“What accounts? What money?” inquired Oblomov petulantly.
“The accounts sent in by the butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker. All are wanting their money.”
“Always money and worry!” grumbled Oblomov. “Why do you not give me the accounts at intervals instead of in a batch like this?”
“Because each time you have sent me away, and then put matters off until the morrow.”
“Well, these accounts can wait until the morrow.”
“No, they cannot, for the creditors are pressing, and say they are going to allow you nothing more on credit. To-day is the first of the month, you must remember.”
“Ah! Fresh cares, fresh worries!” cried Oblomov gloomily. “Why are you standing there? Lay the table, and I will rise, wash, and look into the whole business. Is the water yet ready?”
“Quite.”
Oblomov raised himself and grunted as though he really intended to get out of bed.
“By the way,” said Zakhar, “whilst you were still asleep the manager of the building sent the dvornik 4 to say that soon you must quit the flat, since he wants It for some one else.”
“Very well, then. We must go. Why worry me about it? This is the third time you have done so.”
“But they keep worrying me about it.”
“Then tell them that we intend to go.”
Zakhar departed again, and Oblomov resumed his reverie. How long he would have remained in this state of indecision it is impossible to say had not a ring at the doorbell resounded through the hall.
“Some one has called, yet I am not yet up!” exclaimed Oblomov as he slipped into his dressing-gown. “Who can it be?”
Lying down again, he gazed furiously towards the door.
II
T here entered a young fellow of about twenty-five. Beaming with health and irreproachably dressed to a degree which dazzled the eye with its immaculateness of linen and gorgeousness of jewellery, he was a figure calculated to excite envy.
“Good morning, Volkov!” cried Oblomov.
“And good morning to you,” returned the radiant gentleman, approaching the bed and looking about him for a spot whereon to deposit a hat. However, perceiving only dust, he retained his headgear in his hand. Next he drew aside the skirts of his coat (preparatory to sitting down), but a hasty inspection of the nearest chair convinced him that he had far better remain standing.
“So you are not yet up?” he went on. “And why on earth are you wearing a nightshirt? They have quite gone out of fashion.”
“’Tis not a nightshirt, it is a dressinggown,” said Oblomov, nestling lovingly into the ample folds of the garment. “Where are you from?”
“From the tailor’s. Do you think this frock-coat a nice one?” And he turned himself round and round for Oblomov’s inspection.
“Splendid! Made with excellent taste!” was the verdict. “Only why is it so broad behind?”
“The better to ride in it. It is a riding-coat. I ordered it for to-day for the reason that this is the first of May and I am to go to the Ekaterinhov 5 with Gorunov. He has just got his promotion, and we intend to cut a dash on the strength of it. He has a roan horse—all the horses in his regiment are roans—and I a black. How are you going-in a carriage or on foot?”
“By neither method,” replied Oblomov.
“What? To-day is the first of May, and you are not going to the Ekaterinhov? Why, every one will be there!”
“Not quite every one,” Oblomov lazily remarked.
“You must go, though. Sophia Nikolaevna and Lydia will be occupying two of the seats in our carriage, but the seat facing them will be vacant. Come with us, I tell you.”
“No, I do not intend to occupy the vacant seat. What sort of a figure should I cut on it?”
“Then, if you like, Mischa Gorunov shall lend you a horse.”
“Of what is the fellow thinking?” said Oblomov as though to himself. “How come you and the Gorunov family to be so friendly with one another?”
“Give me your word of honour not to repeat what I may tell you, and I will explain.”
“Herewith I give it.”
“Very well. I am in love with Lydia.”
“Splendid! Have you been in love with her long? She seems a charming girl.”
“I have been in love with her for three weeks,” said Volkov, with a sigh. “And Mischa, for his part, is in love with Dashenka.”
“Who is Dashenka?”
“What! You do not know Dashenka? Why, the whole town is raving over her dancing. To-night I am going to the Opera with Mischa, and he is to throw her a bouquet. Well, I must be off to buy the necessary camelias for it.”
“Come back, then, and take lunch with me. I should like to have a talk with you, for I have just experienced two misfortunes.”
“Impossible, I fear, for I am lunching with Prince Tiumenev. All the Gorunova—yes, and Lydia, too—are to be there. What a cheerful house it is! And so is Tiumenev’s country place. I have heard that it is to be the scene of numberless dances and tableaux this summer. Are you likely to be one of the guests?”
“No—I think not.”
“What hospitality the Prince dispenses! This winter his guests averaged fifty, and sometimes a hundred.”
“How wearisome the whole thing must have been!”
“What! Wearisome? Why, the more the merrier. Lydia, too, used to be there—though in those days I never so much as noticed her. In fact, never once did I do so until one day I found myself ‘vainly trying to forget her, vainly pitting reason in the lists with love.’” Volkov hummed the concluding words, and seated himself carelessly upon a chair. Almost instantly he leaped to his feet again, and blushed the dust from his trousers.
“What quantities of dirt you keep everywhere!” he remarked.“’tis Zakhar’s fault, not mine,” replied Oblomov.
“Well, now I must be off, as it is absolutely necessary that I should buy those camelias for Mischa’s bouquet. Au revoir!”
“Come and have tea after the opera, and tell me all about it.”
“No, that is impossible, for I am promised to supper at the Musinskis’. It is their reception day, you know. However, meet me there, and I’ll present you.”
“What is toward at the Musinskis’?”
“What, indeed? Why, entertainment in a house where you hear all the news.”
“Like everything else, it would bore me.”
“Then go and call upon the Mezdrovs, where the talk centres upon one topic, and one topic alone—the arts. Of nothing else will you hear but the Venetian School. Beethoven, Bach, Leonardo da Vinci, and so forth.”
“All