«Why, no», said Alexeyev; «I’m not complaining. I’m always very happy here».
«Well, if you are, why are you so anxious to be somewhere else? Why not stay here with me for the day? We’ll have dinner and in the evening you may go where you like. Oh dear, I’ve forgotten: I can’t possibly go out! Tarantyev is coming to dinner: it’s Saturday».
«Well, of course, I don’t mind. I’ll do as you wish», said Alexeyev.
«I haven’t told you anything about my affairs, have I?» Oblomov asked quickly.
«What affairs? I don’t know anything», said Alexeyev, staring at him in surprise.
«Why do you think I haven’t got up all this time? You see, I’ve been lying here trying to find some way out of my troubles».
«What’s the matter?» asked Alexeyev, trying to look alarmed.
«Two misfortunes! I don’t know what to do».
«What misfortunes?»
«They’re driving me out of my flat. Just imagine it – I must move: the upset, the breakages-the mere thought of it frightens me – I have lived here for eight years, you know. My landlord has played a dirty trick on me. Hurry up and move, he says».
«Hurry up! That means he wants your flat badly. Moving is a great nuisance – a very troublesome business», said Alexeyev. «They’re sure to lose and break things – such an infernal nuisance! And you have such a nice flat… What rent do you pay?»
«Where am I to find another such flat?» Oblomov went on; «and in a hurry, too? Dry and warm; a nice quiet house; we’ve had only one burglary here. The ceiling, it is true, doesn’t look quite safe – the plaster is bulging – but 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 us hope, 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 barges – the people here have all become so stupid, Sir. There will be no linen of ours at the fair this year: I have locked up the drying and the bleaching sheds and put Sychuga to watch them day and night; he never touches a drop, and to make sure he don’t steal any of his master’s goods, I watch over him day and night. The other peasants drink a lot and they are all anxious to pay rent for their land instead of working on your land without any payment. Many of them have not paid up their arrears. This year, Sir, we will send you about two thousand less than last year, unless the drought ruins us completely, otherwise we shall send you the money as promised».
There followed expressions of loyalty and the signature: «Your bailiff and most humble slave, Sir, Prokofy Vytyagushkin, has put his hand to it with his own hand». Being illiterate he put a cross under the letter. «Written from the words of the said bailiff by his brother-in-law, Dyomka the One-Eyed».
Oblomov glanced at the end of the letter. «No month or year», he said. «I suppose the letter must have been lying about at the bailiff’s since last year – St John’s Eve and the drought! Just woken up to it!» He sank into thought. «Well?» he went on. «What do you make of it? He offers to send me about two thousand less – how much will that leave? How much do you think I received last year?» he asked, looking at Alexeyev. «I didn’t mention it to you at the time, did I?»
Alexeyev raised his eyes to the ceiling and pondered.
«I must ask Stolz when he comes», Oblomov continued. «Seven or eight thousand, I believe – I should have made a note of it!
So now he puts me down to six! Why, I shall starve! How can I live on it?»
«Why worry?» said Alexeyev. «A man must never give way to despair. It will all come right in the end».
«But did you hear what he said? He doesn’t send me the money – oh no! He doesn’t say anything to put my mind at rest. All he is thinking of is to cause me unpleasantness, and he does it deliberately! Every year the same story! I simply don’t know what to do! Two thousand less!»
«Yes, it’s a great loss!» said Alexeyev. «Two thousand is no joke! Alexey Login, I understand, also got twelve instead of seventeen thousand this year».
«Twelve