of a big watchdog, which barks at everybody and allows no one to stir, but at the same time catches a piece of meat in the air, from whatever direction it may come.
Such were Oblomov’s two most assiduous visitors. Why did these two Russian proletarians come to him? They knew very well why: to eat, to drink, to smoke good cigars. They found a warm and comfortable place of refuge at his flat and met always with the same, if not cordial, then indifferent, reception.
But why did Oblomov let them come? That he could hardly tell himself. Quite possibly it was for the same reason that even to this day, in our remote Oblomovkas, every well-to-do house is crowded with the same sort of men and women, penniless, without a trade, with no abilities for any productive work, but with hungry mouths and almost always of some rank and standing.
There are still sybarites who need such accessories to life: they are bored without superfluous people. Who would hand them the snuff-box they had mislaid or pick up their handkerchief from the floor? To whom complain of their headache and from whom expect sympathy as a right, or tell a bad dream and demand an interpretation of it? Who would read a book to them at bedtime and help them go to sleep? And sometimes such a proletarian would be sent to the nearest town on an errand or put to help in the household – they could not be expected to bother with such tasks themselves, could they?
Tarantyev made a lot of noise and got Oblomov out of his immobility and boredom. He shouted, argued, and formed a sort of one-man show, making it unnecessary for his lazy host to speak or act. Into the room where sleep and peace reigned, Tarantyev brought life and movement and sometimes news from the outside world. Oblomov could listen and look, without lifting a finger, at something that was alive, moving and talking in front of him. Besides, he was still simple-minded enough to believe that Tarantyev could really give him some good piece of advice.
Oblomov put up with Alexeyev’s visits for another, no less important, reason. If he wanted to live in his own way – that is to say, lie without uttering a word, doze or pace the room – Alexeyev did not seem to be there at all; he, too, was silent, dozed or pretended to read a book, or looked lazily at the pictures and knick-knacks, yawning till tears came into his eyes. He could go on like that for three days on end. If, on the other hand, Oblomov tired of being by himself and felt the need for expressing his thoughts, for talking, reading, arguing, showing emotion – he had always at his side an obedient and ready listener who shared with equal willingness his silence, his conversation, his excitement, and his trend of thoughts, whatever it might be.
Other visitors came seldom and only for a short time, as the first three visitors had done; with all of them he was getting more and more out of touch. Sometimes Oblomov was interested in some piece of news, in a conversation lasting about five minutes, then, his curiosity satisfied, he fell silent. But they had to be entertained in turn – they expected him to take part in what interested them. They enjoyed being among a crowd of people; every one of them understood life in his own way, not as Oblomov understood it, and they kept dragging him into it: he resented it all, disliked it, and was antagonized by it.
There was one man only whom he was fond of; he, too, gave him no peace; he liked the latest news, and society, and learning, and life as a whole, but, somehow, more deeply and sincerely – and though Oblomov was kind to everyone, he loved only him and trusted him alone, perhaps because they were brought up, educated, and had lived together. This man was Andrey Karlovich Stolz. He was away, but Oblomov was expecting him back any moment.
4
«Morning, old man», said Tarantyev abruptly, holding out a hirsute hand to Oblomov. «Why are you lying like a log at this hour?»
«Don’t come near, don’t come near, you’re straight from the cold street», said Oblomov, covering himself up with a blanket.
«Good Lord, from the cold street!» Tarantyev roared. «There, take my hand, if I give it to you! It’ll soon be twelve o’clock and he’s still lounging about!»
He was going to drag Oblomov from the bed, but Oblomov forestalled him by putting his feet quickly on the floor and getting into both his slippers at once.
«I was just about to get up myself», he said, yawning.
«I know how you get up! You’d have lain there till dinner. Hey, there, Zakhar! Where are you, you old fool? Help your master to dress and be quick about it!»
«You’d better get a Zakhar of your own first, sir, and then start calling him names!» said Zakhar, coming into the room and looking spitefully at Tarantyev. «Look at the mess you’ve made on the floor – just like a hawker», he added.
«No backchat from you, my lad», said Tarantyev, lifting his foot to kick Zakhar as he walked past him; but Zakhar stopped, turned round, and scowled.
«Just try to touch me», he wheezed furiously. «What do you think you’re doing? I’ll go back», he said, walking back to the door.
«Good heavens, Tarantyev, what a cantankerous fellow you are! Why can’t you leave him alone?» said Oblomov. «Give me my clothes, Zakhar».
Zakhar came back and, looking askance at Tarantyev, darted past him.
Leaning on Zakhar, Oblomov reluctantly rose from his bed like a man who was very tired and as reluctantly walked to an arm-chair, sank into it, and sat still. Zakhar took the pomatum, a comb and brushes from a small table, greased Oblomov’s hair, parted it, and then brushed it.
«Will you wash now, sir?» he asked.
«I’ll wait a little», Oblomov replied. «You can go now».
«Oh, you’re here too, are you?» Tarantyev said suddenly to Alexeyev while Zakhar was brushing Oblomov’s hair. «I never saw you. Why are you here? What a swine that relative of yours is! I’ve been meaning to tell you…»
«What relative? I have no relative», Alexeyev said timidly, staring in surprise at Tarantyev.
«Why, that fellow – what do you call him? The fellow who’s in the Civil Service – Afanasyev. You don’t mean to say he’s no relative of yours? Of course he is!»
«But I’m not Afanasyev – I’m Alexeyev», said Alexeyev. «I have no relatives».
«What do you mean – no relative? Why, he’s just as poor a specimen as you are – and his name’s also Vassily Nikolayevich».
«I swear he’s no relation of mine. My name is Ivan Alexeyich».
«Makes no difference. He looks like you. But he’s a swine. You tell him so when you see him».
«I don’t know him», said Alexeyev, opening his snuff-box. «Never seen him».
«Let’s have a pinch of your snuff», said Tarantyev. «Why, yours is ordinary snuff, not French! Yes, so it is», he said, taking a pinch. «Why isn’t it French?» he added sternly. «I’ve never met a swine like that relative of yours», he went on. «I borrowed fifty roubles from him about two years ago. Fifty roubles – not such a big sum, is it? You might have expected him to forget it. But not at all – he remembered. A month later he began pestering me, asking me every time he met me: „What about that loan?“ I got sick and tired of the sight of him. And as if that wasn’t enough, he barged into my office yesterday. „I expect,“ he said, „you’ve got your salary to-day and can repay me now.“ My salary, indeed! I told him off properly in front of everybody and he was glad to get out, I can tell you. „I’m a poor man,“ he said, „I need the money!“ As if I didn’t need it! Who does he take me for? A rich man, to give him fifty roubles
