it hasn’t come down yet.’
‘Fancy that!’ said Alexeyev, shaking his head.
‘I wonder if there is anything I could do so that I – needn’t move?’ Oblomov remarked pensively, as though speaking to himself.
‘Have you got your flat on a lease?’ Alexeyev asked, examining the room from floor to ceiling.
‘Yes, but the lease has expired: I’ve been paying the rent monthly for some time – don’t remember for how long.’
‘Well, what do you intend to do?’ Alexeyev asked after a short pause. ‘Are you going to move or not?’
‘I don’t intend to do anything,’ said Oblomov. ‘I don’t want even to think of it. Let Zakhar think of something.’
‘But, you know, some people like moving,’ said Alexeyev. ‘Changing flats seems to be their only pleasure in life.’
‘Well, let them move, then,’ Oblomov retorted. ‘For my part, I can’t stand any changes! But the flat’s nothing – you’d better have a look at what my bailiff writes to me! Here, I’ll show you his letter – where the devil is it? Zakhar! Zakhar!’
‘Mother of God!’ Zakhar wheezed to himself, jumping off his stove. ‘When will the good Lord put an end to my troubles?’ He came in and looked dully at his master.
‘Why haven’t you found the letter?’
‘Where am I to find it, sir? I don’t even know which letter you want. I can’t read, can I?’
‘Never mind, look for it,’ said Oblomov.
‘You were reading some letter last night, sir,’ said Zakhar, ‘but I haven’t seen it since.’
‘Where is it then?’ Oblomov asked with vexation. ‘I haven’t swallowed it, have I? I remember very well that you took it from me and put it somewhere. There it is – look!’
He shook the blanket and the letter fell on the floor out of its folds.
‘Aye, I’m always the one what gets the blame for everything!’
‘All right, all right,’ Oblomov and Zakhar shouted at each other at the same time. ‘Go – go!’
Zakhar went out, and Oblomov began reading the letter, which seemed to have been written in kvas on grey paper and sealed with brownish sealing-wax. Enormous pale letters followed in solemn procession, without touching each other, along an oblique line from the top to the bottom corner of the page. The procession was occasionally interrupted by a huge pale blot.
‘Dear Sir,’ Oblomov began, ‘our father and benefactor –’ Here he omitted several greetings and good wishes and went on from the middle: ‘I am glad to inform you, Sir, that everything on your estate is in good order. There has been no rain for five weeks and I daresay, Sir, the good Lord must be angry with us not to send us rain. The old men don’t remember such a drought, Sir. The spring crops have all been burnt up as if by a devouring fire; the winter crops have been ruined, some by the worm and some by early frost; we have ploughed it over for spring crops, but we can’t be sure if it will be any good. Let ushope, Sir, that merciful heaven will spare you; we do not care what happens to us – let us all starve to death. On St John’s Eve three more peasants ran away: Laptev, Balochov, and Vasska, the blacksmith’s son, who ran off by himself. I sent the women after their husbands, but they never came back, and are living at Cholki, I am told. A relative of mine went to Cholki from Verkhlyovo, the estate manager sent him there to inspect a foreign plough. I told him about the runaway peasants. He said he had been to see the police inspector who told him to send in a written statement, after which everything would be done to send the peasants back to their places of domicile. He said nothing except that, and I fell at his feet and begged him with tears in my eyes, but he bawled at me at the top of his voice: “Be off! Be off with you! I’ve told you it will be done if you send in your signed statement!” But I never did send in the statement. There is no one I can hire here; all have gone to the Volga, to work on the
‘Fancy that!’ said Alexeyev, shaking his head.
‘I wonder if there is anything I could do so that I – needn’t move?’ Oblomov remarked pensively, as though speaking to himself.
‘Have you got your flat on a lease?’ Alexeyev asked, examining the room from floor to ceiling.
‘Yes, but the lease has expired: I’ve been paying the rent monthly for some time – don’t remember for how long.’
‘Well, what do you intend to do?’ Alexeyev asked after a short pause. ‘Are you going to move or not?’
‘I don’t intend to do anything,’ said Oblomov. ‘I don’t want even to think of it. Let Zakhar think of something.’
‘But, you know, some people like moving,’ said Alexeyev. ‘Changing flats seems to be their only pleasure in life.’
‘Well, let them move, then,’ Oblomov retorted. ‘For my part, I can’t stand any changes! But the flat’s nothing – you’d better have a look at what my bailiff writes to me! Here, I’ll show you his letter – where the devil is it? Zakhar! Zakhar!’
‘Mother of God!’ Zakhar wheezed to himself, jumping off his stove. ‘When will the good Lord put an end to my troubles?’ He came in and looked dully at his master.
‘Why haven’t you found the letter?’
‘Where am I to find it, sir? I don’t even know which letter you want. I can’t read, can I?’
‘Never mind, look for it,’ said Oblomov.
‘You were reading some letter last night, sir,’ said Zakhar, ‘but I haven’t seen it since.’
‘Where is it then?’ Oblomov asked with vexation. ‘I haven’t swallowed it, have I? I remember very well that you took it from me and put it somewhere. There it is – look!’
He shook the blanket and the letter fell on the floor out of its folds.
‘Aye, I’m always the one what gets the blame for everything!’
‘All right, all right,’ Oblomov and Zakhar shouted at each other at the same time. ‘Go – go!’
Zakhar went out, and Oblomov began reading the letter, which seemed to have been written in kvas on grey paper and sealed with brownish sealing-wax. Enormous pale letters followed in solemn procession, without touching each other, along an oblique line from the top to the bottom corner of the page. The procession was occasionally interrupted by a huge pale blot.
‘Dear Sir,’ Oblomov began, ‘our father and benefactor –’ Here he omitted several greetings and good wishes and went on from the middle: ‘I am glad to inform you, Sir, that everything on your estate is in good order. There has been no rain for five weeks and I daresay, Sir, the good Lord must be angry with us not to send us rain. The old men don’t remember such a drought, Sir. The spring crops have all been burnt up as if by a devouring fire; the winter crops have been ruined, some by the worm and some by early frost; we have ploughed it over for spring crops, but we can’t be sure if it will be any good. Let ushope, Sir, that merciful heaven will spare you; we do not care what happens to us – let us all starve to death. On St John’s Eve three more peasants ran away: Laptev, Balochov, and Vasska, the blacksmith’s son, who ran off by himself. I sent the women after their husbands, but they never came back, and are living at Cholki, I am told. A relative of mine went to Cholki from Verkhlyovo, the estate manager sent him there to inspect a foreign plough. I told him about the runaway peasants. He said he had been to see the police inspector who told him to send in a written statement, after which everything would be done to send the peasants back to their places of domicile. He said nothing except that, and I fell at his feet and begged him with tears in my eyes, but he bawled at me at the top of his voice: “Be off! Be off with you! I’ve told you it will be done if you send in your signed statement!” But I never did send in the statement. There is no one I can hire here; all have gone to the Volga, to work on the
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