«Oh, if only Andrey would hurry up and come!» said Oblomov. «He’d put everything straight!»
«Some good Samaritan you’ve found, I must say!» Tarantyev interrupted. «A damned German – a crafty rascal!»
Tarantyev had a sort of instinctive aversion to foreigners. To him a Frenchman, a German, or an Englishman were synonymous with swindler, impostor, rogue, or bandit. He made no distinction between nations: they were all alike in his eyes.
«Look here, Tarantyev», Oblomov said sternly, «I’d be glad if you would control your language, especially when speaking of an intimate friend of mine…»
«An intimate friend!» Tarantyev replied with hatred. «What sort of connexion is he of yours? A German – we all know what that is».
«He’s closer than any relation. I was brought up with him and we were educated together, and I shan’t allow any impertinence…»
Tarantyev turned purple with rage.
«Well», he said, «if you prefer the German to me, I shan’t set foot in your house again».
He put on his hat and walked to the door. Oblomov at once felt sorry.
«You ought to respect him as my friend and speak more carefully about him – that is all I ask», he said. «It isn’t much of a favour, is it?»
«To respect a German?» Tarantyev said with the utmost contempt. «Why should I?»
«But I’ve just told you – if for nothing else then because we grew up and went to the same school together».
«What does that matter? We all go to school with someone or other!»
«Well, if he’d been here», said Oblomov, «he’d long ago have solved my problems without asking for beer or champagne».
«Ah, so you blame me, do you? Well, to hell with you and with your beer and champagne I Here, take back your money! Where did I put it? Can’t remember what I did with the damned note!»
He pulled out a greasy scrap of paper covered with writing.
«No, that’s not it!» he said. «Where did I put it?»
He rummaged in his pockets.
«Don’t bother to look for it», said Oblomov. «I’m not blaming you, but merely ask you to speak with more respect of a man who is a close friend of mine and who has done so much for me». «So much!» Tarantyev said spitefully. «You wait, he’ll do even more for you – you do as he says!»
«Why do you say this to me?» asked Oblomov.
«I’m saying this so that you should know when that German of yours robs you of your last penny what it means to give up a neighbour of yours, a true Russian, for some tramp…»
«Listen, Tarantyev» – Oblomov began.
«I’m not going to listen, I’ve listened enough, you’ve given me enough trouble as it is. God knows the insults I’ve had to bear – I suppose in Germany his father was starving and he comes here and turns up his nose at us!»
«Leave the dead alone! How is his father to blame?»
«They are both to blame: father and son», Tarantyev said gloomily with a wave of his hand. «It’s not for nothing my father warned me to beware of the Germans – and he knew all sorts of people in his time!»
«But what have you against his father, pray?» asked Oblomov.
«What I have against him is that he came to our province in September with nothing but the clothes he had on and then left a fortune to his son – what does that mean?»
«He only left his son some forty thousand roubles. Some of it was his wife’s dowry and he made the rest by giving lessons and managing an estate: he received a good salary. You must admit the father didn’t do anything wrong. Now what about the son? What wrong has he done?»
«A nice fellow! All of a sudden he makes three hundred thousand out of his father’s forty and then becomes a Court Councillor, a man of learning – and now he is away travelling! The rogue has a finger in every pie! Would a good Russian, a real Russian, do all that? A Russian would choose one thing, and that, too, without rush or hurry, in his own good time, and carry on somehow or other – but this one – Good Lord! If he’d become a Government contractor, then at least one could understand how he had grown rich, but he did nothing of the kind – just got rich by some knavery! There’s certainly something wrong there! I’d prosecute a fellow like that! And now he’s knocking about goodness knows where!» Tarantyev went on. «What does he go knocking about in foreign parts for?»
«He wants to study, to see everything, to know!»
«To study! Hasn’t he been taught enough? What does he want to learn? He’s telling you lies, don’t believe him: he deceives you to your face like a small child. Do grown-up people study anything? Hear what he says! Would a Court Councillor want to study? You studied at school, but are you studying now? And does he», Tarantyev pointed to Alexeyev, «study? Does that relative of his study? Can you think of any decent man who is studying? Do you imagine he is sitting in a German school and doing his lessons? Rubbish! I’ve heard he’s gone to look at some machine and order one like it: I suppose it is a press for printing Russian money! I’d put him in jail. Some sort of shares – Oh, these shares – they make me sick!»
Oblomov burst out laughing.
«What are you laughing at?» said Tarantyev. «Isn’t it true what I say?»
«Let’s drop the subject», Oblomov interrupted him. «You’d better go about your business, and I’ll write the letters with Alexeyev and try to put down my plan on paper as quickly as possible – may as well do it all at once».
Tarantyev went out, but came back immediately.
«I’ve quite forgotten!» he began, not at all as brusquely as before. «I came to you on business this morning. I am invited to a wedding to-morrow: Rokotov is getting married. Lend me your frock-coat, old man. Mine, you can see, is rather shabby».
«But», said Oblomov, frowning at this new demand, «how can I? My coat won’t fit you».
«It will, of course it will!» Tarantyev interrupted. «You remember I tried it on once: it might have been made for me! Zakhar! Zakhar! Come here, you old brute!»
Zakhar growled like a bear, but did not come.
«Call him, old man», Tarantyev pleaded. «What a funny chap he is!»
«Zakhar!» Oblomov called.
«Oh, the devil take you!» Zakhar could be heard saying from his room as he jumped off the stove.
«Well, what do you want?» he asked, addressing Tarantyev.
«Fetch my black frock-coat», Oblomov ordered. «Mr Tarantyev wants to see if it fits him: he has to go to a wedding tomorrow».
«I won’t bring the coat, sir», Zakhar said firmly.
«How dare you, when your master orders you to?» Tarantyev shouted. «Why don’t you send him to the house of correction, old man?»
«That would be a nice thing to do: send an old man to the house of correction!» said Oblomov. «Don’t be obstinate, Zakhar, bring the coat».
«I won’t!» Zakhar answered coldly. «Let him first return your waistcoat and shirt: he’s had them for five months. He borrowed them to go to a birthday party and we’ve never seen them since. A velvet waistcoat, too, and a fine cambric shirt; cost twenty-five roubles. I won’t give him the coat».
«Well, good-bye and to hell with both of you!» Tarantyev said angrily, turning to go and shaking his fist at Zakhar. «Remember, old man, I’ll take the flat for you – do you hear?» he added.
«All right, all right», Oblomov said impatiently, just to get rid of him.
«And you write what I told you», Tarantyev went on, «and don’t forget to tell the Governor that