to spend money.

Time in Oblomovka was kept track of on holidays and on various family and household occasions. Nothing disturbed the usual flow of life or monotony in the house. Everything was monotonous here: the Oblomovites “continued to sniffle, doze, yawn for decades…”

Only once did an incident occur that disrupted the Oblomovs’ established life: a letter came to them. At first they didn’t want to open the message, but then they found out that it was a letter from Philip Matveich with a request to send him a beer recipe. Everyone calmed down and decided that they needed to write an answer. My father said that he would rather write “about the holiday.” It is not known whether Philip Matveich waited for the recipe.

The Oblomovs always understood the benefits of education; it could bring the ranks that they so dreamed of for Ilyusha. But they didn’t like to study in Oblomovka.

Ilyusha never did anything himself. He wants to do something, and then three or four servants will do everything themselves. So Oblomov lived, “cherished like an exotic flower in a warm room, and just like the latter under glass, he grew slowly and sluggishly. Those seeking manifestations of power turned inward and sank, withering away.”

Zakhar gossips near the gate about his master. He tells how Oblomov scolded him for being “different” and that he didn’t want to move out of the apartment because he was already freaking out. They tell him that if his master scolds him, it means that he is a nice master, a characterful one. One of the servants said something unflattering about Oblomov, so Zakhar is ready to kill for his master. He says that Oblomov is gold, not a master, we still need to look for such a one. They calm Zakhar down by inviting him to a pub, and he agrees. Everyone leaves.

At the beginning of five, Zakhar returned home and went to wake up his master. Oblomov doesn’t want to get up, Zakhar shouts at him and swears. Oblomov gets up and wants to hit Zakhar for such insolence. But he is stopped by loud laughter at the door. “Stolz! Stoltz! - Oblomov shouted in delight, rushing to the guest.

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On this page there is material on the following topics:

• summary of part 1 from Oblomov’s story
• Oblomov quotes
• what Oblomov constantly thinks about in the first part of the novel
• analysis of Alexev from Ablomov
• presentation on chapter 1 of Oblomov

Ilya Ilyich Oblomov lives in one of the large houses on Gorokhovaya Street.

“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 his face, fluttered in his eyes, sat on his half-open lips, hid in the folds of his forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed throughout his entire face... He was wearing a robe made of Persian fabric, 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...

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... The room where he lay Ilya Ilyich, at first glance, seemed beautifully decorated... But the experienced eye of a person with pure taste, with one quick glance at everything that was here, would have read the desire only to somehow observe the decorum of inevitable decency, just to get rid of them... By on the walls, near the paintings, cobwebs, saturated with dust, were molded in the form of festoons; mirrors, instead of reflecting objects, could serve more as tablets for writing on them, in the dust, some notes 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.”

Oblomov is in a bad mood, as he received a letter from the village headman, who complains about drought, crop failures and, in connection with this, is reducing the amount of money sent to the master. Oblomoz is burdened by the fact that now he will have to think about this too. Having received a similar letter several years ago, he began to come up with a plan for all kinds of improvements and improvements in his estate. So it has been going on ever since. Oblomsz thinks about getting up and washing his face, but then decides to do it later. Zahara is calling. Zakhar, Oblomov's servant, is extremely conservative, wears the same suit that he wore in the village - a gray frock coat. “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 older 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.”

Oblomov reproaches Zakhar for sloppiness and laziness, for not removing dust and dirt. Zakhar objects that “why clean it up if it gets bigger again” and that he didn’t invent bedbugs and cockroaches, everyone has them. Zakhar is a cheat, he pockets change from purchases, but only copper money, since “he measured his needs in copper.” He constantly argues with the master over every little thing, knowing full well that he will not stand it and give up on everything. “The servant of the old days 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 better than any chest, but Zakhar strives to count out a ten-kopeck piece from the master at some expense and will certainly appropriate for himself the copper hryvnia or nickel lying on the table.” Despite all this, 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.” They had known each other for a long time and lived together for a long time. Zakhar nursed little Oblomov in his arms, and Oblomov remembers him as “a young, agile, gluttonous and crafty guy.” “Just as Ilya Ilyich could not get up, nor go to bed, nor be combed and put on shoes, nor have dinner without Zakhar’s help, so Zakhar could not imagine another master, besides Ilya Ilyich, another existence, how to dress him, feed him, be rude to him, to dissemble, lie and at the same time inwardly reverence him.”

Visitors come to Oblomov, talk about their lives, about the news, and invite Oblomov to the May Day festivities in Yekateringhof. He refuses, citing either the rain, the wind, or business. The first of the visitors is Volkov, “a young man of about twenty-five, sparkling with health, with laughing cheeks, lips and eyes.” He talks about visits, about a new tailcoat, about being in love, about going to different houses on “Wednesdays,” “Fridays,” and “Thursdays,” showing off new gloves, etc.

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

Next comes “a thin, dark gentleman, covered all over with sideburns, a mustache and a goatee. He was dressed with deliberate negligence." His last name is Penkin, he is a writer. Penkin wonders if Oblomov has read his article “about trade, about the emancipation of women, about beautiful April days, about a newly invented composition against fires.” Penkin advocates for “a real direction in literature”, wrote a story about “how in one city the mayor beats the townspeople in the teeth”, advises reading a “magnificent work” in which “you can hear either Dante or Shakespeare” and whose author is undoubtedly great - "The love of a bribe-taker for a fallen woman." Oblomov is skeptical about his words and says that he will not read it. When asked by Penkin what he is reading, Oblomov replies that “mostly travel.”

The next guest enters - Alekseev, “a man of uncertain years, with an uncertain physiognomy... Many called him Ivan Ivanovich, others - Ivan Vasilyevich, others - Ivan Mikhailovich... His presence will not add anything to society, just as his absence will not take anything away from him... If in the presence of such a person others give alms to a beggar - and he will throw him his penny, and if they scold him, or drive him away, or laugh at him - so he will scold him and laugh with others... He does not have a special permanent occupation in the service, because his colleagues and superiors could not notice that he was doing worse, what was better, so that they could determine what exactly he was capable of... He would meet an acquaintance on the street. "Where? - he will ask. “Yes, I’m going to work, or to the store, or to visit someone.” “Let’s go with me,” he will say, “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.” .

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

The next visitor arrives - Tarantiev - “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, when twenty-five years ago he was assigned to some office as a scribe, he lived in this position until his gray hairs. It never occurred to him or anyone else that he would go higher. The fact is that Tarantiev was a master of just talking...”

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

Tarantiev scolds Oblomov that he “smokes rubbish”, that he doesn’t have Madeira for the guests’ arrival, that he keeps lying down. Having taken money from Oblomov supposedly to buy Madeira, he immediately forgets about it. In response to Oblomov’s complaints about the headman, he says that the headman is a fraud, so that Oblomov goes to the village and restores order himself. In response to the news that Oblomov needs to move out of the apartment, he offers to move in with his godmother, then “I’ll look in on you every day.” Tarantiev speaks angrily about Stoltz, scolding him as a “damned German”, “a scoundrel”. “Suddenly, out of his father’s forty thousand, he made three hundred thousand capital, and in the service he became a servant, and a scientist... now he’s still traveling!.. Would a real Russian person do all this? A Russian person will choose one thing, and even then in a hurry, little by little, somehow, or else, come on!”

The guests leave, Oblomov plunges into thoughtfulness.

Oblomov has been living in St. Petersburg for twelve years without a break. Previously, he was “still young, and if it cannot be said that he was alive, then at least 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 of youth to mature years, family happiness flashed and smiled in his imagination. But he drank for days after days... and he did not advance 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 still preparing to start life, he kept drawing in his mind the pattern of his future; Yao, with every year that flashed over his head, had to change and discard something in this pattern. Life in his eyes was divided into two halves: one consisted of work and boredom - these were synonyms for him; the other - from peace and peaceful fun... The future service seemed to him in the form of some kind of family activity, 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 it would take at least an earthquake to prevent a healthy official from coming to work... All this brought great fear and boredom into him. “When to live? When to live? - he repeated.”

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

Oblomov does not communicate with women, as this entails trouble. It is limited to “worship from afar, at a respectful distance.” “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 was tired of the evenings: he had to put on a tailcoat, shave every day... Despite all these quirks, his friend, Stolz, managed to get him out into the public; but Stolz often went away from St. Petersburg to Moscow, to Nizhny, to the Crimea, and then abroad - and without him, Oblomov again plunged head over heels into his loneliness and solitude, from which only something extraordinary could bring him out.” “He 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 the carriage, expecting that the horses would carry him and break him.”

Ilyusha studied at a boarding school until he was fifteen, just like the others. “Of necessity, he 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... Serious reading tired him.” Oblomov does not accept thinkers; only poets managed to stir his soul. Stolz gives him books. “Both were worried, cried, made solemn promises to each other to follow a reasonable and bright path.” But nevertheless, while reading, “no matter how interesting the place where he (Oblomov) stopped was, if the hour of lunch or sleep found him at this place, he put the book down with the binding up and went to dinner or put out the candle and went to bed.” . As a result, his head represented a complex archive of dead affairs, persons, eras, figures, religions, unrelated political-economic, mathematical or other truths, tasks, provisions, etc. It was as if a library consisting of only scattered volumes on different parts of knowledge."

“It also happens that he will be 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... But, look, the morning flashes by, the day is already approaching evening, and with it Oblomov’s weary forces tend to rest.”

A doctor comes to Oblomov, examines him and says that lying down and eating fatty foods will give him a stroke in two or three years, and advises him to go abroad. Oblomov is horrified. The doctor leaves, Oblomov is left to think about his “misfortunes.” He falls asleep and has a dream in which all the stages of his life’s journey pass before him.

At first, Ilya Ilyich dreams of the time when he is only seven years old. He wakes up in his bed. The nanny dresses him and takes him to tea. The entire “staff and retinue” of the Oblomov house immediately picks him up and begins to shower him with affection and praise. After this, they began feeding him buns, crackers and cream. Then the mother, after petting him some more, “let him go for a walk in the garden, around the yard, in the meadow, with strict confirmation to the nanny not to leave the child alone, not to let him near horses, dogs, goats, not to go far from the house, and most importantly, not to let him into a ravine, as the most terrible place in the area, which enjoyed a bad reputation.” The day in Oblomovka passes meaninglessly, in petty worries and conversations. “Oblomov himself, an old man, is also not without activities. He sits by the window all morning and strictly watches everything that is happening in the yard... And his wife is very busy: she spends three hours talking with Averka, the tailor, about how to alter Ilyusha’s jacket from her husband’s sweatshirt, she herself draws with chalk and watches that Averka did not steal the cloth; then he will go to the girls' room, ask each girl how much lace to weave on the day; then he would invite Nastasya Ivanovna, or Stepanida Agapovna, or another of his retinue to walk around the garden with a practical purpose: to see how the apple was pouring, to see if yesterday’s apple, which was already ripe, had fallen... But the main concern was the kitchen and dinner. The whole house discussed dinner.” After lunch everyone sleeps. The coachman sleeps in the stable, the gardener sleeps under a bush in the garden, some of the retinue sleeps in the hayloft, etc.

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

Life in Oblomovka is sluggish and extremely conservative. Ilyusha is cherished “like an exotic flower in a greenhouse.” “Those seeking manifestations of power turned inward and sank, withering away.” His parents “dreamed of an embroidered uniform for him, imagined him as a councilor in the chamber, and even his mother as a governor; but they would like to achieve all this somehow cheaper, with various tricks, to secretly bypass the stones and obstacles scattered along the path of enlightenment and honor, without bothering to jump over them, that is, for example, to study lightly, not to the point of exhaustion of soul and body, not to the loss of the blessed completeness acquired in childhood, and so that only to comply with the prescribed form and somehow obtain a certificate that would say that Ilyusha has passed all the sciences and arts.”

Zakhar wakes up Oblomov. Stolz arrived.

"Oblomov - 01"

* PART ONE *

In Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the large houses, the population of which would have been the size of an entire county town, 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.

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. U

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

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?” 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.

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, 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.

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...

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.

An elderly man entered the room, wearing a gray frock coat, with a hole under his arm, from which a piece of 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 gray-haired sideburns, each of which that would be three beards.

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 became poorer, smaller, and finally, imperceptibly lost among the old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other the faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as 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 fell 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 withered so much 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 received 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 just 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 just expected 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 there, 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! You better come to your place.

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:

you 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 my face 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, what else! 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 order you to destroy that apartment first.”

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? - asked Volkov.

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 Ekateringof. Oh! You do not know? Goryunov Misha was produced - that’s what makes us different today,” Volkov added in delight.

That's how! - 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 with him 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...

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 please. 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 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... a new actress, either in the Russian or in the 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 treating us.

No, God bless you! - said Oblomov.

Goodbye.

He went and returned.

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

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! In the village, pick flowers and ride 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 gallop here. You can’t have yourself for a minute.

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, for 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 coming up with a 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 how 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...

“That 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! - 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 this a career! But how little a person is needed here: his intelligence, his will, his feelings - what is this for? Luxury! And he will live out his life, and much, much will not move within 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 stand up 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 caught on the street and taken 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. - Portray a thief, a fallen woman, a pompous fool, and don’t forget the man. 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 filth, 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 that a higher principle was present in this worthless vessel; 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 his 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 still writes? When should we stop and rest? Unhappy!"

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 lunch early, at two o'clock, and go out 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 for God's sake, 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 be with 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,” said Alekseev, 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 - we 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 here’s where it is, look!

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; they plowed for spring, but we don’t know if anything will come out? Perhaps the merciful Lord will have mercy on your lordly mercy, but we don’t care about ourselves:

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 are shortfall: this year we will send the income to the incomer, it will be, our father, our benefactor, about two thousand in exchange against 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 much, I mean, did I get last year? -

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

Alekseev turned his eyes to the ceiling and thought.

We need to ask Stoltz 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, 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.

Tarantyev 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 a strong character driven by fate, 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 here, 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.

The naturally talented boy at the age of three learned Latin grammar and syntax and began to understand Cornelius Nepos, but his father decided that it was enough that he knew that this knowledge gave him a huge advantage over the old 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 led 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, bypassing its main and worthy field in the provinces, was applied to all the little things of his insignificant existence in St. Petersburg, crept into all his friendly relations for the 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, walking 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, widening 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: in a month, wherever he meets: “What about the debt?” -

speaks. I'm tired of it! Moreover, yesterday he came to our department: “That’s right, he says, 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 be there 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.

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

So give everything: they will give back there, 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 elder’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...

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 did not 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 never even saw 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? Which kind person 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 me a tailcoat, Zakhar, 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 him just like that for his name day, and remember what his 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 other, broader dimensions. 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 the 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, if only because getting closer to women involves a lot of 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. Because of this, his love affairs did not play 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 old boarder.

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, works, struggles, endures and toils terribly, everything is preparing for 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, and spent most of 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 the pattern of his 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 considerations that were alien to them. 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.

This is how he used his moral powers, how he was often worried for whole days, and only then would he wake up with a deep sigh from a charming dream or from painful care, 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 of 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 relationship with Zakhar was always somehow hostile.

They, tenacious together, got tired of each other. A short, daily rapprochement between a person and a person is not in vain for either one or the other: a lot is needed on both sides of life experience, logic and heartfelt warmth, so that, while enjoying only the merits, you do not prick and 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 promoted to Ilya Ilyich’s uncle and from then on began to consider himself only an item of luxury, an aristocratic accessory to the house, intended to maintain the fullness and splendor of the old family, and not an item of 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 wildness, Zakhar had a rather 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

See also Ivan Goncharov - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Oblomov - 02
VIII Zakhar, having locked the door behind Tarantiev and Alekseev when they left...

Oblomov - 03
PART TWO I Stolz was only half German, according to his father: his mother was...

PART ONE

OBLOMOV'S DREAM

Where are we? To what blessed corner of the earth did Oblomov’s dream take us? What a wonderful land!

No, really, there are seas there, no high mountains, rocks and abysses, no dense forests - there is nothing grandiose, wild and gloomy.

And why is it so wild and grandiose? The sea, for example? God bless him! It only brings sadness to a person: looking at it, you want to cry. The heart is embarrassed by timidity in front of the vast veil of waters, and there is nothing to rest the gaze, exhausted by the monotony of the endless picture.

The roar and frantic rolls of the waves are not pleasing to the weak of hearing: they keep repeating their own, from the beginning of the world, the same song of gloomy and unsolved content; and you can still hear in her the same groan, the same complaints as if of a monster doomed to torment, and someone’s piercing, ominous voices. Birds don't chirp around; only silent seagulls, like condemned ones, sadly rush along the coast and circle over the water.

The roar of the beast is powerless before these cries of nature, the voice of man is insignificant, and man himself is so small, weak, so imperceptibly disappears into the small details of the broad picture! This may be why it’s so hard for him to look at the sea.

No, God be with him, with the sea! Its very silence and immobility do not give rise to a gratifying feeling in the soul: in the barely noticeable fluctuations of the water mass, a person still sees the same immense, albeit sleeping, force, which sometimes so poisonously mocks his proud will and so deeply buries his brave plans, all his troubles and labors.

Mountains and abysses were also not created for human amusement. They are formidable, terrible, like the claws and teeth of a wild beast released and directed at him; they remind us too vividly of our mortal composition and keep us in fear and longing for life. And the sky there, above the rocks and abysses, seems so distant and inaccessible, as if it had retreated from people.

This is not the peaceful corner where our hero suddenly found himself.

The sky there, on the contrary, seems to be pressing closer to the earth, but not in order to throw arrows more powerfully, but perhaps only to hug it tighter, with love: it spreads out so low above your head, like a parent’s reliable roof, to protect, it seems , a chosen corner from all adversity.

The sun shines there brightly and hotly for about six months and then does not suddenly leave there, as if reluctantly, as if it were turning back to look once or twice at its favorite place and give it a clear, warm day in the fall, amidst bad weather.

The mountains there seem to be just models of those terrible mountains erected somewhere that terrify the imagination. This is a series of gentle hills, from which it is pleasant to roll, frolic, on your back, or, sitting on them, look thoughtfully at the setting sun.

The river runs merrily, frolicking and playing; It either spills into a wide pond, then rushes like a quick thread, or becomes quiet, as if lost in thought, and crawls a little over the pebbles, releasing playful streams on the sides, under the murmur of which it sweetly dozes.

The entire corner of fifteen or twenty miles around was a series of picturesque sketches, cheerful, smiling landscapes. The sandy and sloping banks of a bright river, small bushes creeping up from a hill to the water, a curved ravine with a stream at the bottom and a birch grove - everything seemed to have been deliberately tidied up one by one and masterfully drawn.

A heart exhausted by worries or completely unfamiliar with them asks to hide in this corner forgotten by everyone and live a happiness unknown to anyone. Everything there promises a peaceful, long-lasting life until the hair turns yellow and an imperceptible death, like a dream.

The annual cycle occurs there correctly and calmly.

According to the calendar, spring will come in March, dirty streams will run from the hills, the earth will thaw and smoke with warm steam; the peasant will take off his sheepskin coat, go out into the air in his shirt and, covering his eyes with his hand, admire the sun for a long time, shrugging his shoulders with pleasure; then he will pull the upturned cart by one shaft or the other, or inspect and kick the plow lying idly under the canopy, preparing for ordinary work.

Sudden blizzards do not return in the spring, do not cover fields and break trees with snow.

Winter, like an unapproachable, cold beauty, maintains its character until the legalized time of warmth; does not tease with unexpected thaws and does not bend in three arcs with unheard of frosts; everything goes in the usual, general order prescribed by nature.

In November, snow and frost begin, which intensifies towards Epiphany to the point that a peasant, leaving his hut for a minute, will certainly return with frost on his beard; and in February, a sensitive nose already senses the soft breeze of approaching spring in the air.

But summer, summer is especially delightful in that region. There you need to look for fresh, dry air, filled - not with lemon or laurel, but simply with the smell of wormwood, pine and bird cherry; there to look for clear days, slightly burning, but not scorching rays of the sun and almost three months of cloudless skies.

As the days become clear, they last for three or four weeks; and the evening was warm there, and the night was stuffy. The stars twinkle from the sky so welcomingly, so friendly.

Will it rain - what a beneficial summer rain! It flows briskly, abundantly, jumping merrily, like large and hot tears of a suddenly joyful person; and as soon as it stops, the sun again, with a clear smile of love, inspects and dries the fields and hillocks; and the whole side again smiles with happiness in response to the sun.

The peasant joyfully welcomes the rain: “The rain will soak you, the sun will dry you!” - he says, exposing his face, shoulders and back with pleasure to the warm rain.

Thunderstorms are not terrible, but only beneficial there: they occur constantly at the same set time, almost never forgetting Ilya’s day, as if in order to support a well-known legend among the people. And the number and force of blows seem to be the same every year, just as if a certain amount of electricity was released from the treasury for the entire region for a year.

Neither terrible storms nor destruction can be heard in that region.

No one has ever read anything like this in the newspapers about this God-blessed corner. And nothing would have ever been published, and no one would have heard about this region, if only the peasant widow Marina Kulkova, twenty-eight years old, had not given birth to four babies at once, which was impossible to keep silent about.

The Lord did not punish that side with either Egyptian or simple plagues. None of the residents have seen or remember any terrible heavenly signs, no balls of fire, or sudden darkness; there are no poisonous reptiles there; the locusts do not fly there; there are no roaring lions, no roaring tigers, not even bears and wolves, because there are no forests. There are only plenty of chewing cows, bleating sheep and clucking chickens wandering through the fields and the village.

God knows whether a poet or a dreamer would be content with the nature of a peaceful corner. These gentlemen, as you know, love to look at the moon and listen to the clicking of nightingales. They love the coquette moon, which would dress up in fawn clouds and shine mysteriously through the branches of trees or sprinkle sheaves of silver rays into the eyes of its admirers.

And in this region no one knew what kind of moon it was - everyone called it a month. She somehow good-naturedly looked at the villages and fields with all her eyes and looked very much like a cleaned copper basin.

It would be in vain that the poet would look at her with enthusiastic eyes: she would look at the poet just as innocently as a round-faced village beauty looks in response to the passionate and eloquent glances of the city red tape.

Soloviev is also unheard of in that region, perhaps because there were no shady shelters or roses there; but what an abundance of quails! In the summer, when harvesting grain, the boys catch them with their hands.

Yes, they will not think, however, that quails constitute an object of gastronomic luxury there - no, such corruption has not penetrated the morals of the inhabitants of that region: the quail is a bird not indicated by the regulations as food. There she delights people's ears with her singing: that is why in almost every house a quail hangs under the roof in a thread cage.

The poet and dreamer would not have been satisfied even with the general appearance of this modest and unpretentious area. They would not be able to see some evening there in the Swiss or Scottish style, when all nature - the forest, the water, the walls of the huts, and the sandy hills - everything burns as if with a crimson glow; when, against this crimson background, a cavalcade of men riding along a sandy winding road is sharply shaded, accompanying some lady on walks to a gloomy ruin or hastening to a strong castle, where an episode about the war of the two roses awaits them, told by the grandfather, a wild goat for dinner and sung by the young miss a ballad to the sounds of a lute - the pictures with which the pen of Walter Scott so richly populated our imagination.

No, there was nothing like this in our region.

How quiet everything is, everything is sleepy in the three or four villages that make up this corner! They lay not far from each other and were as if accidentally thrown by a giant hand and scattered in different directions, and have remained that way ever since.

Just as one hut ended up on the cliff of a ravine, it has been hanging there since time immemorial, standing with one half in the air and supported by three poles. Three or four generations lived quietly and happily in it.

It seems that a chicken would be afraid to enter it, but Onisim Suslov lives there with his wife, a respectable man who does not stare at his full height in his home.

Not everyone will be able to enter the hut to Onesimus; unless the visitor begs her stand with your back to the forest and your front towards it.

The porch hung over a ravine, and in order to get onto the porch with your foot, you had to grab the grass with one hand, the roof of the hut with the other, and then step straight onto the porch.

Another hut clung to the hillock like a swallow's nest; there three of them happened to be nearby, and two are standing at the very bottom of the ravine.

Everything in the village is quiet and sleepy: the silent huts are wide open; not a soul in sight; Only flies fly in clouds and buzz in the stuffy atmosphere.

Entering the hut, you will begin to call loudly in vain: dead silence will be the answer: in a rare hut, an old woman living out her days on the stove will respond with a painful groan or dull cough, or a barefoot, long-haired three-year-old child in only a shirt will appear from behind the partition, silently, looking intently at entered and timidly hides again.

The same deep silence and peace lie in the fields; only here and there, like an ant, a plowman, scorched by the heat, crawls in a black field like an ant, leaning on his plow and sweating profusely.

Silence and undisturbed calm reign in the morals of the people in that region. No robberies, no murders, no terrible accidents happened there; neither strong passions nor daring undertakings excited them.

And what passions and enterprises could excite them? Everyone knew himself there. The inhabitants of this region lived far from other people. The nearest villages and the district town were twenty-five and thirty miles away.

At a certain time, the peasants transported grain to the nearest pier to the Volga, which was their Colchis and the pillars of Hercules, and once a year some went to the fair, and had no further relations with anyone.

Their interests were focused on themselves, and did not intersect or come into contact with anyone else.

They knew that eighty miles from them there was a “province,” that is, a provincial city, but few went there; then they knew that further away, there, Saratov or Nizhny; they heard that there were Moscow and St. Petersburg, that beyond St. Petersburg the French or Germans lived, and then a dark world began for them, as for the ancients, unknown countries inhabited by monsters, people with two heads, giants; there followed darkness - and, finally, everything ended with that fish that holds the earth on itself.

And since their corner was almost impassable, there was nowhere to get the latest news about what was happening in this world: the transporters with wooden utensils lived only twenty miles away and knew no more than them. They didn’t even have anything to compare their life with; Do they live well? whether they are rich or poor; Could there be anything more you could wish for that others have?

Happy people lived thinking that it shouldn’t and couldn’t be any other way, confident that everyone else lived exactly the same way and that living differently was a sin.

They wouldn’t even believe it if they were told that others plow, sow, reap, and sell differently. What passions and worries could they have?

They, like all people, had worries and weaknesses, contributions of taxes or rent, laziness and sleep; but all this cost them cheap, without worrying about blood.

In the last five years, out of several hundred souls, not one has died, let alone a violent, or even a natural death.

And if someone, from old age or from some long-standing illness, fell into eternal sleep, then for a long time after that they could not marvel at such an extraordinary event.

Meanwhile, it did not seem at all surprising to them that, for example, the blacksmith Taras almost steamed himself to death in a dugout, to the point that it was necessary to pour water on him.

One of the crimes, namely the theft of peas, carrots and turnips from vegetable gardens, was in great circulation, and one day two pigs and a chicken suddenly disappeared - an incident that outraged the entire neighborhood and was unanimously attributed to a convoy with wooden utensils passing to the fair the day before. Otherwise, accidents of any kind were very rare.

Once, however, a man was found lying behind the outskirts, in a ditch, near the bridge, apparently a man who had lagged behind the artel that was passing into the city.

The boys were the first to notice him and ran to the village in horror with the news of some terrible snake or werewolf lying in a ditch, adding that he chased them and almost ate Kuzka.

Where is it taking you? - the old people calmed down. - Is your neck strong? What do you want? Don't worry: you are not being persecuted.

But the men went and fifty yards away began to call out to the monster in different voices: there was no answer; they stopped; then they moved again.

A man was lying in a ditch, leaning his head on a hillock; near him lay a bag and a stick on which two pairs of bast shoes were hung.

The men did not dare to come close or touch.

Hey! You, brother! - they shouted in turn, scratching the back of their heads and their backs. - How are you? Hey, you! What do you want here?

The passer-by made a movement to raise his head, but could not: he was apparently unwell or very tired.

One decided to touch him with a pitchfork.

Don't hesitate! Don't hesitate! - many shouted. - Who knows what he’s like: look, he doesn’t give a damn: maybe he’s like that... Don’t cover him up, guys!

Let's go, - some said, - really, let's go: what is he to us, uncle, or what? Only trouble with him!

And everyone went back to the village, telling the old people that a stranger was lying there, not harming anything, and God knows he was there...

Stranger, don't bother! - the old men said, sitting on the rubble and putting their elbows on their knees. - Let him have it! And you had nothing to walk on!

This was the corner where Oblomov was suddenly transported in a dream.

Of the three or four villages scattered there, one was Sosnovka, the other was Vavilovka, one mile from each other.

Sosnovka and Vavilovka were the hereditary homeland of the Oblomov family and therefore were known under the common name Oblomovka.

There was a master's estate and residence in Sosnovka. About five versts from Sosnovka lay the village of Verkhlevo, which also once belonged to the Oblomov family and had long ago passed into other hands, and several more scattered huts belonging to the same village.

The village belonged to a wealthy landowner who never went to his estate: it was managed by a German manager.

That's the whole geography of this corner.

Ilya Ilyich woke up in the morning in his small bed. He is only seven years old. It's easy and fun for him.

How handsome, red and plump he is! The cheeks are so round that some naughty people would pout on purpose, but they wouldn’t do something like that.

The nanny is waiting for him to wake up. She begins to pull on his stockings; he doesn’t give in, plays pranks, dangles his legs; the nanny catches him, and they both laugh.

Finally she managed to get him to his feet; she washes him, combs his head and takes him to his mother.

Oblomov, seeing his long-dead mother, trembled in his sleep with joy, with ardent love for her: in his sleepy state, two warm tears slowly floated out from under his eyelashes and became motionless.

His mother showered him with passionate kisses, then examined him with greedy, caring eyes to see if his eyes were cloudy, asked if anything hurt, asked the nanny if he slept peacefully, if he woke up at night, if he tossed about in his sleep, if he does he have a fever? Then she took him by the hand and led him to the image.

There, kneeling down and hugging him with one hand, she suggested to him the words of prayer.

The boy repeated them absentmindedly, looking out the window, from where coolness and the smell of lilac poured into the room.

Mama, shall we go for a walk today? - he suddenly asked in the middle of prayer.

Let’s go, darling,” she said hastily, without taking her eyes off the icon and hastening to finish the holy words.

The boy repeated them listlessly, but the mother put her whole soul into them.

Then they went to their father, then to tea.

Near the tea table, Oblomov saw an elderly aunt living with them, eighty years old, constantly grumbling at her little girl, who, shaking her head from old age, served her, standing behind her chair. There are three elderly girls, distant relatives of his father, and his mother’s slightly crazy brother-in-law, and the landowner of seven souls, Chekmenev, who was visiting them, and some other old women and old men.

This entire staff and retinue of the Oblomov house picked up Ilya Ilyich in their arms and began to shower him with affection and praise; he barely had time to wipe away the traces of uninvited kisses.

After that, they began feeding him buns, crackers, and cream.

Then the mother, having petted him some more, let him go for a walk in the garden, around the yard, in the meadow, with a strict confirmation to the nanny not to leave the child alone, not to let him near horses, dogs, a goat, not to go far from the house, and most importantly, not to let him into the ravine, as the most terrible place in the area, which enjoyed a bad reputation.

There they once found a dog, recognized as rabid only because it rushed away from people when they attacked it with pitchforks and axes, and disappeared somewhere over the mountain; carrion was taken into the ravine; in the ravine there were supposed to be robbers, wolves, and various other creatures that either did not exist in that region or did not exist at all.

The child did not wait for his mother’s warnings: he had been out in the yard for a long time.

With joyful amazement, as if for the first time, he looked and ran around his parents’ house with a gate crooked to one side, with a wooden roof sagging in the middle, on which delicate green moss grew, with a wobbly porch, various extensions and settings, and a neglected garden.

He passionately wants to run up to the hanging gallery that goes around the whole house to look at the river from there; but the gallery is dilapidated, barely holds up, and only “people” are allowed to walk along it, but gentlemen do not walk.

He did not heed his mother’s prohibitions and was about to head towards the seductive steps, but the nanny appeared on the porch and somehow caught him.

He rushed from her to the hayloft, with the intention of climbing up the steep stairs, and as soon as she had time to reach the hayloft, she had to rush to destroy his plans to climb into the dovecote, enter the barnyard and, God forbid! - into the ravine.

Oh, Lord, what a child, what a spinning top! Will you sit still, sir? Ashamed! - said the nanny.

And the whole day, and all the days and nights of the nanny were filled with turmoil, running around: now torture, now living joy for the child, now fear that he will fall and break his nose, now tenderness from his unfeigned childish affection or vague longing for his distant future: This was the only thing that kept her heart beating, these emotions warmed the old woman’s blood, and somehow they supported her sleepy life, which without it, perhaps, would have died out a long time ago.

The child is not always playful, however: sometimes he suddenly becomes quiet, sitting next to the nanny, and looks at everything so intently. His childish mind observes all the phenomena taking place in front of him; they sink deep into his soul, then grow and mature with him.

The morning is magnificent; the air is cool; the sun is still low. From the house, from the trees, and from the dovecote, and from the gallery - long shadows ran far away from everything. Cool corners have formed in the garden and yard, inviting thoughtfulness and sleep. Only in the distance the field with rye seems to be burning with fire, and the river glitters and sparkles so much in the sun that it hurts your eyes.

Why is it, nanny, that it’s dark here and light there, and why will it be light there too? - asked the child.

Because, father, the sun goes towards the month and does not see it, it frowns; and as soon as he sees it from afar, he will brighten up.

The child becomes thoughtful and looks around: he sees how Antip went to fetch water, and on the ground, next to him, another Antip walked, ten times larger than the real one, and the barrel seemed as big as a house, and the horse’s shadow covered the entire meadow, the shadow only stepped twice across the meadow and suddenly moved over the mountain, and Antip had not yet managed to leave the yard.

The child also took a step or two, another step - and he would go over the mountain.

He would like to go to the mountain to see where the horse went. He was heading towards the gate, but his mother’s voice was heard from the window:

Nanny! Don't you see that the child ran out into the sun? Take him into the cold; if it gets on his head, he will get sick, feel nauseous, and won’t eat. He'll go into your ravine like that!

Uh! darling! - the nanny quietly grumbles, dragging him out onto the porch.

The child looks and observes with a sharp and perceptive gaze, how and what adults do, what they devote their morning to.

Not a single detail, not a single feature escapes the child’s inquisitive attention; the picture of home life is indelibly etched into the soul; the soft mind is fed with living examples and unconsciously draws a program for his life based on the life around him.

It cannot be said that the morning was wasted in the Oblomovs’ house. The sound of knives chopping cutlets and herbs in the kitchen even reached the village.

From the people's room one could hear the hiss of a spindle and the quiet, thin voice of a woman: it was difficult to discern whether she was crying or improvising a mournful song without words.

In the yard, as soon as Antip returned with the barrel, women and coachmen crawled towards her from different corners with buckets, troughs and jugs.

And there the old woman will carry a cup of flour and a bunch of eggs from the barn into the kitchen; there the cook will suddenly throw water out of the window and pour it on Little Arapka, who, all morning, without taking her eyes off, looks out the window, affectionately wagging her tail and licking her lips.

Oblomov the old man himself is also not without activities. He sits by the window all morning and strictly watches everything that is happening in the yard.

Hey, Ignashka? What are you talking about, fool? - he will ask a man walking in the yard.

“I’m taking the knives to the servants’ room to sharpen,” he answers without looking at the master.

Well, bring it, carry it, and get it right, look, sharpen it!

Then he stops the woman:

Hey grandma! Woman! Where did you go?

“To the cellar, father,” she said, stopping and, covering her eyes with her hand, looking at the window, “to get milk for the table.”

Well, go, go! - answered the master. - Be careful not to spill the milk. - And you, Zakharka, little shooter, where are you running again? - he shouted later. - Here I will let you run! I already see that this is the third time you are running. I went back to the hallway!

And Zakharka went into the hallway again to doze.

When the cows come from the field, the old man will be the first to make sure they are given water; If he sees from the window that a mongrel is chasing a chicken, he will immediately take strict measures against the riots.

And his wife is very busy: she spends three hours talking with Averka, the tailor, about how to alter Ilyusha’s jacket from her husband’s sweatshirt, she herself draws with chalk and watches so that Averka doesn’t steal the cloth; then he will go to the girls' room, ask each girl how much lace to weave on the day; then he will invite Nastasya Ivanovna, or Stepanida Agapovna, or another of his retinue to walk around the garden with a practical purpose: to see how the apple is pouring, to see if yesterday’s apple, which is already ripe, has fallen; graft there, prune there, etc.

But the main concern was the kitchen and dinner. The whole house discussed dinner; and the elderly aunt was invited to the council. Everyone offered their own dish: some soup with giblets, some noodles or gizzard, some tripe, some red, some white gravy for the sauce.

Any advice was taken into account, discussed in detail and then accepted or rejected according to the final verdict of the hostess.

Nastasya Petrovna and Stepanida Ivanovna were constantly sent to the kitchen to remind them whether to add this or cancel that, to bring sugar, honey, and wine for the meal and to see if the cook would put in everything that had been set aside.

Taking care of food was the first and main concern of life in Oblomovka. What calves grew fat there for the annual holidays! What a bird was raised! How many subtle considerations, how much knowledge and care there is in courting her! Turkeys and chickens assigned to name days and other special days were fattened with nuts; The geese were deprived of exercise and forced to hang motionless in a bag several days before the holiday, so that they would swim with fat. What stocks there were of jams, pickles, and cookies! What honeys, what kvass were brewed, what pies were baked in Oblomovka!

And so until noon everything was fussing and worrying, everything lived such a full, ant-like, such a noticeable life.

On Sundays and holidays, these hardworking ants also did not stop: then the knocking of knives in the kitchen was heard more often and louder; the woman made the journey from the barn to the kitchen several times with double the amount of flour and eggs; there was more groaning and bloodshed in the poultry yard. They baked a gigantic pie, which the gentlemen themselves ate the next day; on the third and fourth days, the leftovers went to the maiden room; the pie lived until Friday, so that one completely stale end, without any filling, went, as a special favor, to Antipus, who, crossing himself, undauntedly destroyed this curious fossil with a crash, enjoying more the knowledge that this was the master's pie than the pie itself, like an archaeologist who enjoys drinking crappy wine from a shard of some thousand-year-old pottery.

And the child looked and observed everything with his childish mind, which did not miss anything. He saw how, after a useful and troublesome morning spent, noon and lunch came.

The afternoon is sultry; the sky is clear. The sun stands motionless overhead and burns the grass. The air has stopped flowing and hangs motionless. Neither the tree nor the water moves; There is an imperturbable silence over the village and the field - everything seems to have died out. A human voice is heard loudly and far away in the void. Twenty fathoms away you can hear a beetle flying and buzzing, and in the thick grass someone is still snoring, as if someone has fallen in there and is sleeping in a sweet dream.

And dead silence reigned in the house. The time for everyone's afternoon nap has arrived.

The child sees that his father, his mother, his old aunt, and his retinue have all scattered to their own corners; and whoever didn’t have one went to the hayloft, another to the garden, a third sought coolness in the hallway, and another, covering his face with a handkerchief from the flies, fell asleep where the heat overpowered him and the bulky dinner fell on him. And the gardener stretched out under a bush in the garden, next to his pick, and the coachman slept in the stable.

Ilya Ilyich looked into the people's room: in the people's room everyone lay down, on the benches, on the floor and in the hallway, leaving the children to their own devices; children crawl around the yard and dig in the sand. And the dogs climbed far into their kennels, fortunately there was no one to bark at.

You could walk through the entire house and not meet a soul; it was easy to rob everything around and take it out of the yard on carts: no one would have interfered, if only there were thieves in that region.

It was some kind of all-consuming, invincible dream, a true likeness of death. Everything is dead, only from all corners comes a variety of snoring in all tones and modes.

Occasionally, someone will suddenly raise his head from sleep, look senselessly, with surprise, at both sides and roll over to the other side, or, without opening his eyes, he will spit in his sleep and, chewing his lips or muttering something under his breath, will fall asleep again.

And the other quickly, without any preliminary preparations, will jump with both feet from his bed, as if afraid to lose precious minutes, grab a mug of kvass and, blowing on the flies floating there, so that they are carried to the other edge, causing the flies, until motionless, begin to move violently, in the hope of improving their situation, wet their throat and then fall back onto the bed as if shot.

And the child watched and watched.

After dinner, he and the nanny went out into the air again. But the nanny, despite all the severity of the lady’s orders and her own will, could not resist the charm of sleep. She also became infected with this epidemic disease that prevailed in Oblomovka.

At first she cheerfully looked after the child, did not let him go far from her, sternly grumbled about his playfulness, then, feeling the symptoms of an approaching infection, she began to beg him not to go beyond the gate, not to touch the goat, not to climb into the dovecote or gallery.

She herself sat down somewhere in the cold: on the porch, on the threshold of the cellar, or simply on the grass, apparently in order to knit a stocking and look after the child. But soon she lazily calmed him down, nodding her head.

“Oh, just behold, this spinning top will climb into the gallery,” she thought almost in a dream, “or else... into a ravine, as it were...”

Here the old woman’s head bowed to her knees, the stocking fell out of her hands; she lost sight of the child and, opening her mouth a little, let out a light snore.

And he was looking forward to this moment with which his independent life began.

It was as if he was alone in the whole world; he ran away from the nanny on tiptoe, looking at everyone who was sleeping where; stops and watches intently as someone wakes up, spits or mutters something in his sleep; then, with a sinking heart, he ran up to the gallery, ran around on the creaking boards, climbed the dovecote, climbed into the wilderness of the garden, listened to the buzzing of the beetle, and with his eyes followed its flight in the air far away; listened to someone chirping in the grass, looked for and caught the violators of this silence; catches a dragonfly, tears off its wings and sees what becomes of it, or pokes a straw through it and watches how it flies with this addition; with pleasure, fearing to die, he watches the spider, how he sucks the blood of a caught fly, how the poor victim beats and buzzes in his paws. The child will end up killing both the victim and the tormentor.

Then he climbs into the ditch, digs around, looks for some roots, peels off the bark and eats to his heart's content, preferring the apples and jam that his mother gives him.

He will run out of the gate: he would like to go into the birch forest; it seems so close to him that he could get to it in five minutes, not around along the road, but straight through the ditch, hedges and holes; but he is afraid: there, they say, there are goblins, and robbers, and terrible beasts.

He wants to run into the ravine: it is only fifty yards from the garden; the child had already run to the edge, closed his eyes, wanted to look, as into the crater of a volcano... but suddenly all the rumors and legends about this ravine rose before him: he was seized with horror, and he, neither alive nor dead, rushes back and, trembling from out of fear, rushed to the nanny and woke up the old woman.

She woke up from her sleep, straightened the scarf on her head, picked up scraps of gray hair under it with her finger and, pretending that she had not slept at all, glances suspiciously at Ilyusha, then at the master's windows and begins with trembling fingers to poke the needles of the stocking that lay with her one into the other on the knees.

Meanwhile, the heat began to subside little by little; everything in nature has become more lively; the sun has already moved towards the forest.

And little by little the silence in the house was broken: in one corner a door creaked somewhere; someone's footsteps were heard in the yard; someone sneezed in the hayloft.

Soon a man hurriedly carried a huge samovar from the kitchen, bending over from the weight. They began to get ready for tea: some of their faces were wrinkled and their eyes were swollen with tears; he left a red spot on his cheek and temples; the third speaks from sleep in a voice that is not his own. All this sniffles, groans, yawns, scratches his head and stretches, barely coming to his senses.

Lunch and sleep gave rise to an unquenchable thirst. Thirst burns my throat; twelve cups of tea are drunk, but this does not help: groaning and groaning can be heard; they resort to lingonberry water, pear water, kvass, and others even to medical aid, just to relieve the drought in their throat.

Everyone was looking for liberation from thirst, as from some kind of punishment from the Lord; everyone is rushing about, everyone is languishing, like a caravan of travelers in the Arabian steppe, not finding a spring of water anywhere.

The child is here, next to his mother: he peers into the strange faces surrounding him, listens to their sleepy and sluggish conversation. It’s fun for him to look at them, and every nonsense they say seems curious to him.

After tea, everyone will do something: some will go to the river and quietly wander along the bank, pushing pebbles into the water with their feet; another will sit by the window and catch with his eyes every fleeting phenomenon: whether a cat runs across the yard, whether a jackdaw flies by, the observer pursues both with his eyes and the tip of his nose, turning his head now to the right, now to the left. So sometimes dogs like to sit for whole days on the window, exposing their heads to the sun and carefully looking at every passerby.

The mother will take Ilyusha’s head, put it on her lap and slowly comb his hair, admiring its softness and making both Nastasya Ivanovna and Stepanida Tikhonovna admire, and talks with them about Ilyusha’s future, making him the hero of some brilliant epic she has created. They promise him mountains of gold.

But now it begins to get dark. The fire is crackling in the kitchen again, the rattling sound of knives is heard again: dinner is being prepared.

The servants have gathered at the gate: a balalaika and laughter can be heard there. People play burners.

And the sun was already setting behind the forest; it cast several slightly warm rays, which cut a fiery stripe through the entire forest, brightly bathing the tops of the pines in gold. Then the rays went out one after another; the last ray remained for a long time; he, like a thin needle, pierced the thicket of branches; but that too went out.

Objects lost their shape; everything merged first into a gray, then into a dark mass. The singing of the birds gradually weakened; soon they became completely silent, except for one stubborn one, who, as if in defiance of everyone, in the midst of the general silence, chirped monotonously at intervals, but less and less, and she finally whistled weakly, silently, for the last time, perked up, slightly moving the leaves around me... and fell asleep.

Everything fell silent. Some grasshoppers made louder noises when they started. White vapors rose from the ground and spread across the meadow and river. The river also calmed down; a little later, someone suddenly splashed inside her one last time, and she became motionless.

It smelled damp. It got darker and darker. The trees were grouped into some kind of monsters; It became scary in the forest: there, someone would suddenly creak, as if one of the monsters was moving from its place to another, and a dry twig seemed to crunch under his foot.

The first star sparkled brightly in the sky, like a living eye, and lights flickered in the windows of the house.

These are the moments of general, solemn silence of nature, those moments when the creative mind works stronger, poetic thoughts boil hotter, when passion flares up more vividly in the heart or melancholy aches more painfully, when in a cruel soul the seed of a criminal thought ripens more calmly and strongly, and when... in Everyone rests so soundly and peacefully in Oblomovka.

Let’s go for a walk, mom,” says Ilyusha.

What are you, God bless you! Now go for a walk,” she replies, “it’s damp, you’ll catch cold in your legs; and it’s scary: a goblin is now walking in the forest, he’s carrying away little children.

Where is it going? What is it like? Where does he live? - asks the child.

And the mother gave free rein to her unbridled imagination.

The child listened to her, opening and closing his eyes, until finally sleep overcame him completely. The nanny came and, taking him from his mother’s lap, carried him sleepy, with his head hanging over her shoulder, to bed.

The day has passed, and thank God! - said the Oblomovites, lying in bed, groaning and making the sign of the cross. - Lived well; God willing it will be the same tomorrow! Glory to you, Lord! Glory to you, Lord!

Then Oblomov dreamed of another time: on an endless winter evening he timidly clings to his nanny, and she whispers to him about some unknown side, where there is neither night nor cold, where miracles happen, where rivers of honey and milk flow, where no one knows anything. he doesn’t do it all year round, but every day they only know that all the good fellows, such as Ilya Ilyich, and beauties are walking, no matter what a fairy tale can describe.

There is also a kind sorceress, who sometimes appears to us in the form of a pike, who will choose some favorite, quiet, harmless, in other words, some lazy person, whom everyone offends, and even showers on him, for no reason at all, all sorts of good things, and he just eats for himself and dresses up in a ready-made dress, and then marries some unheard-of beauty Militrisa Kirbityevna.

The child, with his ears and eyes pricked up, passionately absorbed the story.

The nurse or the legend so skillfully avoided in the story everything that actually exists that the imagination and mind, imbued with fiction, remained in his slavery until old age. The nanny with good nature told the tale of Emel the Fool, this evil and insidious satire on our great-grandfathers, and perhaps also on ourselves.

The adult Ilya Ilyich, although he later learns that there are no honey and milk rivers, no good sorceresses, although he jokes with a smile at the nanny’s stories, but this smile is not sincere, it is accompanied by a secret sigh: his fairy tale is mixed with life, and he unconsciously Sometimes I feel sad, why is a fairy tale not life, and why is life not a fairy tale?

He involuntarily dreams of Militris Kirbityevna; he is constantly drawn in the direction where they only know that they are walking, where there are no worries and sorrows; he always has the disposition to lie on the stove, walk around in a ready-made, unearned dress and eat at the expense of the good sorceress.

Both old man Oblomov and grandfather listened to the same fairy tales in childhood, passed down in the stereotypical edition of antiquity, in the mouths of nannies and uncles, through centuries and generations.

The nanny, meanwhile, paints a different picture for the child’s imagination.

She tells him about the exploits of our Achilles and Ulysses, about the prowess Ilya Muromets, Dobrynya Nikitich, Alyosha Popovich, about Polkan the hero, about Kolechiche the passerby, about how they wandered around Rus', beat countless hordes of infidels, how they competed to see who could drink a glass of green wine in one breath and not grunt; then she spoke about evil robbers, about sleeping princesses, petrified cities and people; finally, she moved on to our demonology, to the dead, to monsters and werewolves.

With the simplicity and good nature of Homer, with the same lively fidelity to the details and relief of the pictures, she put into the children's memory and imagination the iliad of Russian life, created by our Homerids of those foggy times, when man had not yet come to terms with the dangers and secrets of nature and life, when he trembled and before the werewolf, and before the goblin, and with Alyosha Popovich, he sought protection from the troubles that surrounded him, when miracles reigned in the air, and in the water, and in the forest, and in the field.

The life of the man of that time was terrible and unfaithful; It was dangerous for him to go beyond the threshold of the house: just behold, he would be whipped by an animal, stabbed to death by a robber, an evil Tatar would take everything away from him, or the man would disappear without a trace, without any trace.

And then suddenly heavenly signs will appear, pillars of fire and balls; and there, over a fresh grave, a light will flash, or someone is walking in the forest, as if with a lantern, laughing terribly and sparkling his eyes in the darkness.

And so many incomprehensible things were happening to the man himself: a person lives and lives long and well - nothing, but suddenly he starts talking in such an unworthy way, or starts shouting in a voice that is not his own, or wanders sleepy at night; the other, for no apparent reason, will begin to warp and hit the ground. And before this happened, a hen had just crowed a rooster and a raven cawed over the roof.

The weak man was lost, looking around in horror at life, and looked in his imagination for the key to the mysteries of the surrounding nature and his own.

Or perhaps sleep, the eternal silence of a sluggish life and the absence of movement and any real fears, adventures and dangers forced a person to create another, unrealizable world in the natural world and in it to seek revelry and fun for the idle imagination or the solution to ordinary combinations of circumstances and causes of the phenomenon outside itself phenomena.

Our poor ancestors lived gropingly; They did not inspire or restrain their will, and then they naively marveled or were horrified by the inconvenience, evil and interrogated the reasons from the silent, unclear hieroglyphs of nature.

For them, death occurred from the dead person who had previously been carried out of the house with his head, and not with his feet from the gate; fire - because a dog howled under the window for three nights; and they took pains to ensure that the deceased was carried out of the gate with their feet, and ate the same things, and slept the same as before on the bare grass; the howling dog was beaten or driven out of the yard, but the sparks from the splinter were still thrown into a crack in the rotten floor.

And to this day, in the midst of the strict, devoid of fiction reality that surrounds him, Russian people love to believe the seductive legends of antiquity, and it may be a long time before he renounces this faith.

Listening to stories from the nanny about our golden rune - Firebird, about the obstacles and secret places of the magic castle, the boy was either cheerful, imagining himself a hero of the feat, and goosebumps ran down his spine, or he suffered for the failures of the brave man.

Story after story flowed. The nanny told the story with passion, picturesquely, with enthusiasm, and in places with inspiration, because she herself half believed the stories. The old woman's eyes sparkled with fire; my head was shaking with excitement; the voice rose to unusual notes.

The child, overwhelmed by unknown horror, huddled close to her with tears in his eyes.

Whether the conversation was about the dead rising from their graves at midnight, or about victims languishing in captivity with a monster, or about a bear with a wooden leg who goes through villages and villages to look for the natural leg that was cut off from him, the child’s hair cracked on his head with horror. ; the children's imagination either froze or boiled; he experienced a painful, sweetly painful process; my nerves were tense like strings.

When the nanny gloomily repeated the bear’s words: “Creak, creak, your leg is fake; I walked through the villages, walked through the village, all the women were sleeping, one woman was not sleeping, sitting on my skin, cooking my meat, spinning my wool,” etc.; when the bear finally entered the hut and was preparing to grab the kidnapper of his leg, the child could not stand it: with trepidation and a squeal, he threw himself into the nanny’s arms; Tears of fright begin to flow from his eyes, and at the same time he laughs with joy that he is not in the claws of the beast, but on a couch, next to the nanny.

The boy's imagination was filled with strange ghosts; fear and melancholy settled into the soul for a long time, perhaps forever. He sadly looks around and sees everything in life as harm, misfortune, everything dreams of that magical side, where there is no evil, troubles, sorrows, where Militrisa Kirbityevna lives, where they feed and clothe so well for nothing...

The fairy tale retains its power not only over children in Oblomovka, but also over adults until the end of their lives. Everyone in the house and in the village, from the master, his wife to the burly blacksmith Taras, everyone trembles for something on a dark evening: every tree then turns into a giant, every bush into a den of robbers.

The knocking of the shutters and the howling of the wind in the chimney made men, women and children turn pale. No one will go out of the gate alone after ten o'clock in the evening at Epiphany; Everyone on Easter night will be afraid to go to the stable, for fear of finding a brownie there.

In Oblomovka they believed everything: werewolves and the dead. If they are told that a haystack was walking across the field, they will not think twice and will believe it; If anyone hears a rumor that this is not a ram, but something else, or that such and such a Marfa or Stepanida is a witch, they will be afraid of both the ram and Martha: it will not even occur to them to ask why the ram became so a ram, and Martha became a witch, and they would even attack anyone who thought of doubting this - so strong is the faith in the miraculous in Oblomovka!

Ilya Ilyich will see later that the world is simply structured, that the dead do not rise from their graves, that giants, as soon as they get started, are immediately put in a booth, and robbers in prison; but if the very belief in ghosts disappears, then some kind of residue of fear and unaccountable melancholy remains.

Ilya Ilyich learned that there are no troubles from monsters, and he barely knows what kind there are, and at every step he is still waiting for something terrible and is afraid. And now, when left in a dark room or seeing a dead person, he trembles from the ominous melancholy implanted in his soul in childhood; laughing at his fears in the morning, he turns pale again in the evening.

He is already studying in the village of Verkhlevo, about five versts from Oblomovka, with the local manager, the German Stolz, who started a small boarding school for the children of the surrounding nobles.

He had his own son, Andrei, almost the same age as Oblomov, and they also gave him one boy, who almost never studied, but suffered more from scrofula, spent his entire childhood constantly blindfolded or blindfolded, and kept crying in secret about the fact that he lived not at his grandmother’s, but in someone else’s house, among the villains, that there was no one to caress him and no one would bake him his favorite pie.

Apart from these children, there were no others in the boarding house yet.

There is nothing to do, father and mother put the spoiled one Ilyusha in front of a book. It was worth the tears, the screams, the whims. Finally they took me away.

The German was a practical and strict man, like almost all Germans. Maybe Ilyusha would have had time to learn something well from him, if Oblomovka had been five hundred versts from Verkhlev. And then how to learn? The charm of Oblomov’s atmosphere, lifestyle and habits extended to Verlevo; after all, it, too, was once Oblomovka; there, except for Stolz’s house, everything breathed the same primitive laziness, simplicity of morals, silence and stillness.

The child's mind and heart were filled with all the pictures, scenes and customs of this life before he saw the first book. Who knows how early the development of the mental seed in a child’s brain begins? How to follow the birth of the first concepts and impressions in the infant soul?

Maybe, when the child was still barely pronouncing words, or maybe he wasn’t pronouncing them at all, didn’t even walk, but only looked at everything with that intent, dumb child’s gaze, which adults call stupid, he already saw and guessed the meaning and connection of the phenomena around him sphere, but he just didn’t admit it to himself or others.

Maybe Ilyusha has long noticed and understands what they say and do in front of him: like his father, in corduroy trousers, in a brown woolen woolen jacket, all he knows all day is that he walks from corner to corner, with his hands behind him, sniffing tobacco and blows his nose, and mother goes from coffee to tea, from tea to dinner; that the parent would never even think of believing how many kopecks were mowed or compressed, and recovering for the omission, and if you don’t hand him a handkerchief soon enough, he will scream about the riots and turn the whole house upside down.

Perhaps his childish mind had long ago decided that this is how he should live, and not otherwise, the way the adults around him live. And how else would you tell him to decide? How did the adults live in Oblomovka?

Did they ask themselves: why was life given? God knows. And how did they answer it? Probably not; it seemed very simple and clear to them.

They had not heard of the so-called difficult life, of people who carry languid worries in their chests, scurrying for some reason from corner to corner across the face of the earth, or devoting their lives to eternal, never-ending work.

The Oblomovites had little faith in spiritual anxieties; they did not mistake for life the cycle of eternal aspirations somewhere, for something; they were afraid, like fire, of passions; and just as in another place people’s bodies quickly burned out from the volcanic work of internal, spiritual fire, so the soul of Oblomov’s people sank peacefully, without interference, into a soft body.

Life did not brand them like others, neither with premature wrinkles, nor with morally destructive blows and illnesses.

Good people understood it only as an ideal of peace and inaction, disrupted from time to time by various unpleasant accidents, such as illness, losses, quarrels and, among other things, labor.

They endured labor as a punishment imposed on our forefathers, but they could not love, and where there was a chance, they always got rid of it, finding it possible and necessary.

They never embarrassed themselves with any vague mental or moral questions: that’s why they always blossomed with health and fun, that’s why they lived there for a long time; men at forty looked like youths; the old people did not struggle with a difficult, painful death, but, having lived to the point of impossibility, they died as if on the sly, quietly freezing and imperceptibly breathing their last breath. That is why they say that the people were stronger before.

Yes, in fact, stronger: before, they were in no hurry to explain to the child the meaning of life and prepare him for it, as for something sophisticated and serious; did not torment him over books that give birth to a darkness of questions in his head, and questions gnaw at the mind and heart and shorten his life.

The standard of life was ready and taught to them by their parents, and they accepted it, also ready, from their grandfather, and grandfather from their great-grandfather, with a covenant to guard its integrity and inviolability, like the fire of Vesta. Just as what was done under our grandfathers and fathers, so it was done under Ilya Ilyich’s father, so, perhaps, is still being done now in Oblomovka.

What did they have to think about and what to worry about, what to learn, what goals to achieve?

Nothing is needed: life, like a calm river, flowed past them; they could only sit on the bank of this river and observe the inevitable phenomena that, in turn, without calling, appeared before each of them.

And so the sleeping Ilya Ilyich’s imagination began to reveal itself, one by one, like living pictures, the three main acts of life that played out both in his family and among relatives and acquaintances: homeland, wedding, funeral.

Then a motley procession of its cheerful and sad divisions stretched out: christenings, name days, family holidays, fasting, breaking the fast, noisy dinners, family gatherings, greetings, congratulations, official tears and smiles.

Everything was sent with such precision, so important and solemn.

He even imagined familiar faces and their expressions during various rituals, their care and bustle. Give them whatever delicate matchmaking you want, whatever kind of solemn wedding or name day you want - they will celebrate it according to all the rules, without the slightest omission. Who should be planted where, what should be served and how, who should go with whom in the ceremony, whether the rules should be observed - in all this no one has ever made the slightest mistake in Oblomovka.

Will they not be able to leave the child there? One has only to look at the pink and weighty cupids the mothers there wear and lead around. They insist that the children be plump, white and healthy.

They will retreat from spring, they will not want to know it, if they do not bake it at the beginning of its lark. How can they not know and not do this?

Here is their whole life and science, here are all their sorrows and joys: that is why they drive away from themselves all other worries and sorrows and do not know other joys; their life was teeming exclusively with these fundamental and inevitable events, which provided endless food for their minds and hearts.

They, with their hearts beating with excitement, awaited a ritual, a feast, a ceremony, and then, having baptized, married or buried a person, they forgot the person himself and his fate and plunged into the usual apathy, from which they were brought out by a new similar event - a name day, a wedding and etc.

As soon as a child was born, the first concern of the parents was to perform all the rituals required by decency as accurately as possible, without the slightest omissions, that is, to organize a feast after the christening; then the caring care for him began.

The mother set herself and the nanny the task of raising a healthy child, protecting him from colds, eyes and other hostile circumstances. They worked hard to ensure that the child was always happy and ate a lot.

As soon as they put the young man on his feet, that is, when he no longer needs a nanny, a secret desire creeps into the mother’s heart to find him a girlfriend - also healthier, more rosy.

The era of rituals and feasts is coming again; finally, the wedding; The whole pathos of life was focused on this.

Then repetitions began: the birth of children, rituals, feasts, until the funeral changed the scenery; but not for long: some people give way to others, children become young men and at the same time grooms, they get married, produce people like themselves - and so life according to this program stretches on in an uninterrupted monotonous fabric, imperceptibly ending at the very grave.

True, sometimes other worries were imposed on them, but Oblomov’s people met them for the most part with stoic immobility, and worries, circling over their heads, rushed past, like birds that fly to a smooth wall and, not finding a place to shelter, flutter their wings in vain near a solid stone and fly further.

So, for example, one day part of the gallery on one side of the house suddenly collapsed and buried a hen and her chickens under its ruins; Aksinya, Antip’s wife, would have gone too, who sat down under the gallery with the bottom, but at that time, fortunately for her, went for the lobes.

There was a hubbub in the house: everyone came running, young and old, and were horrified, imagining that instead of a hen with chickens, the lady herself could be walking here with Ilya Ilyich.

Everyone gasped and began to reproach each other for how it had not occurred to them for a long time: to remind one, to tell another to correct, to a third to correct.

Everyone was amazed that the gallery had collapsed, and the day before they wondered how it had held up for so long!

Concerns and discussions began about how to improve the matter; they regretted the mother hen with the chicks and slowly went to their places, strictly forbidding them to bring Ilya Ilyich to the gallery.

Then, three weeks later, Andryushka, Petrushka, and Vaska were ordered to drag the fallen boards and railings to the sheds so that they would not lie on the road. They lay there until spring.

Every time Old Man Oblomov sees them from the window, he will be preoccupied with the thought of amendment: he will call the carpenter, begin to consult on how best to do it, whether to build a new gallery or tear down the remains; then he will let him go home, saying: “Go ahead, and I’ll think about it.”

This continued until Vaska or Motka informed the master that when he, Motka, climbed the remains of the gallery this morning, the corners were completely behind the walls and were about to collapse again.

Then the carpenter was called to a final meeting, as a result of which it was decided to support the rest of the surviving gallery with old debris, which was done by the end of the same month.

Eh! Yes, the gallery will start again! - the old man said to his wife. - Look how Fedot beautifully arranged the logs, like columns in the leader’s house! Now it’s good: again for a long time!

Someone reminded him that it would be a good time to fix the gate and repair the porch, otherwise, they say, not only cats and pigs crawl into the basement through the steps.

Yes, yes, it’s necessary,” Ilya Ivanovich answered carefully and immediately went to inspect the porch.

In fact, you see how it’s completely shaken,” he said, rocking the porch with his feet like a cradle.

“Yes, it was wobbly even then, just like it was made,” someone remarked.

So what was wobbly? - answered Oblomov. - Yes, it didn’t fall apart, even though it’s been standing for sixteen years without correction. Luke did a great job then!.. Here was a carpenter, so a carpenter... died - the kingdom of heaven to him! Nowadays they are spoiled: they won’t do that.

And he turned his eyes in the other direction, and the porch, they say, is wobbly and has not yet fallen apart.

Apparently, this Luka was a really nice carpenter.

We must, however, give the owners justice: sometimes in trouble or inconvenience they will become very worried, even get excited and angry.

How, they say, can you start or leave both? We need to take action now. And they only talk about how to repair a bridge, perhaps, across a ditch, or fence off a garden in one place so that cattle don’t spoil the trees, because part of the fence was completely lying on the ground.

Ilya Ivanovich even extended his thoughtfulness to the point that one day, while walking in the garden, he lifted up the fence with his own hands, groaning and groaning, and ordered the gardener to quickly put up two poles: thanks to this goodwill of Oblomov, the fence stood like that all summer, and only in the winter it was covered with snow again.

Finally, it even got to the point that three new planks were laid on the bridge, immediately as Antip fell off it, with his horse and barrel, into the ditch. He had not yet recovered from the injury, and the bridge was almost completely refinished.

The cows and goats also took a little after the fence fell again in the garden: they ate only the currant bushes and began to peel off the tenth linden tree, but they didn’t even get to the apple trees, when the order was given to dig the fence properly and even dig in a ditch.

The two cows and the goat who were caught in the act also suffered: their sides swelled nicely!

Ilya Ilyich also dreams of a large dark living room in his parents’ house with antique ash armchairs, always covered with covers, with a huge, awkward and hard sofa, upholstered in faded blue barracks in spots, and one large leather chair.

A long winter evening is approaching.

The mother sits on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, and lazily knits a child's stocking, yawning and occasionally scratching her head with a knitting needle.

Nastasya Ivanovna and Pelageya Ignatievna sit next to her and, with their noses buried in their work, are diligently sewing something for the holiday for Ilyusha, or for his father, or for themselves.

The father, with his hands behind him, walks back and forth around the room, in complete pleasure, or sits down in a chair and, after sitting for a while, begins to walk again, carefully listening to the sound of his own steps. Then he sniffs the tobacco, blows his nose, and sniffs again.

There was one tallow candle burning dimly in the room, and this was only allowed on winter and autumn evenings. In the summer months, everyone tried to go to bed and get up without candles, in daylight.

This was done partly out of habit, partly out of economy. For any item that was not produced at home, but was purchased by purchase, the Oblomovites were extremely stingy.

They will cordially slaughter an excellent turkey or a dozen chickens for the arrival of a guest, but they will not add extra zest to the dish and will turn pale, just as the same guest willfully decides to pour himself a glass of wine.

However, such debauchery almost never happened there: only some tomboy, a person who was lost in the general opinion, would do this; such a guest will not even be allowed into the yard.

No, those were not the customs there: a guest there would not touch anything before eating three times. He knows very well that a single meal more often includes a request to refuse the offered dish or wine than to taste it.

Not even two candles can be lit for everyone: the candle was bought in the city with money and was taken care of, like all purchased items, under the owner’s own key. The cinders were carefully counted and hidden.

In general, they didn’t like to spend money there, and no matter how necessary the thing was, money for it was always given with great sympathy, and only if the cost was insignificant. Significant spending was accompanied by groans, screams and curses.

The Oblomovites agreed to endure all sorts of inconveniences better, they even got used to not considering them as inconveniences, rather than spending money.

Because of this, the sofa in the living room was covered in stains a long time ago, because of this, Ilya Ivanovich’s leather chair is only called leather, but in fact it is either a washcloth or a rope: there is only one scrap of leather left on the back, and the rest had already fallen into pieces and peeled off for five years; That may be why the gates are all crooked and the porch is wobbly. But suddenly paying two hundred, three hundred, five hundred rubles for something, even the most necessary, seemed almost suicide to them.

Hearing that one of the neighboring young landowners went to Moscow and paid three hundred rubles for a dozen shirts, twenty-five rubles for boots and forty rubles for a vest for a wedding, old man Oblomov crossed himself and said with an expression of horror, a patter that “such a fellow should be imprisoned to prison."

In general, they were deaf to political and economic truths about the need for rapid and active circulation of capital, about increased productivity and the exchange of products. In the simplicity of their souls, they understood and implemented the only use of capital - to keep it in a chest.

On the chairs in the living room, in different positions, the inhabitants or ordinary visitors of the house sit and snore.

For the most part, deep silence reigns between the interlocutors: everyone sees each other every day; mental treasures are mutually exhausted and exhausted, and there is little news from outside.

Quiet; Only the footsteps of Ilya Ivanovich’s heavy, homemade boots are heard, the wall clock in its case is still dully tapping with a pendulum, and from time to time a thread torn by hand or teeth from Pelageya Ignatievna or Nastasya Ivanovna breaks the deep silence.

So sometimes half an hour will pass, unless someone yawns out loud and crosses his mouth, saying: “Lord have mercy!”

A neighbor will yawn behind him, then the next one, slowly, as if on command, opens his mouth, and so on, the infectious play of air in the lungs will bypass everyone, and another will burst into tears.

Or Ilya Ivanovich will go to the window, look there and say with some surprise: “It’s only five o’clock, and how dark it is outside!”

Yes, someone will answer, it’s always dark at this time; long evenings are coming.

And in the spring they will be surprised and happy that the long days are coming. But ask why they need these long days, they themselves don’t know.

And they will be silent again.

And then someone starts taking the candle off and suddenly extinguishes it - everyone will start up: “Unexpected guest!” - someone will certainly say.

Sometimes this will start a conversation.

Who would this guest be? - the hostess will say. - Isn’t it Nastasya Faddeevna? Oh, God forbid! Not really; it won't be closer than the holiday. That would be a joy! We should have hugged and cried together with her! Both for matins and for mass together... But where can I go for it! It’s a gift that I’m younger, but I can’t withstand this much!

When did she leave us? - asked Ilya Ivanovich. - It seems after Ilyin’s day?

What are you doing, Ilya Ivanovich! You'll always get it wrong! “She didn’t even wait until the seventh semester,” my wife corrected.

It seems she was here in Petrovka,” Ilya Ivanovich objects.

You always do! - the wife will say reproachfully. - If you argue, you will only embarrass yourself...

Well, how come you weren’t in Petrovka? Even back then, everyone baked pies with mushrooms: she loves...

So this is Marya Onisimovna: she loves mushroom pies - how can you remember! And Marya Onisimovna was visiting not until Ilya’s day, but before Prokhor and Nikanor.

They kept track of time by holidays, by seasons, by various family and home occasions, never referring to months or numbers. Perhaps this was partly due to the fact that, besides Oblomov himself, others kept confusing both the names of the months and the order of numbers.

The defeated Ilya Ivanovich will fall silent, and again the whole society will fall into slumber. Ilyusha, slumped behind his mother, also dozes, and sometimes even sleeps completely.

Yes,” one of the guests will later say with a deep sigh, “that’s Marya Onisimovna’s husband, the deceased Vasily Fomich, who was, God bless him, healthy, but he died! And he didn’t live sixty years, but someone like that could live a hundred years!

We will all die, no matter when - God's will! - Pelageya Ignatievna objects with a sigh. - Those who die, but the Khlopovs don’t have time to baptize: they say Anna Andrevna gave birth again - this is the sixth.

Is it only Anna Andreevna? - said the hostess. - Just like her brother is getting married and having children - how much more trouble will there be! And the younger ones grow up and also look to be grooms; Marry your daughters there, but where are the suitors here? Nowadays, you see, everyone wants a dowry, but it’s all money...

What are you saying? - asked Ilya Ivanovich, approaching those talking.

Yes, we say that...

And the story is repeated to him.

This is human life! - Ilya Ivanovich said instructively. - One dies, another is born, a third gets married, but we keep getting older: let alone year after year, day after day! Why is this so? What would it be like if every day were like yesterday, yesterday like tomorrow!.. It’s sad, when you think about it...

The old grows old, and the young grows! - someone said from the corner in a sleepy voice.

We need to pray to God more and not think about anything! - the hostess remarked sternly.

True, true,” Ilya Ivanovich responded cowardly and quickly, having decided to philosophize, and began to walk back and forth again.

They are silent again for a long time; Only the threads threaded back and forth with the needle hiss. Sometimes the hostess will break the silence.

Yes, it’s dark outside, she’ll say. - Now, God willing, as soon as we wait for Christmas, they will come to visit their people, it will be more fun, and you won’t see how the evenings will go. Now, if Malanya Petrovna had come, there would have been some mischief here! What won't she do? And pour tin, and melt wax, and run through the gates; All my girls will be led astray. He will start different games... like that, really!

Yes, society lady! - one of the interlocutors noted. - In the third year, she even decided to ride from the mountains, that’s how Luka Savich broke his eyebrow...

Suddenly everyone perked up, looked at Luka Savich and burst into laughter.

How are you, Luka Savic? Come on, come on, tell me! - says Ilya Ivanovich and dies with laughter.

And everyone continues to laugh, and Ilyusha woke up, and he laughs.

Well, what can I tell you! - says embarrassed Luka Savic. - Alexey Naumych made it all up: nothing happened at all.

Eh! - everyone picked it up in unison. - How come nothing happened? Are we really dead?.. And the forehead, the forehead, there, the scar is still visible...

And they laughed.

Why are you laughing? - Luka Savic tries to say in between laughter. - I would... and not that... but that’s all Vaska, the robber... I slipped the old sled... they moved apart under me... I and that...

General laughter covered his voice. It was in vain that he tried to tell the story of his fall: laughter spread throughout the whole society, penetrated to the hall and to the maid's room, enveloped the whole house, everyone remembered the funny incident, everyone laughed for a long time, in unison, unspeakably like the Olympian gods. As soon as they start to fall silent, someone will pick it up again - and off to write.

Finally, somehow, with difficulty, we calmed down.

Are you going to talk about Christmas time today, Luka Savich? - Ilya Ivanovich asked after a pause.

Again a general burst of laughter that lasted about ten minutes.

Shouldn't we tell Antipka to make a mountain a post? - Oblomov will suddenly say again. - Luka Savich, they say, is a big hunter, he can’t wait...

The laughter of the whole company did not allow him to finish.

Are those... sleds intact? - one of the interlocutors said barely out of laughter.

Laughter again.

Everyone laughed for a long time, and finally they began to calm down little by little: one was wiping away tears, another was blowing his nose, a third was coughing furiously and spitting, with difficulty pronouncing:

Oh, Lord! The phlegm completely suffocated me... I made him laugh then, by God! Such a sin! How his back is up, and the tails of his caftan are apart...

Here came the final, longest peal of laughter, and then everything fell silent. One sighed, the other yawned loudly, with a sentence, and everything fell into silence.

As before, only the swing of the pendulum, the knock of Oblomov’s boots, and the light crack of a bitten thread could be heard.

Suddenly Ilya Ivanovich stopped in the middle of the room with an alarmed look, holding the tip of his nose.

What kind of trouble is this? Check this out! - he said. - To be dead: the tip of my nose is itching...

Oh, Lord! - the wife said, clasping her hands. - What kind of dead man is this if the tip itches? Dead - when the bridge of the nose itches. Well, Ilya Ivanovich, what are you, God bless you, unconscious! If you ever say something like that in public or in front of guests, you will be ashamed.

What does this mean, the tip itches? - asked the confused Ilya Ivanovich.

Look into the glass. And how is this possible: dead!

I'm confusing everything! - said Ilya Ivanovich. - Where should I mention: sometimes the side of the nose itches, sometimes the end, sometimes the eyebrows...

On the side,” Pelageya Ivanovna picked up, “means to lead; eyebrows itch - tears; forehead - bow; it itches on the right side for a man, on the left for a woman; ears itch - it means rain, lips - kissing, mustache - there are gifts, elbow - in a new place to sleep, soles - the road...

Well, Pelageya Ivanovna, well done! - said Ilya Ivanovich. - Otherwise, when the oil is cheap, the back of your head will itch...

The ladies began to laugh and whisper; some of the men were smiling; an outburst of laughter was preparing again, but at that moment there was heard in the room at the same time, as if the grumbling of a dog and the hissing of a cat, when they were about to rush at each other. The clock buzzed.

Eh! It's nine o'clock! - Ilya Ivanovich said with joyful amazement. - Look, you probably won’t even see how time has passed. Hey Vaska! Vanka! Motka!

Three sleepy faces appeared.

Why don't you set the table? - Oblomov asked with surprise and annoyance. - No, to think about the gentlemen? Well, what are you worth? Hurry, vodka!

That's why the tip of my nose itched! - Pelageya Ivanovna said vividly. - You will drink vodka and look into the glass.

After dinner, having smacked their lips and crossed each other, everyone goes to their beds, and sleep reigns over their careless heads.

Ilya Ilyich sees in his dreams not just one, not two such evenings, but whole weeks, months and years of days and evenings spent like this.

Nothing disturbed the monotony of this life, and the Oblomovites themselves were not burdened by it, because they could not imagine another life; and even if they could imagine it, they would turn away from him in horror.

They didn’t want any other life, and they wouldn’t love it. They would be sorry if circumstances brought any changes to their life. They will be gnawed by melancholy if tomorrow is not like today, and the day after tomorrow is not like tomorrow.

Why do they need variety, change, chance, which others ask for? Let others clear up this cup, but they, the Oblomovites, don’t care about anything. Let others live as they want.

After all, accidents, even if there are some benefits, are restless: they require trouble, worries, running around, don’t sit still, trade or write - in a word, turn around, it’s no joke!

They continued to sniffle, doze and yawn for decades, or burst into good-natured laughter from village humor, or, gathering in a circle, they told what they saw in their dreams at night.

If the dream was terrible, everyone thought about it, they were seriously afraid; if prophetic, everyone was unfeignedly happy or sad, depending on whether the dream was sad or comforting. If the dream required the observance of any sign, active measures were immediately taken for this.

That’s not it, this is how fools play their trump cards, but on holidays they go to Boston with guests or play grand solitaire, tell fortunes about the king of hearts and the queen of clubs, predicting margins.

Sometimes some Natalya Faddeevna will come to stay for a week or two. First, the old women will go through the entire neighborhood, who lives how, who does what; they will penetrate not only into family life, into behind-the-scenes life, but into the innermost thoughts and intentions of everyone, they will get into the soul, they will scold, they will discuss unworthy, most of all unfaithful husbands, then they will count various occasions: name days, christenings, homelands, who treated whom with what called who was not there.

Tired of this, they will begin to show new clothes, dresses, coats, even skirts and stockings. The hostess will boast of some homemade linen, thread, or lace.

But this too will be exhausted. Then they add coffee, tea, and jam. Then they switch to silence.

They sit for a long time, looking at each other, from time to time sighing heavily about something. Sometimes someone will cry.

What are you, my mother? - another will ask in alarm.

Oh, sad, my dear! - the guest answers with a heavy sigh. - We have angered the Lord God, wretched ones. No good will happen.

Oh, don’t frighten, don’t frighten, dear! - the hostess interrupts.

Yes, yes,” she continues. - The last days have come: language will rise against language, kingdom against kingdom... the end of the world will come! - Natalya Faddeevna finally reprimands, and both cry bitterly.

There was no basis for such a conclusion on Natalya Faddeevna’s part, no one rebelled against anyone, there wasn’t even a comet that year, but old women sometimes have dark premonitions.

Occasionally, this passing of time will be interrupted by some unexpected incident, when, for example, everyone burns the whole house, from young to old.

There were almost no other diseases heard in the house and village; Unless someone runs into some kind of stake in the dark, or rolls out of the hayloft, or a board falls from the roof and hits him on the head.

But all this happened rarely, and against such accidents, tried and tested home remedies were used: they rub the bruised area with a body of water or dawn, give them holy water to drink or whisper - and everything will go away.

But fumes happened often. Then everyone lies side by side on their beds: groans and groans are heard; one will cover his head with cucumbers and tie himself with a towel, another will put cranberries in his ears and sniff horseradish, a third will go out into the cold in his shirt, the fourth will simply lie unconscious on the floor.

This happened periodically once or twice a month, because they didn’t like to let heat go down the drain for nothing and they closed the stoves when there were still such lights running in them as in “Robert the Devil.” Not to any couch,

It was impossible to put your hands on any stove: just look, a bubble would pop up.

One day, the monotony of their life was broken by a truly unexpected incident.

When, having rested after a difficult lunch, everyone gathered for tea, Oblomov’s peasant suddenly came back from the city, and he was already reaching out from his bosom, finally forcibly taking out a crumpled letter addressed to Ilya Ivanovich Oblomov.

Everyone was stunned; the hostess even changed a little in her face; Everyone's eyes turned and their noses stretched towards the letter.

What a wonder! Who is this from? - the lady finally said, having come to her senses.

Oblomov took the letter and turned it over in his hands in bewilderment, not knowing what to do with it.

Where did you get it? - he asked the man. - Who gave it to you?

And in the yard where I stopped in the city, you hear,” the man answered, “the post office came twice to ask if there were Oblomov’s men: listen, there is a letter for the master.

Well, first of all, I hid: the soldier left with the letter. Yes, the Verkhlevsky sexton saw me, that’s what he said. They suddenly came in a row. When they suddenly came in a row, they began to swear and gave away the letter, and took another nickel. I asked what should I do with it, where should I put it? So they told your honor to give it.

“You wouldn’t take it,” the lady remarked angrily.

I didn't take even that. What, they say, do we need a letter for? We don’t need it. They supposedly didn’t tell us to take letters - I don’t dare: go away with the letter! Yes, the soldier went to swear painfully: he wanted to complain to the authorities; I took it.

Fool! - said the lady.

Who would it be from? - Oblomov said thoughtfully, examining the address. - The hand seems familiar, really!

And the letter began to pass from hand to hand. Speculation and speculation began: from whom and what could it be about? Everyone was finally at a standstill.

Ilya Ivanovich ordered to find the glasses: it took an hour and a half to find them. He put them on and was already thinking about opening the letter.

Come on, don’t open it, Ilya Ivanovich,” his wife stopped him with fear, “who knows what kind of letter it is?” maybe something even worse, some kind of misfortune. Look what people have become today! Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow you will have time - it will not leave you.

And the letter with the glasses was hidden under lock and key. Everyone started drinking tea. It would have lain there for years if it had not been too unusual a phenomenon and did not excite the minds of the Oblomovites. At tea and the next day, all anyone could talk about was the letter.

Finally, they couldn’t bear it anymore, and on the fourth day, a crowd gathered and unsealed it with embarrassment. Oblomov looked at the signature.

“Radishchev,” he read. - Eh! Yes, this is from Philip Matveich!

A! Eh! That's who! - rose from all sides. - How is he still alive today? Come on, you're not dead yet! Well, thank God! What is he writing?

Send, send to him! - everyone started talking. - I need to write a letter.

So two weeks passed.

I must, I must write! - Ilya Ivanovich repeated to his wife. - Where is the recipe?

And where he? - answered the wife. - We still need to find it. Wait, what's the rush? Now, God willing, we’ll wait for the holiday, break our fast, and then you’ll write; won't leave yet...

In fact, I’d rather write about the holiday,” said Ilya Ivanovich.

At the celebration, the topic of writing came up again. Ilya Ivanovich was about to write. He retired to the office, put on his glasses and sat down at the table.

A deep silence reigned in the house; people were not ordered to stomp and make noise. “The master is writing!” - everyone said in such a timidly respectful voice, as they say when there is a dead person in the house.

He had just written: “Dear Sir,” slowly, crookedly, with a trembling hand and with such caution, as if he was doing some dangerous work, when his wife appeared to him.

“I searched and searched, but there was no recipe,” she said. - We need to look in the closet in the bedroom. But how to send a letter?

“We need the mail,” answered Ilya Ivanovich.

What's going on there?

Oblomov took out an old calendar.

“Forty kopecks,” he said.

Here, throw forty kopecks on trifles! - she remarked. - It’s better to wait to see if there is an opportunity from the city to go there. You told the men to find out.

And in fact, it’s better by chance,” answered Ilya Ivanovich and, clicking the pen on the table, stuck it into the inkwell and took off his glasses.

Really, it’s better,” he concluded, “he won’t leave yet: we’ll have time to send it.”

It is not known whether Philip Matveevich waited for the recipe.

Ilya Ivanovich will sometimes pick up a book - he doesn’t care if it’s any kind. He did not even suspect a significant need for reading, but considered it a luxury, something that one could easily do without, just as one can have a picture on the wall, one may not have it, one may go for a walk, one may not go: from this he doesn’t care what kind of book it is; he looked at it as a thing intended for entertainment, out of boredom and having nothing to do.

“I haven’t read a book for a long time,” he will say, or sometimes he will change the phrase: “Let me read a book,” he will say, or simply, in passing, he will accidentally see a small pile of books that he inherited from his brother and take it out, without choosing what he comes across. Will he get Golikov? Newest whether Dream Interpretation, Kheraskova Russiaada, or Sumarokov’s tragedies, or, finally, third-year reports - he reads everything with equal pleasure, saying from time to time:

You see what I made up! What a robber! Oh, may you be empty!

These exclamations referred to the authors - a title that in his eyes did not enjoy any respect; he even internalized the half-contempt for writers that people of the old days had for them. He, like many then, revered the writer as nothing more than a merry fellow, a reveler, a drunkard and a fun person, like a dancer.

Sometimes he reads from third-year newspapers out loud, for everyone, or so informs them of the news.

They write from Gaga, he will say, that His Majesty the King deigned to return safely from a short trip to the palace, and at the same time he will look through his glasses at all the listeners.

In Vienna, such and such an envoy presented his letters of credit.

And here they write,” he was still reading, “that the works of Madame Zhanlis were translated into Russian.

This is all tea, they translate it for this reason,” notes one of the listeners, a small landowner, “so that they can lure money out of our brother, a nobleman.”

And poor Ilyusha goes and goes to study with Stolz. As soon as he wakes up on Monday, he is already overwhelmed with melancholy. He hears Vaska’s sharp voice shouting from the porch:

Antipka! Lay down the pinto: take the little baron to the German!

His heart will tremble. He comes to his mother sadly. She knows why and begins to gild the pill, secretly sighing herself about being separated from him for a whole week.

They don’t know what to feed him that morning, they bake him buns and pretzels, send him pickles, cookies, jams, various pastries and all sorts of other dry and wet delicacies and even food supplies. All this was sold in the forms that the Germans feed on a low-fat basis.

You won’t eat there,” the Oblomovites said, “for lunch they’ll give you soup, and roast, and potatoes, butter for tea, and for dinner Morgen Free- wipe your nose.

However, Ilya Ilyich dreams more of Mondays like this, when he doesn’t hear Vaska’s voice ordering him to lay down the pawn, and when his mother meets him at tea with a smile and good news:

You can't go today; There's a big holiday on Thursday: is it worth traveling back and forth for three days?

Or sometimes she suddenly announces to him: “Today is parent’s week, there’s no time for studying: we’ll bake pancakes.”

Otherwise his mother will look at him intently on Monday morning and say:

Your eyes aren't fresh today. Are you healthy? - and shakes his head.

The crafty boy is healthy, but silent.

“Just sit at home this week,” she will say, “and see what God gives.”

And everyone in the house was imbued with the conviction that schooling and parental Saturday should in no way coincide together, or that the holiday on Thursday was an insurmountable obstacle to learning throughout the week.

Is it only sometimes that a servant or a girl who gets it for the little bark will grumble:

Ooh, darling! Will you soon fall in love with your German?

Another time, Antipka will suddenly appear to the German on a familiar pegasus, in the middle or at the beginning of the week, for Ilya Ilyich.

Marya Savishna or Natalya Faddeevna came to visit, they say, or the Kuzovkovs came with their children, so welcome home!

And for three weeks Ilyusha stays at home, and then, you see, it’s not far from Holy Week, and then there’s a holiday, and then someone in the family for some reason decides that they don’t study on St. Thomas’s Week; There are two weeks left before summer - there’s no point in traveling, and in the summer the German himself is on vacation, so it’s better to put it off until the fall.

Look, Ilya Ilyich will take six months off, and how he will grow in that time! How fat he will get! How nice he sleeps! They can’t stop looking at him in the house, noticing, on the contrary, that, having returned from the German on Saturday, the child is thin and pale.

How long before sin? - said father and mother. - Learning won't take you away, but you can't buy health; health is more valuable than anything in life. See, he comes back from his studies as if from the hospital: all the fat has disappeared, he’s so thin... and he’s also a naughty boy: he should just run around!

Yes, - the father will note, - teaching is not his brother: he will turn anyone into a ram’s horn!

And the tender parents continued to look for excuses to keep their son at home. There were no excuses, other than holidays. In winter it seemed cold to them, in summer it was also not good to travel in the heat, and sometimes it would rain, and in the fall the slush was a hindrance. Sometimes Antipka will seem doubtful about something: he is not drunk, but somehow looks wildly: if there is no trouble, he will get stuck or break off somewhere.

Oblomov’s followers, however, tried to give as much legitimacy as possible to these pretexts in their own eyes and especially in the eyes of Stolz, who did not spare both in the eyes and behind the eyes Donnerwetters for such pampering.

The times of the Prostakovs and Skotinins are long gone. Proverb: Learning is light and ignorance is darkness- she was already wandering through villages and hamlets along with books delivered by second-hand book dealers.

The old people understood the benefits of enlightenment, but only its external benefits. They saw that everyone had already begun to go out into the world, that is, to acquire ranks, crosses and money only through study; that the old clerks, busy businessmen in the service, grown old in old habits, quotes and hooks, had a bad time.

Ominous rumors began to circulate about the need not only for knowledge of literacy, but also for other sciences, hitherto unheard of in that everyday life. An abyss opened up between the titular adviser and the collegiate assessor, and some kind of diploma served as a bridge across it.

Old servants, children of habit and pets of bribes, began to disappear. Many who did not have time to die were expelled for unreliability, others were put on trial; The happiest were those who, having given up on the new order of things, retreated as best they could into their newly acquired corners.

The Oblomovs realized this and understood the benefits of education, but only this obvious benefit. They still had a vague and distant concept of the inner need for learning, and that is why they wanted to grasp for their Ilyusha some brilliant advantages.

They also dreamed of an embroidered uniform for him, imagined him as a councilor in the chamber, and even his mother as a governor; but they would like to achieve all this somehow cheaper, with various tricks, to secretly bypass the stones and obstacles scattered along the path of enlightenment and honor, without bothering to jump over them, that is, for example, to study lightly, not to the point of exhaustion of soul and body, not until the loss of the blessed fullness acquired in childhood, and so that only to comply with the prescribed form and somehow obtain a certificate in which it would be said that Ilyusha passed all sciences and arts.

This entire Oblomov education system met with strong opposition in Stolz’s system. The fight was stubborn on both sides. Stolz directly, openly and persistently struck his opponents, and they evaded the blows with the above and other tricks.

Victory was not decided in any way; Perhaps German perseverance would have overcome the stubbornness and rigidity of the Oblomovites, but the German encountered difficulties on his own side, and victory was not destined to be decided on either side. The fact is that Stolz’s son spoiled Oblomov, either giving him lessons or doing translations for him.

Ilya Ilyich clearly sees both his home life and his life with Stolz.

He had just woken up at home when Zakharka, later his famous valet Zakhar Trofimych, was already standing at his bedside.

Zakhar, as he used to be a nanny, pulls on his stockings and puts on his shoes, and Ilyusha, already a fourteen-year-old boy, only knows that he is lying on one leg or the other; and if anything seems wrong to him, he will kick Zakharka in the nose.

If the dissatisfied Zakharka decides to complain, he will also receive a mallet from his elders.

Then Zakharka scratches his head, pulls on his jacket, carefully threading Ilya Ilyich’s hands into the sleeves so as not to disturb him too much, and reminds Ilya Ilyich that he needs to do this and that: get up in the morning, wash, etc.

If Ilya Ilyich wants anything, he only has to blink - three or four servants rush to fulfill his desire; will he drop something, does he need to get something, but can’t get it, should he bring something, should he run for something: sometimes, like a playful boy, he just wants to rush in and redo everything himself, and then suddenly his father and mother and three the aunts in five voices and shout:

For what? Where? What about Vaska, and Vanka, and Zakharka? Hey! Vaska! Vanka! Zakharka! What are you looking at, dumbass? Here I am!..

And Ilya Ilyich will never be able to do anything for himself.

Afterwards he found that it was much calmer, and he himself learned to shout: “Hey, Vaska! Vanka! give me this, give me something else! I don't want this, I want that! Run and get it!”

Sometimes the tender care of his parents bothered him.

Whether he runs down the stairs or across the yard, suddenly ten desperate voices will be heard after him: “Ah, ah! Support, stop! He’ll fall and hurt himself... stop, stop!”

Whether he thinks of jumping out into the hallway in winter or opening the window - again the shouts: “Oh, where? How is it possible? Don’t run, don’t walk, don’t open the door: you’ll kill yourself, catch a cold...”

And Ilyusha remained at home with sadness, cherished like an exotic flower in a greenhouse, and, just like the last one under glass, he grew slowly and sluggishly. Those seeking manifestations of power turned inward and sank, withering away.

And sometimes he wakes up so cheerful, fresh, cheerful; he feels: something is playing in him, seething, as if some kind of imp has taken up residence, who is teasing him to either climb onto the roof, or sit on the Savraska and gallop into the meadows where hay is being cut, or sit on the fence astride, or tease village dogs; or suddenly you want to run around the village, then into the field, along the gullies, into the birch forest and throw yourself to the bottom of the ravine in three leaps, or tag along with the boys to play snowballs, try your hand.

The imp just keeps washing him away: he holds on, holds on, finally can’t stand it, and suddenly, without a cap, in winter, he jumps from the porch into the yard, from there through the gate, grabs a lump of snow in both hands and rushes towards a bunch of boys.

The fresh wind cuts his face, the frost stings his ears, his mouth and throat smell of cold, and his chest is filled with joy - he rushes where his legs came from, he himself squeals and laughs.

Here come the boys: he bangs the snow - he misses: there is no skill; Just wanted to grab another snowball, when a whole block of snow covered his whole face: he fell; and it hurts him out of habit, and he is happy, and he laughs, and there are tears in his eyes...

And there is a hubbub in the house: Ilyusha is gone! Scream, noise. Zakharka jumped out into the yard, followed by Vaska, Mitka, Vanka - everyone was running, confused, around the yard.

Two dogs rushed after them, grabbing their heels, which, as you know, cannot indifferently see a running person.

People screaming, screaming, dogs barking rush through the village.

Finally they ran at the boys and began to inflict justice: some by the hair, some by the ears, another on the back of the head; They also threatened their fathers.

Then they took possession of the little boy, wrapped him in a captured sheepskin coat, then in his father’s fur coat, then in two blankets and solemnly carried him home in his arms.

At home they despaired of seeing him, considering him dead; but at the sight of him, alive and unharmed, the parents’ joy was indescribable. They thanked the Lord God, then they gave him mint, some elderberry, and in the evening some raspberries to drink and kept him in bed for three days, but one thing could be useful for him: playing snowballs again...

I. A. Goncharov’s novel “Oblomov” was published in 1859 in the journal “Otechestvennye zapiski” and is considered the pinnacle of the writer’s entire work. The idea for the work appeared back in 1849, when the author published one of the chapters of the future novel, “Oblomov’s Dream,” in the “Literary Collection”. Work on the future masterpiece was often interrupted, ending only in 1858.

Goncharov’s novel “Oblomov” is part of a trilogy with two other works by Goncharov – “The Cliff” and “An Ordinary Story.” The work is written according to the traditions of the literary movement of realism. In the novel, the author brings out an important problem for that time in Russian society - “Oblomovism”, examines the tragedy of the superfluous person and the problem of the gradual decline of personality, revealing them in all aspects of the hero’s everyday and mental life.

Main characters

Oblomov Ilya Ilyich- a nobleman, a landowner of thirty years old, a lazy, gentle man who spends all his time in idleness. A character with a subtle poetic soul, prone to constant dreams, which replace real life.

Zakhar Trofimovich- Oblomov’s faithful servant, who has served him from an early age. Very similar to the owner in his laziness.

Stolts Andrey Ivanovich- Oblomov’s childhood friend, his peer. A practical, rational and active man who knows what he wants and is constantly developing.

Ilyinskaya Olga Sergeevna- Oblomov’s beloved, an intelligent and gentle girl, not devoid of practicality in life. Then she became Stolz's wife.

Pshenitsyna Agafya Matveevna- the owner of the apartment in which Oblomov lived, a thrifty but weak-willed woman. She sincerely loved Oblomov, who later became his wife.

Other characters

Tarantyev Mikhey Andreevich- cunning and selfish are familiar to Oblomov.

Mukhoyarov Ivan Matveevich- Pshenitsyna’s brother, an official, as cunning and selfish as Tarantyev.

Volkov, official Sudbinsky, writer Penkin, Alekseev Ivan Alekseevich- Oblomov’s acquaintances.

Part 1

Chapter 1

The work “Oblomov” begins with a description of Oblomov’s appearance and his home - the room is a mess, which the owner does not seem to notice, dirt and dust. As the author says, several years ago Ilya Ilyich received a letter from the headman that he needed to restore order in his native estate - Oblomovka, but still did not dare to go there, but only planned and dreamed. Having called their servant Zakhar after morning tea, they discuss the need to move out of the apartment, since the owner of the property has become needed.

Chapter 2

Volkov, Sudbinsky and Penkin come to visit Oblomov in turn. They all talk about their lives and invite them to go somewhere, but Oblomov resists and they leave with nothing.

Then Alekseev comes - an indefinite, spineless man, no one could even say exactly what his name is. He calls Oblomov to Yekateringhof, but Ilya Ilyich does not even want to get out of bed at last. Oblomov shares his problem with Alekseev - a stale letter arrived from the head of his estate, in which Oblomov was informed about serious losses this year (2 thousand), which makes him very upset.

Chapter 3

Tarantiev arrives. The author says that Alekseev and Tarantiev entertain Oblomov in their own way. Tarantiev, making a lot of noise, brought Oblomov out of boredom and immobility, while Alekseev acted as an obedient listener who could quietly remain in the room for hours until Ilya Ilyich paid attention to him.

Chapter 4

Like all visitors, Oblomov covers himself from Tarantiev with a blanket and asks not to come close, since he came in from the cold. Tarantiev invites Ilya Ilyich to move into an apartment with his godfather, which is located in the Vyborg side. Oblomov consults with him about the headman’s letter, Tarantiev asks for money for advice and says that most likely the headman is a fraudster, recommending that he be replaced and write a letter to the governor.

Chapter 5

Next, the author talks about Oblomov’s life; in short, it can be retold as follows: Ilya Ilyich lived in St. Petersburg for 12 years, being a collegiate secretary by rank. After the death of his parents, he became the owner of an estate in a remote province. When he was young, he was more active and strived to achieve a lot, but with age he realized that he was standing still. Oblomov perceived his service as a second family, which did not correspond to reality, where he had to hurry and sometimes work even at night. For more than two years he served somehow, but then he accidentally sent an important paper to the wrong place. Without waiting for punishment from his superiors, Oblomov himself left, sending a medical certificate in which he was ordered to refuse to go to work and soon resigned. Ilya Ilyich never fell in love very much, he soon stopped communicating with friends and dismissed the servants, he became very lazy, but Stoltz still managed to get him out into the world.

Chapter 6

Oblomov considered training as a punishment. Reading tired him, but poetry captivated him. For him there was a whole gulf between study and life. He was easy to deceive; he believed everything and everyone. Long journeys were alien to him: the only trip in his life was from his native estate to Moscow. Spending his life on the couch, he thinks about something all the time, either planning his life, or experiencing emotional moments, or imagining himself as one of the great people, but all this remains only in his thoughts.

Chapter 7

Characterizing Zakhar, the author presents him as a thieving, lazy and clumsy servant and gossip who was not averse to drinking and partying at the master’s expense. It was not out of malice that he came up with gossip about the master, but at the same time he sincerely loved him with special love.

Chapter 8

The author returns to the main narrative. After Tarantyev left, Oblomov lay down and began to think about developing a plan for his estate, how he would have a good time there with his friends and wife. He even felt complete happiness. Having gathered his strength, Oblomov finally got up to have breakfast, deciding to write a letter to the governor, but it turned out awkwardly and Oblomov tore up the letter. Zakhar again talks to the master about moving, so that Oblomov will leave the house for a while and the servants can safely move things, but Ilya Ilyich resists in every possible way and asks Zakhar to settle the issue of moving with the owner so that they can stay in the old apartment. Having quarreled with Zakhar and, thinking about his past, Oblomov falls asleep.

Chapter 9 Oblomov's Dream

Oblomov dreams of his childhood, quiet and pleasant, which slowly passed in Oblomovka - practically heaven on earth. Oblomov remembers his mother, his old nanny, other servants, how they prepared for dinners, baked pies, how he ran on the grass and how his nanny told him fairy tales and retold myths, and Ilya imagined himself as the hero of these myths. Then he dreams of his adolescence - his 13th-14th birthday, when he studied in Verkhlev, at the Stolz boarding school. There he learned almost nothing, because Oblomovka was nearby, and their monotonous life, like a calm river, influenced him. Ilya remembers all his relatives, for whom life was a series of rituals and feasts - births, weddings and funerals. The peculiarity of the estate was that they did not like to spend money and were ready to endure any inconvenience because of this - an old stained sofa, a worn out chair. Days were spent in idleness, sitting silently, yawning or conducting semi-meaningless conversations. The residents of Oblomovka were alien to chance, change, and troubles. Any issue took a long time to be resolved, and sometimes it was not resolved at all, being put on the back burner. His parents understood that Ilya needed to study, they would like to see him educated, but since this was not included in the foundations of Oblomovka, he was often left at home on school days, fulfilling his every whim.

Chapters 10-11

While Oblomov was sleeping, Zakhar went out into the yard to complain about the master to other servants, but when they spoke unkindly about Oblomov, ambition awoke in him and he began to fully praise both the master and himself.

Returning home, Zakhar tries to wake up Oblomov, since he asked to wake him up in the evening, but Ilya Ilyich, cursing at the servant, tries in every possible way to continue sleeping. This scene greatly amuses Stolz, who arrived and stood in the doorway.

Part 2

Chapters 1-2

The second chapter of the story “Oblomov” by Ivan Goncharov begins with a retelling of the fate of Andrei Ivanovich Stolts. His father was German, his mother Russian. His mother saw in Andrey the ideal master, while his father raised him by his own example, taught him agronomy, and took him to factories. From his mother, the young man adopted a love of books and music, and from his father, practicality and the ability to work. He grew up as an active and lively child - he could leave for several days, then return dirty and shabby. His childhood was given life by the frequent visits of the princes, who filled their estate with fun and noise. His father, continuing the family tradition, sent Stolz to university. When Andrei returned after studying, his father did not allow him to stay in Verkhlev, sending him with a hundred rubles in banknotes and a horse to St. Petersburg.

Stolz lived strictly and practically, fearing dreams most of all; he had no idols, but was physically strong and attractive. He stubbornly and accurately walked along the chosen path, everywhere he showed perseverance and a rational approach. For Andrei, Oblomov was not only a school friend, but also a close person with whom he could calm his troubled soul.

Chapter 3

The author returns to Oblomov’s apartment, where Ilya Ilyich complains to Stoltz about problems on the estate. Andrei Ivanovich advises him to open a school there, but Oblomov believes that this is too early for men. Ilya Ilyich also mentions the need to move out of the apartment and the lack of money. Stolz doesn’t see a problem with the move and is surprised at how Oblomov has wallowed in laziness. Andrei Ivanovich forces Zakhar to bring Ilya clothes in order to take him out into the world. Stolz also orders the servant to send Tarantiev out every time he comes, since Mikhei Andreevich constantly asks Oblomov for money and clothes, without intending to return them.

Chapter 4

For a week, Stolz takes Oblomov to various societies. Oblomov is dissatisfied, complaining about the fuss, the need to walk in boots all day and the noisy people. Oblomov blurts out to Stoltz that the ideal of life for him is Oblomovka, but when Andrei Ivanovich asks why he won’t go there, Ilya Ilyich finds many reasons and excuses. Oblomov draws an idyll of life in Oblomovka to Stolz, to which his friend tells him that this is not life, but “Oblomovism.” Stolz reminds him of the dreams of his youth, that he needs to work and not spend his days in laziness. They come to the conclusion that Oblomov finally needs to go abroad, and then to the village.

Chapters 5-6

Stolz’s words “now or never” made a great impression on Oblomov and he decided to live differently - he made a passport, bought everything he needed for a trip to Paris. But Ilya Ilyich did not leave, since Stolz introduced him to Olga Sergeevna - at one of the evenings Oblomov fell in love with her. Ilya Ilyich began to spend a lot of time with the girl, and soon bought a dacha opposite her aunt’s dacha. In the presence of Olga Sergeevna, Oblomov felt awkward, could not lie to her, but admired her, listening with bated breath to the girl singing. After one of the songs, he exclaimed without controlling himself that he felt love. Having come to his senses, Ilya Ilyich ran out of the room.

Oblomov blamed himself for his incontinence, but, meeting with Olga Sergeevna afterwards, he said that it was a momentary passion for music and not true. To which the girl assured him that she had forgiven him for taking liberties and had forgotten everything.

Chapter 7

The changes affected not only Ilya, but his entire house. Zakhar married Anisya, a lively and agile woman who changed the established order in her own way.

While Ilya Ilyich, who had returned from a meeting with Olga Sergeevna, was worried about what had happened, he was invited to dinner with the girl’s aunt. Oblomov is tormented by doubts, he compares himself with Stolz, and wonders if Olga is flirting with him. However, when meeting him, the girl behaves reservedly and seriously with him.

Chapter 8

Oblomov spent the whole day with Aunt Olga - Marya Mikhailovna - a woman who knew how to live and manage life. The relationship between the aunt and their niece had its own special character; Marya Mikhailovna was an authority for Olga.

After waiting all day, bored with Aunt Olga and Baron Langwagen, Oblomov finally waited for the girl. Olga Sergeevna was cheerful and he asked her to sing, but in her voice he did not hear yesterday’s feelings. Disappointed, Ilya Ilyich went home.

Oblomov was tormented by the change in Olga, but the girl’s meeting with Zakhar gave Oblomov a new chance - Olga Sergeevna herself made an appointment in the park. Their conversation turned to the topic of unnecessary, useless existence, to which Ilya Ilyich said that his life is like this, because all the flowers have fallen from it. They touched upon the issue of feelings for each other and the girl shared Oblomov’s love, giving him her hand. Walking with her further, happy Ilya Ilyich kept repeating to himself: “This is all mine! My!".

Chapter 9

The lovers are happy together. For Olga Sergeevna, with love, meaning appeared in everything - in books, in dreams, in every moment. For Oblomov, this time became a time of activity, he lost his previous peace, constantly thinking about Olga, who tried in every possible way and tricks to bring him out of a state of idleness, forced him to read books and go on visits.

When talking about their feelings, Oblomov asks Olga why she doesn’t constantly talk about her love for him, to which the girl replies that she loves him with a special love, when it’s a pity to leave for a short time, but it hurts for a long time. When talking about her feelings, she relied on her imagination and believed it. Oblomov didn’t need anything more than the image with which he was in love.

Chapter 10

The next morning, a change occurred in Oblomov - he began to wonder why he needed a burdensome relationship and why Olga might fall in love with him. Ilya Ilyich doesn’t like that her love is lazy. As a result, Oblomov decides to write a letter to Olga, in which he says that their feelings have gone far and began to influence their life and character. And those “I love, love, love” that Olga told him yesterday were not true - he is not the person she dreamed of. At the end of the letter, he says goodbye to the girl.

Having given the letter to the maid Olga, and knowing that she would be walking through the park, he hid in the shadow of the bushes and decided to wait for her. The girl walked and cried - he saw her tears for the first time. Oblomov could not stand it and caught up with her. The girl is upset and gives him the letter, reproaching him for the fact that yesterday he needed her “love”, and today her “tears”, that in fact he does not love her, and this is just a manifestation of selfishness - Oblomov only talks about feelings and sacrifice in words, but in reality it is not so. In front of Oblomov was an insulted woman.

Ilya Ilyich asks Olga Sergeevna for everything to be as before, but she refuses. Walking next to her, he realizes his mistake and tells the girl that the letter was not needed. Olga Sergeevna gradually calms down and says that in the letter she saw all his tenderness and love for her. She had already moved away from the offense and was thinking about how to soften the situation. Having asked Oblomov for a letter, she pressed his hands to her heart and ran home happy.

Chapters 11-12

Stolz writes to Oblomov to settle matters with the village, but Oblomov, preoccupied with his feelings for Olga Sergeevna, puts off solving the problems. The lovers spend a lot of time together, but Ilya Ilyich begins to feel depressed that they are meeting in secret. He tells Olga about this and the lovers discuss that perhaps they should officially declare their relationship.

Part 3

Chapters 1-2

Tarantiev asks Oblomov for money for his godfather’s house, in which he did not live, and is trying to beg more money from Oblomov. But Ilya Ilyich’s attitude towards him has changed, so the man receives nothing.

Joyful that the relationship with Olga will soon become official, Oblomov goes to the girl. But his beloved does not share his dreams and feelings, but approaches the matter practically. Olga tells him that before telling his aunt about their relationship, he needs to settle things in Oblomovka, rebuild a house there, and in the meantime rent housing in the city.

Oblomov goes to the apartment that Tarantiev advised him, his things are piled up there. He was met by Tarantieva’s godfather, Agafya Matveevna, who asked him to wait for her brother, since she was not in charge of this herself. Not wanting to wait, Oblomov leaves, asking him to tell him that he no longer needs the apartment.

Chapter 3

In Ilya Ilyich’s opinion, the relationship with Olga becomes sluggish and protracted; he is increasingly oppressed by uncertainty. Olga persuades him to go and sort things out with the apartment. He meets with the owner’s brother and he says that while his things were in the apartment, it could not be rented out to anyone, so Ilya Ilyich owes 800 rubles. Oblomov is indignant but then promises to find the money. Having discovered that he only has 300 rubles left, he cannot remember where he spent the money over the summer.

Chapter 4

Oblomov still moves in with Tarantiev’s godfather, the woman worries about his quiet life, everyday life, and is raising Zakhar’s wife Anisya. Ilya Ilyich finally sends a letter to the headman. Their meetings with Olga Sergeevna continue, he was even invited to the Ilyinsky box.

One day Zakhar asks if Oblomov has found an apartment and whether the wedding will happen soon. Ilya is surprised how the servant can know about the relationship with Olga Sergeevna, to which Zakhar replies that the Ilyinsky servants have been talking about this for a long time. Oblomov assures Zakhar that this is not true, explaining how troublesome and expensive it is.

Chapters 5-6

Olga Sergeevna makes an appointment with Oblomov and, putting on a veil, meets him in the park secretly from her aunt. Oblomov is against the fact that she is deceiving her relatives. Olga Sergeevna invites him to open up to his aunt tomorrow, but Oblomov delays this moment, since he wants to first receive a letter from the village. Not wanting to go to visit the girl in the evening and the next day, he conveys through the servants that he is ill.

Chapter 7

Oblomov spent a week at home, communicating with the hostess and her children. On Sunday, Olga Sergeevna persuaded her aunt to go to Smolny, since it was there that they agreed to meet with Oblomov. The Baron tells her that in a month she can return to her estate and Olga dreams of how happy Oblomov will be when he finds out that he doesn’t have to worry about the fate of Oblomovka and immediately goes to live there.

Olga Sergeevna came to visit Oblomov, but immediately noticed that he was not sick. The girl reproaches the man that he deceived her and did nothing all this time. Olga forces Oblomov to go with her and her aunt to the opera. Inspired Oblomov is waiting for this meeting and a letter from the village.

Chapters 8,9,10

A letter arrives in which the owner of a neighboring estate writes that things are bad in Oblomovka, there is almost no profit, and in order for the land to give money again, the owner’s urgent personal presence is needed. Ilya Ilyich is upset that because of this the wedding will have to be postponed for at least a year.

Oblomov shows the letter to the owner’s brother, Ivan Matveevich, and asks him for advice. He recommends his colleague Zatertoy to go and settle matters on the estate instead of Oblomov.
Ivan Matveyevich discusses a “successful deal” with Tarantiev; they consider Oblomov to be a fool from whom they can make good money.

Chapters 11-12

Oblomov comes with a letter to Olga Sergeevna and says that a person has been found who will sort everything out, so they won’t have to part. But the wedding issue will have to wait another year until everything is finally settled. Olga, who hoped that Ilya would ask her aunt for her hand any day now, faints from this news. When the girl comes to her senses, she blames Oblomov for his indecisiveness. Olga Sergeevna tells Ilya Ilyich that even in a year he will not settle his life, continuing to torment her. They break up.

Upset, Oblomov walks unconscious around the city until late at night. Returning home, he sits motionless for a long time, and in the morning the servants find him in a fever.

Part 4

Chapter 1

A year has passed. Oblomov lived there with Agafya Matveevna. The worn-out one settled everything in an ancient manner and sent good proceeds for the bread. Oblomov was glad that everything had been settled and money appeared without the need for his personal presence at the estate. Gradually, Ilya’s grief was forgotten and he unconsciously fell in love with Agafya Matveevna, who also, without realizing it, fell in love with him. The woman surrounded Oblomov with care in every possible way.

Chapter 2

Stolz also came to visit at the magnificent celebration in the house of Agafya Matveevna Ivanov. Andrei Ivanovich tells Ilya Ilyich that Olga went abroad with her aunt, the girl told Stoltz everything and still cannot forget Oblomov. Andrei Ivanovich reproaches Oblomov for living in the “Oblomovka” again and trying to take him with him. Ilya Ilyich agrees again, promising to come later.

Chapter 3

Ivan Matveyevich and Tarantyev are concerned about Stolz’s arrival, since he may find out that the rent from the estate was collected, but they took it for themselves without Oblomov’s knowledge. They decide to blackmail Oblomov by allegedly seeing him go to Agafya Matveevna.

Chapter 4

The author in the story moves back to a year ago, when Stolz accidentally met Olga and her aunt in Paris. Noticing a change in the girl, he became concerned and began to spend a lot of time with her. He offers her interesting books, tells her something that excites him, goes with them to Switzerland, where he realizes that he is in love with a girl. Olga herself also feels great sympathy for him, but is worried about her past love experience. Stolz asks to tell about her unhappy love. Having learned all the details and the fact that she was in love with Oblomov, Stolz discards his worries and calls her to marry. Olga agrees.

Chapter 5

A year and a half after Midsummer and Oblomov’s name day, everything in his life became even more boring and gloomy - he became even more flabby and lazy. Agafya Matveevna’s brother counts the money for him, so Ilya Ilyich doesn’t even understand why he is making losses. When Ivan Matveevich got married, money became very bad and Agafya Matveevna, taking care of Oblomov, even went to pawn her pearls. Oblomov did not notice this, falling further into laziness.

Chapters 6-7

Stolz comes to visit Oblomov. Ilya Ilyich asks him about Olga. Stolz tells him that everything is fine with her and the girl married him. Oblomov congratulates him. They sit down at the table and Oblomov begins to tell that now he has little money and Agafya Matveevna has to manage herself, since there is not enough for servants. Stolz is surprised, because he regularly sends him money. Oblomov talks about the loan debt to the hostess. When Stolz tries to find out the terms of the loan from Agafya Matveevna, she assures that Ilya Ilyich does not owe her anything.

Stolz draws up a paper stating that Oblomov does not owe anything. Ivan Matveich plans to frame Oblomov.

Stolz wanted to take Oblomov with him, but he asked to leave him for only a month. In parting, Stolz warns him to be careful, since his feelings for the hostess are noticeable.
Oblomov quarrels with Tarantiev over deception, Ilya Ilyich beats him and drives him out of the house.

Chapter 8

Stolz did not come to St. Petersburg for several years. They lived with Olga Sergeevna in complete happiness and harmony, enduring all difficulties, coping with sadness and loss. One day, during a conversation, Olga Sergeevna remembers Oblomov. Stolz tells the girl that in fact it was he who introduced her to the Oblomov she loved, but not the one Ilya Ilyich really is. Olga asks not to leave Oblomov, and when they are in St. Petersburg, to take her to him.

Chapter 9

In the Vyborg side everything was quiet and calm. After Stolz arranged everything in Oblomovka, Ilya Ilyich had money, the pantries were bursting with food, Agafya Matvevna had a wardrobe with clothes. Oblomov, out of his habit, lay all day on the sofa, watching Agafya Matveevna’s classes; for him this was a continuation of Oblomov’s life.

However, at one point after a lunch break, Oblomov suffered an apoplexy and the doctor said that he urgently needed to change his lifestyle - move more and follow a diet. Oblomov does not follow instructions. He increasingly falls into oblivion.

Stolz comes to Oblomov to take him with him. Oblomov does not want to leave, but Andrei Ivanovich invites him to visit him, informing him that Olga is waiting in the carriage. Then Oblomov says that Agafya Matveevna is his wife, and the boy Andrei is his son, named after Stoltz, so he does not want to leave this apartment. Andrei Ivanovich leaves upset, telling Olga that “Oblomovism” has now reigned in Ilya Ilyich’s apartment.

Chapters 10-11

Five years have passed. Three years ago, Oblomov had a stroke again and died quietly. Now her brother and his wife are in charge of the house. Stolz took Oblomov’s son Andrei into his care. Agafya greatly misses Oblomov and her son, but does not want to go to Stolz.

One day, while walking, Stolz meets Zakhar, begging on the street. Stolz calls him to his place, but the man does not want to go far from Oblomov’s grave.

When asked by Stolz’s interlocutor who Oblomov is and why he disappeared, Andrei Ivanovich answers: “The reason... what a reason! Oblomovism!

Conclusion

Goncharov’s novel “Oblomov” is one of the most detailed and accurate studies of such a Russian phenomenon as “Oblomovism” - a national trait characterized by laziness, fear of change and daydreaming, replacing real activity. The author deeply analyzes the reasons for “Oblomovism,” seeing them in the pure, gentle, uncalculating soul of the hero, seeking peace and quiet, monotonous happiness, bordering on degradation and stagnation. Of course, a brief retelling of “Oblomov” cannot reveal to the reader all the issues considered by the author, so we strongly recommend that you evaluate the masterpiece of literature of the 19th century in full.

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