Oblomov potters read the full content. Online reading of the book Oblomov I

It is most convenient to perceive a plot of such large scale prose work like Goncharov’s novel “Oblomov” in parts, which in turn are divided into chapters.

Part I
Oblomov’s “endless” dream

Chapter 1. Introduction to the main character and his lazy way of life

May 1st, a holiday. The room of the main character, 32-year-old Ilya Ilyich, is a mess and twilight. Several years ago, he received news from his native Oblomovka - there was an urgent need to restore order there. But the master, who after the death of his parents was left with an inheritance of 350 peasant souls, still cannot muster the strength to go there. In addition, the owner of Oblomov’s apartment in St. Petersburg asks to vacate the premises, since he urgently needs his square meters. The load of problems that have piled up weighs on the hero, and he seeks help in solving them. The first person with whom he discusses painful issues is the lazy and slow servant Zakhar, just like himself.

Chapter 2. Oblomov’s visitors - Volkov, Penkin, Sudbinsky and Alekseev.

On this holiday, visitors come to the hero one after another. They are all trying to drag the couch potato out into the street. But Oblomov is not criminal, like a fortress, he refuses the rake Volkov, the official Sudbinsky and the writer Penkin. The fourth is the quiet Alekseev, Oblomov also rejects his offer to go to Peterhof, but he tells him that he has serious problems on his native estate.

Chapter 3. Visit of Mr. Tarantiev.

The fifth guest is Oblomov’s fellow countryman and cunning swindler Tarantiev. The author tells in detail the biography of the scoundrel.

Chapter 4. Solving the problem of choosing a new home for Oblomov.

Tarantiev invites Oblomov to move to the apartment of Agafya Matveevna Pshenitsyna, who is his godfather. He also gives advice regarding Oblomov’s estate for money - he recommends changing the headman, who is clearly a fraud and a thief, and sending a letter to the governor. Tarantiev leaves Oblomov along with Alekseev.

Chapters 5 and 6. Biography of Oblomov and his interests.

The author talks about Oblomov’s life, tells in detail what and how Ilya Ilyich lives. The hero came to St. Petersburg from Oblomovka 12 years ago. Somehow he worked as a secretary, until one day he sent important paper to the wrong addressee. He didn’t wait for his dismissal, Oblomov left of his own free will and has since “settled” on the sofa on rented apartment. He said goodbye to his friends, dismissed the servants, and only his friend Stolz did not leave him.

Chapter 7. Zakhar is Oblomov’s servant.

Chapter 8. Letter to the governor and quarrel with Zakhar.

After the last visitors leave, Oblomov tries to write a letter to the governor, but his fantasies about life in Oblomovka with future family beautiful only in dreams and refuse to go down on paper. Ilya Ilyich gets upset, and Zakhar also adds fuel to the fire - he asks the owner to leave the house at least for a while so that he and the servants can calmly collect things for the move. After a quarrel with a servant, Oblomov falls asleep.

Chapter 9. Oblomov's dream.

Ilya Ilyich Oblomov sees sweet Dreams. He dreams of his beloved Oblomovka in those days when his parents were still alive, and he himself was just a child or a young man. The hero's childhood passed in a leisurely corner of paradise - delicious pies, tales of a nanny and a soft mother, pliable to any whims. He spent his adolescence in a boarding school, where he met Stolz and received an education.

Chapter 10. Visit of Stolz, Oblomov’s childhood friend.

Towards the end of the same day, Andrei Ivanovich Stolts, the complete opposite of the main character - an efficient, successful and hardworking young man, comes to Ilya Ilyich’s apartment.

Part II.
Andrei Ivanovich Stolts and his “ebullient” vital energy. Love Oblomov and Olga.

Chapters 1 and 2. Oblomov’s friend Stolz - childhood, adolescence and manhood.

Chapters 3 and 4. Stolz “stirred up” Oblomov.

Ilya Ilyich complains to an old friend about lack of money, problems with Oblomovka, and the need to urgently move. Andrei Ivanovich is horrified by the dirt and laziness in which his friend disappears. He becomes a kind of “battery” for him and forces him to “perk up”, get up, get dressed and go out into the world. Tarantieva Stolz orders the servant to send him away and not allow him to see Oblomov, since he is begging for money and clothes on credit, but is not going to return anything.

Oblomov doesn't like fuss. He dreams of returning to Oblomovka. But Stolz insists that he needs to break out of Oblomovism and first go abroad. In the end, Ilya Ilyich agrees with his friend.

Chapters 5 and 6.

At one of the dinner parties, Oblomov meets Olga Ilyinskaya. Love awakens in the hero’s soul, and he tells Olga about this, but immediately begins to be ashamed of his impulse. Stolz goes abroad, Oblomov avoids meeting with Olga, but he does not dare to go to Paris to see his friend and remains in St. Petersburg.

At the end of summer, Oblomov meets Olga in the park. There he apologizes for his words of love. This upsets the girl, since she has developed feelings for Oblomov, although she does not show it outwardly.

Chapter 7. Marriage and life together of Zakhar and Anisya.

Changes in life affected not only Oblomov himself, but also his lazy servant. Zakhar found a life partner - the cook Anisya. The nimble woman quickly put things in order in Oblomov’s bachelor pad.

Chapter 8. Explanation of Oblomov and Olga.

Oblomov is having lunch with his aunt Olga Ilyinskaya and notices that the girl has lost the charm that caused a storm of feelings in him. Olga makes an appointment with Oblomov. They meet in the park and talk. Ilya Ilyich is happy.

Chapter 9. The idyll of the relationship between Oblomov and Olga.

Olga Ilyinskaya and Ilya Oblomov have been together for almost a month. Love acts favorably on both - Olga found the meaning of life around her, and Oblomov entered the most active phase of his life in order to please his demanding lover.

Chapter 10. Oblomov’s letter to Olga.

Getting up “on the wrong foot” one morning, Oblomov wonders whether Olga’s love for him is true for who he is. The hero writes a letter to his beloved, in which he informs the girl that he is breaking off relations with her. Olga is very upset, Oblomov understands that he was mistaken and asks for forgiveness. The couple's relationship resumes.

Chapter 11. “Remote” organization of affairs in Oblomovka.

Oblomov is still too lazy to go to his estate himself to restore lost control. He begins correspondence with his neighbor, the landowner, in the hope that he will provide him with all possible assistance on the spot. Summer is coming to an end, Ilya Ilyich is still reveling in his love for Olga.

Chapter 12. Oblomov calls Olga to marry.

Ilya Ilyich proposes to Olga Ilyina and the lovers kiss for the first time. The bride and groom decide not to tell anyone about their plans for now, as they understand that they first need to get things going in Oblomovka.

Part III.
New “Oblomovka” for Ilya Ilyich. Disorder of engagement with Olga.

Chapters 1 and 2. Oblomov’s acquaintance with Agafya Pshenitsyna.

The cunning Tarantiev appears again on Oblomov’s horizon. He asks for payment for the apartment, which the hero never moved into. The contract was signed and Ilya Ilyich goes to the Vyborg side to terminate it. The owner of the house, Agafya Pshenitsyna, meets him, but cannot help him in any way. The contract was not signed with her.
Chapter 3. Moving from the dachas to St. Petersburg.
Summer is over. The lovers left the dacha. Oblomov moves into Pshenitsyna’s apartment. Ilya Ilyich wants to announce their engagement, but Olga is opposed. The girl still wants her fiancé to first settle matters on the family estate.

Chapters 4, 5 and 6. Rumors and rare dates.

Zakhar informs his master that between their house and Olga’s house, where Oblomov often goes to visit, servants are spreading rumors about an imminent wedding. At his new place of residence, Ilya Ilyich found himself in yet another quagmire of “Oblomovism” - he is fed deliciously, nothing is demanded of him, he is surrounded by calm. He thinks it’s too early to talk about marriage - it’s all vanity. Dates with Olga are becoming less frequent and shorter. In the end, Oblomov says he is sick and does not go to dinner with his beloved. He writes her a note. Then winter comes, bridges are raised. Oblomov no longer dared to go to the city.

Chapter 7. Olga’s visit to Oblomov.

Oblomov is comfortable in the company of Agafya Pshenitsyna and her children. He doesn't want to go out at all. Without waiting for the groom, Olga goes to him herself. She notices that there was no illness and reproaches Oblomov for lying. He promises a quick wedding, but first wants to wait for a letter from the estate.

Chapters 8, 9 and 10. Frauds with Oblomovka Mukhoyarov, Agafya’s brother, and Tarantiev.

In the long-awaited letter from Oblomovka, the neighbor-landowner reports that he cannot deal with Oblomov’s affairs. The estate urgently needs an owner, as things are going from bad to worse. Oblomov shows the letter to Mukhoyarov and he advises hiring Zatertoy, who will organize things in Oblomovka without Ilya Ilyich. In fact, this well-worn swindler and accomplice of Mukhoyarov, who calls Oblomov “a fool”2 while discussing a profitable “deal” with Tarantiev.

Chapters 11 and 12. The breakdown of the relationship between Olga and Oblomov.

Oblomov shows the letter to Olga and tells her that the wedding will have to be postponed for a year. The girl faints from an excess of feelings, and when she comes to her senses, she accuses Ilya Ilyich of inaction and breaks off relations with him.

The upset hero wanders around the city until dark, and at home he is overcome with fever.

Part IX.
Oblomov again goes into dreams, from which he has no return.

Chapter 1. Oblomov and Agafya Pshenitsyna are getting closer.

One year later. Oblomov, living with Agafya, gradually got used to her and even became imbued with feelings. Pshenitsyna also fell in love with Oblomov. The worn-out man manages the estate, gradually ruining it.

Chapter 2. Meeting of Oblomov and Stolz.

Stolz comes to the holiday at Agafya’s house. He is outraged by how Oblomov acted towards Olga. old friend reproaches Ilya Ilyich for once again plunging into his “Oblomovism” and calling him with him. Oblomov promises to go, but later.

Chapter 3. Blackmail.

Mukhoyarov and Tarantiev are seriously concerned about the appearance of Stolz in Oblomov’s life. Fearing that their profit-making schemes will be discovered, the scammers decide to blackmail Oblomov with the idea that they can allegedly prove his “compromising relationship” with Agafya.

Chapter 4. The history of the relationship between Olga and Stolz.

The story moves forward a year ago. Stolz meets Olga and her aunt in Paris. He finds out what happened between her and his friend. Communicating a lot with the girl, Stolz falls in love with her and proposes to her. Olga agrees.

Chapter 5. Oblomov vegetates in laziness and poverty.

1.5 years after the festive dinner, when Stolz visited Oblomov at Pshenitsyna’s apartment, the protagonist’s life became even darker and more boring. Oblomov has no money, and he himself doesn’t know why, since he long ago gave all his affairs into the hands of scammers. Things are so bad that Agafya, feeling sorry for Oblomov, even pawned her pearls.

Chapters 6 and 7. Stolz’s new visit to Oblomov and “debriefing”.

Stolz comes to Oblomov and says that he married Olga, making the girl happy. Ilya Ilyich complains about lack of money. Stolz decides to understand his reasons and brings him to clean water Tarantyev's machinations. Leaving Oblomov, Stolz asks him to be more careful, since his partiality towards the mistress of the house is becoming too noticeable.

Chapter 8. The life of Olga and Stolz, memories of Oblomov.

Stolz has not appeared in St. Petersburg for several years. He is happy with his wife. One day Olga remembers Oblomov in a conversation and asks her husband not to leave her friend and be sure to take her to him to meet at the first opportunity.

Chapter 9. Happy “Oblomovism” of Ilya Ilyich.

Since Stolz put things in order at Oblomov’s estate, Ilya Ilyich was no longer needed. His table is drowning under the dishes, and Agafya’s closet is bursting at the seams with magnificent outfits. Oblomov prefers not to leave the sofa, watching Agafya’s troubles from a lying position.

Due to poor nutrition and lack of exercise, Oblomov suffered an apoplexy, but the hero does not follow the advice of doctors and is increasingly forgotten long sleep. Stolz calls Oblomov to him, says that a carriage has been delivered and Olga is waiting to meet him in it. But Ilya Ilyich tells his friend that Agafya is now his wife, and her younger son Andrey and his child too. Oblomov does not want to leave the apartment, he is cozy and comfortable in such “Oblomovism”. Stolz leaves with nothing.

Chapters 10 and 11. The death of Oblomov and the fate of the other heroes.

Five years later. Three years after Oblomov died, he died quietly from another blow. His house is run by Mukhoyarov and his wife. Agafya misses and mourns her husband. Olga and Stolz took Oblomov’s son Andryusha to be raised.

Zakhar, Oblomov's servant, quietly drinks himself and begs on the street.

Conclusion and conclusions about the work

Goncharov's novel is a detailed study of the Russian phenomenon of "Oblomovism", serving national trait and characterized by fear of making decisions that may entail change. “Oblomovism” is laziness, daydreaming and dreams, replacing reality with fantasy. Analyzing the reasons for the emergence of this phenomenon, the author emphasizes the tenderness, thoughtlessness, and poetry of the hero’s soul, who seeks happiness in peace, bordering on the stagnation of existence.

A little about the history of the novel:

"Oblomov", first published by the publishers of the magazine " Domestic notes"in 1859, is considered the “leading” work in the list of Goncharov’s literary works. The first note about the novel was the article “Oblomov’s Dream” in a literary collection for 1849, which later turned out to be one of the chapters of the novel.

In order to read the summary of “Oblomov”, to understand it storyline and to determine the main idea laid down by the author between the lines of the novel, it is necessary to understand that the work is written according to traditions literary realism and reflects one of the most important problems Russian society mid-19th century. This problem was “Oblomovism” - “stagnation”, apathy, laziness of the human personality.

Any brief retelling implies a mandatory awareness of the role of each of the characters introduced into the text by the author.

Images of the main characters in the novel “Oblomov”

• Ilya Ilyich Oblomov is a thirty-year-old nobleman with poetic soul. A soft-bodied, lazy couch potato and a dreamer living in a world of his own dreams. His whole life is nothing but idleness and long sleep.
• Zakhar is a lazy and arrogant, but faithful servant of Oblomov.
• Andrei Ivanovich Stolts is a friend of the same age as Oblomov, close to him since childhood. The complete opposite of the main character is an active, constantly “growing” and successful young man. Andrei Ivanovich always strives for something and is not used to stopping halfway.
• Olga Sergeevna Ilyinskaya is a young noblewoman and the owner of a small estate, an orphan, lives with her aunt. The image of Olga Ilyinskaya carries the true “feminine principle” - she is smart, gentle, modest, pretty and knows her worth. In the development of the plot, the heroine married Stolz.
• Agafya Matveevna Pshenitsyna is the owner of the apartment rented by Oblomov. Agafya Matveevna is a homely woman, but spineless and weak-willed. She fell in love with Oblomov with all her heart and, in the end, became his wife.

The novel “Oblomov” is one of greatest works Russian literature of the 19th century.

Together with two other novels by Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov - “ An ordinary story” and “Breakage” - it amounts to trilogy, dedicated to the transition from one stage of development of Russian society to another.

The history of the creation of “Oblomov”

Part of the work - the chapter “Oblomov’s Dream” - was published in 1849 as separate work(the author himself noted it as an unfinished work). The entire novel was written and published only ten years later.

“Oblomov’s Dream” was warmly received by the public, but travel and work on other works did not allow Goncharov to finish “Oblomov” in a short time. After publication, the novel brought fame to its creator.

In fact, it became the work thanks to which we know about Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov today.

Composition of the novel

The work is divided into four parts:

• The first part describes one day in the life of Ilya Oblomov, which he spends entirely on the sofa. Goncharov tells the reader about the conditions in which the protagonist of the novel grew and developed;
• in the second part, the love story of Ilya and Olga is revealed, Andrei Stolts’ attempts to bring his friend back to life are shown;
• in the third part, the author notes that Oblomov is not able to change his usual way of life. Another iconic character is introduced into the narrative - Agafya Pshenitsyna;
• the fourth part shows Ilya Ilyich’s return to normal life and his decline.

The composition of the novel is circular: first the reader observes Oblomov’s dream, then his awakening, and then his descent into sleep again.

Below you can find online a summary of the chapters in each of the four parts of the novel.

Brief summary of the novel “Oblomov” by I. A. Goncharov

Part one

Chapter 1. The author introduces the reader to Ilya Ilyich Oblomov, a 32-33-year-old nobleman who, together with his servant Zakhar, lives in St. Petersburg on Gorokhovaya Street. All Oblomov does all day long is lie on the sofa in his favorite robe.

Ilya Ilyich lives on the funds that his Oblomovka estate brings him. The author describes him as a person at the same time:

• good-natured;
• lazy;
• lacking initiative.

Goncharov gives the following description of his laziness: Oblomov’s laziness is not at all the same as that of a sick or tired person, and not even the same as that of a lazy person - Ilya Ilyich is in this state all the time. It has already become normal for him.

The protagonist of the novel has a number of serious problems: the estate began to bring him less money than before, the yield has decreased, and even the owner of the apartment is evicting Oblomov. He would like to address these issues, but just the thought of this scares the hero. He hopes that there will be people in his life who will do everything for him.

Chapter 2. Four people come to Oblomov in turn: Volkov, Sudbinsky, Penkin and Alekseev.

Volkov is cheerful, charged with energy, he tells Oblomov about social events, which he recently visited, about the gloves he bought the other day. Sudbinsky will soon marry the daughter of a wealthy man. Penkin invites the main character to familiarize himself with his articles, and Alekseev is characterized as a person without whom society would not have lost anything.

Oblomov hopes that one of them will take up the solution to his problems, but they are not interesting to any of his visitors.

Chapters 3 and 4. Tarantiev also comes to Oblomov. He was considered a person who could resolve even the most complicated situation, although he himself spent 25 years in the office as a scribe: he could only speak beautifully, but nothing more.

Alekseev and Tarantyev constantly visit Oblomov, although they irritate him. Ilya Ilyich hopes that Stolz will arrive soon - only person, who understands him - and will solve all his problems.

Tarantiev invites Oblomov to move in with his godfather and forces him to go to his estate. The main character does not like this plan of action.

Chapters 5 and 6. When Ilya Ilyich first got a job in the chancellery, he had a desire to build a career, gain a high status in society, and start a family.

The problem is that Oblomov’s ideas about life did not correspond to reality. This caused him suffering, and in this state he worked in the office for two years. The main character quit there soon after he made a serious mistake in performing his duties.

After his resignation, Oblomov closed himself off and began to leave the house less often and communicate with other people. Sometimes Andrei Stolts managed to pull him out of this state - and even then only for a short time.

Chapter 7. Here Oblomov's relationship with Zakhar, his servant, is described. Zakhar constantly argues with his owner, and he accuses him of unwillingness to work and untidiness. Despite this, they cannot live without each other.

Chapter 8. A doctor comes to the protagonist of the novel and warns him that if he does not reconsider his lifestyle, he will soon have a stroke.

Oblomov thinks that perhaps there is something bright in him, but does not know how to activate this resource.

Chapter 9. The protagonist of the novel has a dream about his childhood in Oblomovka. When little Ilya wakes up, everyone in the family caresses him, says kind words to him, feeds him cream, buns and crackers. Then the nanny goes for a walk with the boy, but does not leave him unattended for a second.

The day at the estate passes slowly. After lunch everyone goes to bed. The nanny reads fairy tales to Ilya about honey and milk rivers and good witches, but over time, the already adult Oblomov understands that in reality there are neither the first nor the second.

The main character realizes that the content of fairy tales diverges from reality, but in life he is still drawn to this fictional world, where there is neither grief nor evil, and good sorceresses solve all the problems of the heroes.

Chapters 10 and 11. Zakhar discusses his master with the servants while he is sleeping, and then tries to wake him up. Ilya Ilyich received a visit from Andrei Stolts, a childhood friend. Upon arrival, Stolz watches how Zakhar argues with Oblomov and cannot contain his laughter.

Part two

Chapters 1 and 2. By origin, Andrei Stolts is half German, half Russian. He inherited German upbringing and hard work from his father, and kindness and gentleness from his mother.

Andrei’s father did not want him to be supported by him after graduating from university, and sent him to St. Petersburg. Stolz made a career there, earned his own living, and now he is employed in a company that ships goods abroad.

Stolz came to the main character to take a breath and calm his nerves in a sincere, friendly conversation. He was an active man, but there was nothing superfluous in his movements.

Chapters 3 and 4. Andrey is trying to convince his friend to change his lifestyle. Oblomov and Stolz have been paying visits all week different people, but then the first one complains that he cannot constantly live in such a rhythm.

When Andrei asks Ilya Ilyich how he would like to live, he gives him a brief retelling of his dream. Oblomov dreams of living quietly in the village with his wife, enjoying nature, and listening to the aria “Casta Diva” in the evenings. Stolz doesn't like his friend's ideas.

In two weeks, Stolz promises to take Oblomov abroad, and before that he wants to introduce him to Olga Ilyinskaya - especially since she perfectly performs his favorite aria.

Chapter 5. After meeting Olga, Ilya Ilyich is transformed. He has a desire to “read, write and do in one hour what he could not do in ten years.” In any case, Oblomov shows readiness for radical changes in his life.

The main character promised Stolz to come to him in Paris. The coat was purchased, the documents necessary for the trip were completed - but Oblomov’s lip was swollen after a fly bite, and this ruined his plans. He never went to the capital of France: neither in a month, nor in three.

After that, Ilya Ilyich lived at the dacha, read a lot, and became more energetic. Falling in love with Olga made itself felt.

Chapters 6, 7 and 8. The protagonist and Olga meet in the park and explain their feelings.

Followed by short story about Olga's house. She lives with her aunt. The morals in her family are quite strict: when visiting the Ilyinskys, you constantly need to remember how to behave, what to talk about, about your appearance etc. Stolz believes that communication with a young, lively and at the same time slightly mocking woman will awaken in Oblomov an interest in life.

At a certain point, Ilya begins to think that Olga has lost interest in him. Soon Zakhar informs her about Oblomov’s desire to leave for the city and about his intentions regarding her. After this, Olga meets with Ilya in the park and makes it clear that the relationship with him is really very dear to her.

Chapters 9, 10, 11 and 12. Olga and Oblomov continue to meet. Ilya’s beloved is trying to bring him back to life: she makes him read, go to the theater, and communicate with other people. To please her, Oblomov changes the headman on his estate and establishes contact with one of the neighbors (even if through Stolz).

The protagonist of the novel again begins to think that Olga does not really love him: in his opinion, it is impossible to love people like him in principle. In a letter, he notifies her of the breakup of the relationship, and then hides and watches her reaction to the message. Seeing her tears, he asks her for forgiveness - after this the relationship becomes the same as before. Moreover, Oblomov offers Olga his hand and heart, and she agrees to become his wife.

Part three

Chapters 1, 2 and 3. Before moving to the dacha, Ilya Ilyich signed an agreement to rent an apartment on Vyborgskaya - Tarantiev comes to him and demands that he pay for the housing. First, he wants to go to his relatives Olga and announce the wedding, but Oblomov’s beloved insists that he first solve all his problems.

Oblomov doesn’t want to have another apartment to support, but in the end he has no choice but to move to Vyborgskaya. He fails to negotiate the termination of the contract with either Agafya Pshenitsyna, the owner of the apartment, or Mukhoyarov, her brother, who conducts business on her behalf.

Ilya Ilyich lives in the city, and Olga lives in the country. They are becoming increasingly rare.

Chapters 5 and 6. Everyone has known for a long time that Ilya proposed to Olga, but he has never even been to his chosen one’s home. Olga asks Oblomov to pay them a visit, but he refers to being overloaded with problems. It's already winter, but main character I never visited Ilyinskaya’s house.

Chapter 7. Ilya spends all his time at Pshenitsyna’s apartment with her children, Masha and Vanya. Olga herself comes to him, after which Oblomov blossoms again.

Chapters 8, 9 and 10. Oblomov wants to transfer management of the estate to his neighbor by proxy, but he refuses, in addition warning Ilya that Oblomovka will bring big losses.

Pshenitsyna’s brother advises Oblomov to hire a manager so that he does not have to go to the estate (after all, in this case, Ilya’s wedding with Olga would be upset) and advises him to hire his colleague Zatertoy for this position. Ilya Ilyich follows this advice, but does not even suspect that his subordinate is simply pulling money out of Oblomovka and putting it in his pocket.

Chapters 11 and 12. Olga and Ilya broke up after all. Olga cannot come to terms with the fact that Oblomov entrusted the management of his estate to a stranger. In addition, she is not satisfied with the fact that she is emotionally invested in the relationship with Ilya, but does not receive anything from him in return.

Part four

Chapter 1. Ilya comes to his senses only a year after breaking up with Olga.

All this time he lives with Agafya. These two people become spiritually closer to each other: Pshenitsyna sees the meaning of her life in caring for Oblomov, and he is also very comfortable with her.

Zatarty sends less money than Ilya planned to receive (without quitrent), but does not receive a reprimand for this.

Chapter 2. Stolz came to Ilya on his name day and told him that Olga had left for Switzerland, but at the same time asked not to leave him alone. Andrei also sees that Zaterty is brazenly deceiving Oblomov and himself assumes the position of village manager, trying to restore order there.

Chapter 3. In fact, the quitrent was collected, it was just divided between Zaterty, Mukhoyarov and Tarantiev. The latter two meet and express dissatisfaction that their criminal plan was discovered. Now Mukhoyarov wants, through blackmail, to obtain from Oblomov a receipt for ten thousand rubles in the name of his sister.

Chapter 4. In Paris - even before meeting Ilya - Stolz met Olga and became close to her. Olga briefly recounted to Andrey the love story with Oblomov. Andrey proposed to her.

Chapters 5, 6 and 7. Mukhoyarov managed to put his plan into practice, after which Oblomov and Pshenitsyna were left completely without money. Ilya began to drink, and his robe wore out even more.

Stolz found out why his friend’s situation worsened and solved the problem:

• first, he demanded that Agafya Pshenitsyna draw up a receipt stating that Oblomov did not owe her anything;
• he then complained about Mukhoyarov to his superiors, as a result of which he lost his job.

Ilya broke off relations with Tarantiev. Stolz wants to take his friend away, but he asks to give him another month.

Chapter 9. Oblomov still remains with Agafya. He is very pleased with the way of his life, since everything he had was like in Oblomovka:

• he could eat for a long time and appetizingly;
• he had the opportunity to work little and leisurely;
• next to him was his wife, who completely served him;
• he could drink currant vodka and wine carelessly;
• no one bothered him to sleep for a long time after lunch;
• He and Agafya also had a son - Oblomov named him Andrei, in honor of Stolz.

Only once was Oblomov’s measured life overshadowed by an apoplectic stroke - but he managed to return to life thanks to the care and support of Agafya.

Andrei Stolts and Olga Ilyinskaya visit Ilya Ilyich in St. Petersburg. Andrei cannot believe that his friend is again bogged down in laziness and idleness. He is in last time tries to bring Oblomov back to life, but his attempt ends in failure. Olga wanted to see Ilya, but he flatly refused to communicate with her.

Chapter 10. Three years later, Oblomov died: after the second apoplexy, his health began to deteriorate, he weakened significantly. He died without pain and suffering ( last minutes he spent his life alone).

Agafya lived for the sake of her loved ones and caring for them, but after Ilya’s death the meaning of life was lost for her: her son from her first marriage went to study, her daughter got married, and little Andrei was taken to be raised by the Stoltsy.

She only occasionally visits her son, but she lives with her brother’s family.

Pshenitsyna refuses the money that Oblomovka brings: she wants these funds to go to little Andrei.

Chapter 11. One day Andrei Stolts and a literary friend walked past a church. At the end of the service, the beggars were the first to leave, and Andrei recognized Zakhar, Oblomov’s former servant, in one of them. It turned out that he tried to find a job in several families, but did not stay anywhere for long. As a result, Zakhar’s well-being deteriorated significantly.

Stolz invited Zakhar to move to Oblomovka, which he continued to manage, but he refused. Oblomov's former lackey wanted to stay next to his master's grave.

When the writer inquired about the fate of Ilya Oblomov, Stolz retold him the story set out on the pages of the novel.

In Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the large houses, the population of which would increase by a whole county town, lay in bed in the morning, in his apartment, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov.

He was a man about thirty-two or three years old, of average height, pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with the absence of any definite idea, any concentration in his facial features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, sat on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed throughout the face. From the face, carelessness passed into the poses of the whole body, even into the folds of the dressing gown.

Sometimes his gaze darkened with an expression as if of fatigue or boredom, but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from his face the softness that was the dominant and fundamental expression, not only of his face, but of his whole soul, and the soul shone so openly and clearly in his eyes , in a smile, in every movement of the head and hand. And superficially observant, cold-tempered man, glancing in passing at Oblomov, he would say: “He must be a good man, simplicity!” A deeper and prettier man, having peered into his face for a long time, would have walked away in pleasant thought, with a smile.

Ilya Ilyich’s complexion was neither ruddy, nor dark, nor positively pale, but indifferent or seemed so, perhaps because Oblomov was somehow flabby beyond his years: perhaps from lack of exercise or air, or maybe that and another. In general, his body, judging by its matte finish, is too white light neck, small plump arms, soft shoulders, it seemed too pampered for a man.

His movements, even when he was alarmed, were also restrained by softness and laziness, not without a kind of grace. If a cloud of concern came over your face from the soul, your gaze became cloudy, wrinkles appeared on your forehead, a game of doubts, sadness, and fear began, but rarely did this anxiety solidify in the form of a definite idea, and even more rarely did it turn into intention. All anxiety was resolved with a sigh and died away in apathy or dormancy.

How well Oblomov’s home suit suited his calm facial features and pampered body! He was wearing a robe made of Persian material, a real oriental robe, without the slightest hint of Europe, without tassels, without velvet, without a waist, very roomy, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice. The sleeves, in constant Asian fashion, went wider and wider from the fingers to the shoulder. Although this robe had lost its original freshness and in places replaced its primitive, natural gloss with another, acquired one, it still retained the brightness of the oriental paint and the strength of the fabric.

The robe had in Oblomov’s eyes a multitude of invaluable advantages: it is soft, flexible, the body does not feel it on itself, it, like an obedient slave, submits to the slightest movement of the body.

Oblomov always walked around the house without a tie and without a vest, because he loved space and freedom. His shoes were long, soft and wide; when, without looking, he lowered his feet from the bed to the floor, he certainly fell into them immediately.

Lying down for Ilya Ilyich was neither a necessity, like that of a sick person or like a person who wants to sleep, nor an accident, like that of someone who is tired, nor a pleasure, like that of a lazy person: it was his normal state. When he was at home - and he was almost always at home - he kept lying down, and always in the same room where we found him, which served as his bedroom, study and reception room. He had three more rooms, but he rarely looked in there, perhaps in the morning, and then not every day, when a man cleaned his office, which was not done every day. In those rooms, the furniture was covered with covers, the curtains were drawn.

The room where Ilya Ilyich was lying seemed at first glance to be beautifully decorated. There was a mahogany bureau, two sofas upholstered in silk, beautiful screens with embroidered birds and fruits unprecedented in nature. There were silk curtains, carpets, several paintings, bronze, porcelain and many beautiful little things.

But the experienced eye of a person with pure taste, with one quick glance at everything that was here, would only read a desire to somehow observe the decorum of inevitable decency, just to get rid of them. Oblomov, of course, only bothered about this when he was cleaning his office. Refined taste would not be satisfied with these heavy, ungraceful mahogany chairs and rickety bookcases. The back of one sofa sank down, the glued wood came loose in places.

The paintings, vases, and small items bore exactly the same character.

The owner himself, however, looked at the decoration of his office so coldly and absent-mindedly, as if he was asking with his eyes: “Who brought and installed all this here?” Because of such a cold view of Oblomov on his property, and perhaps also from an even colder view of the same subject by his servant, Zakhar, the appearance of the office, if you examined it more closely, struck you with the neglect and negligence that prevailed in it.

On the walls, near the paintings, cobwebs, saturated with dust, were molded in the form of festoons; the mirrors, instead of reflecting objects, could have served rather as tablets for writing down some notes on them in the dust for memory. The carpets were stained. There was a forgotten towel on the sofa, on the rare morning there was not a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone on the table that had not been cleared away from yesterday's dinner, and there were no bread crumbs lying around.

If it weren’t for this plate, and the freshly smoked pipe leaning against the bed, or the owner himself lying on it, then one would think that no one lived here - everything was so dusty, faded and generally devoid of living traces of human presence . True, there were two or three unfolded books on the shelves, a newspaper was lying around, and there was an inkwell with feathers on the bureau, but the pages on which the books were unfolded were covered with dust and yellowed, it was clear that they had been abandoned a long time ago, the newspaper’s number was last year’s, and If you dipped a pen into it from an inkwell, all that would come out was a frightened fly buzzing.

Ilya Ilyich woke up, contrary to usual, very early, at eight o’clock. He is very concerned about something. His face alternated between fear, melancholy and annoyance. It was clear that he was overcome by an internal struggle, and his mind had not yet come to the rescue.

The fact is that Oblomov the day before received an unpleasant letter from the village, from his village elder. It is known what kind of troubles the headman can write about: crop failure, arrears, decrease in income, etc. Although the headman wrote exactly the same letters to his master last year and in the third year, this last letter had as strong an effect as any an unpleasant surprise.

Is it easy? It was necessary to think about means to take some measures. However, we must give justice to Ilya Ilyich’s care for his affairs. Following the first unpleasant letter from the headman, received several years ago, he had already begun to create in his mind a plan for various changes and improvements in the management of his estate.

According to this plan, various new economic, police and other measures were supposed to be introduced. But the plan was still far from being fully thought out, and the headman’s unpleasant letters were repeated annually, prompting him to activity and, therefore, disturbing the peace. Oblomov was aware of the need to do something decisive before the plan was completed.

As soon as he woke up, he immediately intended to get up, wash his face and, having drunk tea, think carefully, figure out something, write down and generally do this matter properly.

For half an hour he lay there, tormented by this intention, but then he decided that he would still have time to do this after tea, and he could drink tea, as usual, in bed, especially since nothing prevents him from thinking while lying down.

So I did. After tea, he had already risen from his bed and was about to stand up, looking at his shoes; he even began to lower one foot from the bed towards them, but immediately picked it up again.

Half past nine struck, Ilya Ilyich perked up.

What am I really? - he said out loud with annoyance. - You need to know your conscience: it’s time to get down to business! Just give yourself free reign and...

Zakhar! - he shouted.

In the room, which was separated only by a small corridor from Ilya Ilyich’s office, one heard first the grumbling of a chained dog, then the sound of feet jumping from somewhere. It was Zakhar who jumped off the couch, where he usually spent time, sitting deep in a doze.

An elderly man entered the room, wearing a gray frock coat, with a hole under his arm, from which a piece of shirt was sticking out, in a gray vest, with copper buttons, with a skull as bare as a knee, and with immensely wide and thick gray-haired sideburns, each of which that would be three beards.

Zakhar did not try to change not only the image given to him by God, but also his costume, which he wore in the village. His dress was made according to a sample he had taken from the village. He also liked the gray frock coat and vest because in this semi-uniform he saw a faint memory of the livery that he had once worn when accompanying the late gentlemen to church or on a visit, and the livery in his memories was the only representative of the dignity of the Oblomov house.

Nothing else reminded the old man of the lordly, wide and peaceful life in the wilderness of the village. The old gentlemen have died, family portraits are left at home and, well, lying somewhere in the attic, legends about old life and the importance of the surname fades away or lives only in the memory of the few old people left in the village. Therefore, the gray frock coat was dear to Zakhar: in it, and also in some of the signs preserved in the master’s face and manners, reminiscent of his parents, and in his whims, which, although he grumbled, both to himself and out loud, but which between thus he respected internally, as a manifestation of the lordly will, the master's right; he saw faint hints of outdated greatness.

Without these whims, he somehow did not feel the master above him, without them nothing could resurrect his youth, the village they left long ago, and the legends about this ancient house, the only chronicle kept by old servants, nannies, mothers and passed down from family to generation. genus.

The Oblomov house was once rich and famous in its own right, but then, God knows why, it became poorer, smaller, and finally, imperceptibly lost among the old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other the faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as if it were a shrine.

That's why Zakhar loved his gray frock coat so much. Perhaps he valued his sideburns because in his childhood he saw many old servants with this ancient, aristocratic decoration.

Ilya Ilyich, deep in thought, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood in front of him silently. Finally he coughed.

What you? - asked Ilya Ilyich.

After all, you called?

Did you call? Why did I call you - I don’t remember! - he answered, stretching. - Go to your room for now, and I’ll remember.

Zakhar left, and Ilya Ilyich continued to lie and think about the damned letter.

About a quarter of an hour passed.

Well, stop lying down! - he said, - you have to get up... But by the way, let me read the headman’s letter with attention again, and then I’ll get up. - Zakhar!

Again the same jump and the grunt stronger. Zakhar entered, and Oblomov again fell into thought. Zakhar stood for about two minutes, unfavorably, looking a little sideways at the master, and finally went to the door.

Where are you going? - Oblomov suddenly asked.

You don’t say anything, so why stand here for nothing? - Zakhar wheezed, for lack of another voice, which, according to him, he lost while hunting with dogs, when he rode with the old master and when he felt like strong wind into the throat.

He stood half-turned in the middle of the room and kept looking sideways at Oblomov.

Have your legs withered so much that you can’t stand? You see, I'm preoccupied - just wait! Have you stayed there yet? Find the letter that I received from the headman yesterday. Where are you taking him?

Which letter? “I haven’t seen any letter,” said Zakhar.

You received it from the postman: it’s so dirty!

Where did they put it - why should I know? - Zakhar said, patting the papers and different things, lying on the table.

You never know anything. There, in the basket, look! Or did it fall behind the sofa? The back of the sofa still hasn’t been repaired, why should you call a carpenter to fix it? After all, you broke it. You won't think about anything!

“I didn’t break it,” Zakhar answered, “she broke herself, but she won’t last forever: she has to break someday.”

Ilya Ilyich did not consider it necessary to prove the contrary.

Found it, or what? - he only asked.

Here are some letters.

Well, not anymore,” said Zakhar.

Well, okay, go ahead! - Ilya Ilyich said impatiently. - I’ll get up and find it myself.

Zakhar went to his room, but as soon as he put his hands on the couch to jump on it, a hurried cry was heard again: “Zakhar, Zakhar!”

Oh, my God! - Zakhar grumbled, going back to the office. - What kind of torment is this? If only death would come sooner!

What do you want? - he said, holding the door of the office with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of disfavour, from such an angle that he had to see the master with half an eye, and the master could only see one immense sideburn, from which you just expected two to fly out - three birds.

Handkerchief, quickly! You could have guessed it yourself: you don’t see! - Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly.

Zakhar did not detect any particular displeasure or surprise at this order and reproach from the master, probably finding both of them very natural on his part.

Who knows where the scarf is? - he grumbled, walking around the room and feeling every chair, although it was already possible to see that there was nothing on the chairs.

You're losing everything! - he remarked, opening the door to the living room to see if there was anything there.

Where? Look here! I haven't been there since the third day. Hurry up! - said Ilya Ilyich.

Where is the scarf? No scarf! - Zakhar said, spreading his arms and looking around in all corners. “Yes, there he is,” he suddenly wheezed angrily, “below you!” That's where the end sticks out. You lie on it yourself, and ask for a scarf!

And, without waiting for an answer, Zakhar went out. Oblomov felt a little embarrassed by his own mistake. He quickly found another reason to make Zakhar guilty.

How clean you are everywhere: dust, dirt, my God! Look there, look in the corners - you’re not doing anything!

“If I don’t do anything…” Zakhar spoke in an offended voice, “I try, I don’t regret my life!” And I wash away dust and sweep almost every day...

He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table on which Oblomov was having lunch.

There, there,” he said, “everything has been swept, tidied up, as if for a wedding... What else?

And what's that? - Ilya Ilyich interrupted, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. - And this? And this? - He pointed to a towel thrown away from yesterday and to a forgotten plate with a slice of bread on the table.

Well, I guess I’ll put that away,” Zakhar said condescendingly, taking the plate.

Just this! And the dust on the walls, and the cobwebs?.. - said Oblomov, pointing to the walls.

This is what I clean up for Holy Week: then I clean the images and remove the cobwebs...

What about the books and paintings?..

Books and paintings before Christmas: then Anisya and I will go through all the closets. Now when are you going to clean up? You are all sitting at home.

I sometimes go to the theater and visit: if only...

What a night cleaning!

Oblomov looked at him reproachfully, shook his head and sighed, and Zakhar indifferently looked out the window and also sighed. The master seemed to think: “Well, brother, you are even more Oblomov than I am,” and Zakhar almost thought: “You’re lying! You’re just a master at speaking tricky and pitiful words, but you don’t even care about dust and cobwebs.”

Do you understand,” said Ilya Ilyich, “that moths start from dust?” Sometimes I even see a bug on the wall!

I also have fleas! - Zakhar responded indifferently.

Do you really think that's good? After all, this is disgusting! - Oblomov noted.

Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that the grin even covered his eyebrows and sideburns, which moved apart as a result, and a red spot spread across his entire face right up to his forehead.

How is it my fault that there are bedbugs in the world? - he said with naive surprise. - Did I make them up?

“It’s from uncleanness,” Oblomov interrupted. - Why are you lying?

And I didn’t invent the uncleanness.

You have mice running around there at night - I hear it.

And I didn’t invent mice. There are a lot of these creatures, like mice, cats, and bedbugs, everywhere.

How come others don’t have moths or bedbugs?

Zakhar’s face expressed incredulity, or, better to say, calm confidence that this was not happening.

“I have a lot of everything,” he said stubbornly, “you can’t see through every bug, you can’t fit into its crack.”

And he himself, it seems, thought: “And what kind of sleep is it without a bug?”

You sweep, pick up the rubbish from the corners - and nothing will happen,” Oblomov taught.

You take it away, and tomorrow it will be full again,” said Zakhar.

“It won’t be enough,” the master interrupted, “it shouldn’t.”

“He’ll get enough, I know,” the servant insisted.

If it gets dirty, sweep it up again.

Like this? Do you go through all the corners every day? - Zakhar asked. - What kind of life is this? God better send your soul!

Why are others clean? - Oblomov objected. - Look opposite, at the tuner’s: it’s nice to look at, but there’s only one girl...

“Where will the Germans take the rubbish,” Zakhar suddenly objected. - Look how they live! The whole family has been gnawing on the bone for a week. The coat passes from the father's shoulders to the son, and from the son again to the father. My wife and daughters are wearing short dresses: everyone tucks their legs under them like geese... Where can they get dirty laundry? They don’t have it like we do, so that in their closets there’s a bunch of old, worn-out clothes lying around over the years, or a whole corner of bread crusts accumulated over the winter... They don’t even have crusts lying around in vain: they’ll make crackers and drink them with beer!

Zakhar even spat through his teeth, talking about such a stingy life.

There's nothing to talk about! - Ilya Ilyich objected, you better clean up.

Sometimes I would have removed it, but you yourself don’t allow it,” said Zakhar.

Fuck you! That's it, you see, I'm in the way.

Of course, you all sit at home: how can you clean up in front of you? Leave for the whole day and I'll clean it up.

Here's another idea - to leave! You better come to your place.

Yeah right! - Zakhar insisted. - If only we had left today, Anisya and I would have cleaned everything up. And we can’t handle it together: we still need to hire women and clean everything up.

Eh! what an idea - women! “Go ahead,” said Ilya Ilyich.

He was not glad that he called Zakhar to this conversation. He kept forgetting that barely touching this delicate object would cause trouble.

Oblomov would like it to be clean, but he would like it to be done somehow, imperceptibly, naturally, and Zakhar always started a lawsuit as soon as they began to demand from him to sweep away dust, wash floors, etc. He in this case, he will begin to prove the need for a huge fuss in the house, knowing very well that the mere thought of this horrified his master.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov was lost in thought. A few minutes later another half hour struck.

What is this? - Ilya Ilyich said almost with horror. - Eleven o’clock is soon, and I haven’t gotten up yet, haven’t washed my face yet? Zakhar, Zakhar!

Oh, my God! Well! - was heard from the hallway, and then the famous jump.

Are you ready to wash your face? - asked Oblomov.

Done a long time ago! - Zakhar answered. - Why don’t you get up?

Why don't you tell me it's ready? I would have gotten up a long time ago. Come on, I’m following you now. I need to study, I’ll sit down to write.

Zakhar left, but a minute later he returned with a notebook covered in writing and greasy and scraps of paper.

Now, if you write, then by the way, if you please, check the accounts: you need to pay the money.

What scores? What money? - Ilya Ilyich asked with displeasure.

From the butcher, from the greengrocer, from the laundress, from the baker: everyone asks for money.

Only about money and care! - Ilya Ilyich grumbled. - Why don’t you file your bills little by little, and all of a sudden?

You all chased me away: tomorrow and tomorrow...

Well, now, can’t we see it until tomorrow?

No! They really pester you: they won’t lend you money anymore. Today is the first day.

Oh! - Oblomov said sadly. - New concern! Well, why are you standing there? Put it on the table. “I’ll get up now, wash my face and take a look,” said Ilya Ilyich. - So, are you ready to wash your face?

Ready! - said Zakhar.

Well, now...

He began, groaning, to rise in bed to stand up.

“I forgot to tell you,” Zakhar began, “just now, while you were still sleeping, the manager sent a janitor: he says that we definitely need to move out... we need an apartment.

Well, what is it? If necessary, then, of course, we will go. Why are you pestering me? This is the third time you've told me about this.

They pester me too.

Tell me we'll go.

They say: you’ve been promising for a month now, but you still don’t move out, they say, we’ll let the police know.

Let them know! - Oblomov said decisively. “We’ll move ourselves when it gets warmer, in three weeks.”

Where in three weeks! The manager says that in two weeks the workers will come: they will break everything... “Move out, he says, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow...”

Uh-uh! too fast! See, what else! Would you like to order it now? Don’t you dare remind me about the apartment. I forbade you once, and you again. Look!

What should I do? - Zakhar responded.

What to do? - this is how he gets rid of me! - answered Ilya Ilyich. - He's asking me! What do I care? Don't bother me, do whatever you want, just so you don't have to move. Can't try hard for the master!

But, father, Ilya Ilyich, how can I give orders? - Zakhar began in a soft hiss. - The house is not mine: how can I not move from someone else’s house if they are driving me away? If it were my house, then with great pleasure I would...

Is it possible to persuade them somehow? “We, they say, have been living for a long time, we pay regularly.”

“I spoke,” said Zakhar.

Well, what about them?

What! We settled our situation: “Move, they say we need to remodel the apartment.” They want to turn this doctor's room into one big apartment for the wedding of the owner's son.

Oh, my God! - Oblomov said with annoyance. - After all, there are such donkeys who get married!

He turned on his back.

“You would write, sir, to the owner,” said Zakhar, “so maybe he wouldn’t touch you, but would order you to destroy that apartment first.”

At the same time, Zakhar pointed with his hand somewhere to the right.

Well, okay, when I get up, I’ll write... You go to your room, and I’ll think about it. “You don’t know how to do anything,” he added, “I have to worry about this rubbish myself.”

Zakhar left, and Oblomov began to think.

But he was at a loss what to think about: whether about the headman’s letter, about moving to new apartment, should we start settling scores? He was lost in the rush of everyday worries and kept lying there, tossing and turning from side to side. From time to time only abrupt exclamations were heard: “Oh, my God! It touches life, it reaches everywhere.”

It is not known how long he would have remained in this indecision, but a bell rang in the hallway.

Someone has already come! - said Oblomov, wrapping himself in a robe. - And I haven’t gotten up yet - it’s a shame and that’s all! Who would it be so early?

And he, lying down, looked at the doors with curiosity.

Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov

PART ONE

In Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the large houses, the population of which would be equal to the entire county town, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov was lying in bed in his apartment in the morning.

He was a man about thirty-two or three years old, of average height, pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with the absence of any definite idea, any concentration in his facial features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, sat on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed throughout the face. From the face, carelessness passed into the poses of the whole body, even into the folds of the dressing gown.

Sometimes his gaze darkened with an expression as if of fatigue or boredom; but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from the face the softness that was the dominant and fundamental expression, not only of the face, but of the whole soul; and the soul shone so openly and clearly in the eyes, in the smile, in every movement of the head and hand. And a superficially observant, cold person, glancing in passing at Oblomov, would say: “He must be a good man, simplicity!” A deeper and prettier man, having peered into his face for a long time, would have walked away in pleasant thought, with a smile.

Ilya Ilyich’s complexion was neither ruddy, nor dark, nor positively pale, but indifferent or seemed so, perhaps because Oblomov was somehow flabby beyond his years: perhaps from lack of exercise or air, or maybe that and another. In general, his body, judging by the matte, too white light of his neck, small plump arms, soft shoulders, seemed too pampered for a man.

His movements, even when he was alarmed, were also restrained by softness and laziness, not without a kind of grace. If a cloud of care from the soul came over the face, the gaze became clouded, folds appeared on the forehead, a game of doubts, sadness, and fear began; but rarely did this anxiety congeal in the form of a definite idea, and even more rarely did it turn into an intention. All anxiety was resolved with a sigh and died away in apathy or dormancy.

How well Oblomov’s home suit suited his calm facial features and pampered body! He was wearing a robe made of Persian material, a real oriental robe, without the slightest hint of Europe, without tassels, without velvet, without a waist, very roomy, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice. The sleeves, in constant Asian fashion, went wider and wider from the fingers to the shoulder. Although this robe had lost its original freshness and in places replaced its primitive, natural gloss with another, acquired one, it still retained the brightness of the oriental paint and the strength of the fabric.

The robe had in Oblomov’s eyes a darkness of invaluable merits: it is soft, flexible; the body does not feel it on itself; he, like an obedient slave, submits to the slightest movement of the body.

Oblomov always walked around the house without a tie and without a vest, because he loved space and freedom. His shoes were long, soft and wide; when he, without looking, lowered his feet from the bed to the floor, he certainly fell into them immediately.

Lying down for Ilya Ilyich was neither a necessity, like that of a sick person or like a person who wants to sleep, nor an accident, like that of someone who is tired, nor a pleasure, like that of a lazy person: it was his normal state. When he was at home - and he was almost always at home - he kept lying down, and always in the same room where we found him, which served as his bedroom, study and reception room. He had three more rooms, but he rarely looked in there, perhaps in the morning, and then not every day, when a person cleaned his office, which was not done every day. In those rooms, the furniture was covered with covers, the curtains were drawn.

The room where Ilya Ilyich was lying seemed at first glance to be beautifully decorated. There was a mahogany bureau, two sofas upholstered in silk, beautiful screens with embroidered birds and fruits unprecedented in nature. There were silk curtains, carpets, several paintings, bronze, porcelain and many beautiful little things.

But the experienced eye of a person with pure taste, with one quick glance at everything that was here, would only read a desire to somehow observe the decorum of inevitable decency, just to get rid of them. Oblomov, of course, only bothered about this when he was cleaning his office. Refined taste would not be satisfied with these heavy, ungraceful mahogany chairs and rickety bookcases. The back of one sofa sank down, the glued wood came loose in places.

The paintings, vases, and small items bore exactly the same character.

The owner himself, however, looked at the decoration of his office so coldly and absent-mindedly, as if he was asking with his eyes: “Who brought and installed all this here?” Because of such a cold view of Oblomov on his property, and perhaps also from an even colder view of the same subject by his servant, Zakhar, the appearance of the office, if you examined it more closely, struck you with the neglect and negligence that prevailed in it.

On the walls, near the paintings, cobwebs, saturated with dust, were molded in the form of festoons; mirrors, instead of reflecting objects, could rather serve as tablets for writing down some notes on them in the dust for memory. The carpets were stained. There was a forgotten towel on the sofa; On rare mornings there was not a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone on the table that had not been cleared away from yesterday’s dinner, and there were no bread crumbs lying around.

If it weren’t for this plate, and the freshly smoked pipe leaning against the bed, or the owner himself lying on it, then one would think that no one lived here - everything was so dusty, faded and generally devoid of living traces of human presence . On the shelves, however, there were two or three open books, a newspaper, and an inkwell with feathers on the bureau; but the pages on which the books were unfolded were covered with dust and turned yellow; it is clear that they were abandoned a long time ago; The issue of the newspaper was last year, and if you dipped a pen into it from the inkwell, a frightened fly would only escape with a buzz.

Ilya Ilyich woke up, contrary to usual, very early, at eight o’clock. He is very concerned about something. His face alternated between fear, melancholy and annoyance. It was clear that he was overcome by an internal struggle, and his mind had not yet come to the rescue.

The fact is that Oblomov the day before received an unpleasant letter from the village, from his village elder. It is known what kind of troubles the headman can write about: crop failure, arrears, decrease in income, etc. Although the headman wrote exactly the same letters to his master last year and in the third year, this last letter had as strong an effect as any an unpleasant surprise.

Is it easy? It was necessary to think about means to take some measures. However, we must give justice to Ilya Ilyich’s care for his affairs. Following the first unpleasant letter from the headman, received several years ago, he had already begun to create in his mind a plan for various changes and improvements in the management of his estate.

According to this plan, various new economic, police and other measures were supposed to be introduced. But the plan was still far from being fully thought out, and the headman’s unpleasant letters were repeated annually, prompting him to activity and, therefore, disturbing the peace. Oblomov was aware of the need to do something decisive before the plan was completed.

As soon as he woke up, he immediately intended to get up, wash his face and, having drunk tea, think carefully, figure out something, write down and generally do this matter properly.

For half an hour he lay there, tormented by this intention, but then he decided that he would still have time to do this after tea, and he could drink tea, as usual, in bed, especially since nothing prevents him from thinking while lying down.

So I did. After tea he had already risen from his bed and was about to get up; Looking at the shoes, he even began to lower one foot from the bed towards them, but immediately picked it up again.

Half past nine struck, Ilya Ilyich perked up.

- What am I really? - he said out loud with annoyance. – You need to know your conscience: it’s time to get down to business! Just give yourself free reign and...

- Zakhar! - he shouted.

In the room, which was separated only by a small corridor from Ilya Ilyich’s office, one heard first the grumbling of a chained dog, then the sound of feet jumping from somewhere. It was Zakhar who jumped off the couch, where he usually spent time, sitting deep in a doze.

An elderly man entered the room, wearing a gray frock coat, with a hole under his arm, from which a piece of shirt was sticking out, in a gray vest, with copper buttons, with a skull as bare as a knee, and with immensely wide and thick gray-haired sideburns, each of which that would be three beards.

Zakhar did not try to change not only the image given to him by God, but also his costume, which he wore in the village. His dress was made according to a sample he had taken from the village. He also liked the gray frock coat and waistcoat because in this semi-uniform clothing he saw a faint memory of the livery that he had once worn when accompanying the late gentlemen to church or on a visit; and the livery in his memories was the only representative of the dignity of the Oblomov house.

Nothing else reminded the old man of the lordly, wide and peaceful life in the wilderness of the village. The old gentlemen have died, the family portraits are left at home and, of course, are lying around somewhere in the attic; legends about ancient life and the importance of the family name are dying out or live only in the memory of the few old people left in the village. Therefore, the gray frock coat was dear to Zakhar: in it, and also in some of the signs preserved in the master’s face and manners, reminiscent of his parents, and in his whims, which, although he grumbled, both to himself and out loud, but which between thus he respected internally, as a manifestation of the lordly will, the master's right; he saw faint hints of outdated greatness.

Without these whims, he somehow did not feel the master above him; without them, nothing could resurrect his youth, the village they left long ago, and the legends about this ancient house, the only chronicle kept by old servants, nannies, mothers and passed on from generation to generation.

The Oblomov house was once rich and famous in its own right, but then, God knows why, it became poorer, smaller, and finally, imperceptibly lost among the old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other the faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as if it were a shrine.

That's why Zakhar loved his gray frock coat so much. Perhaps he valued his sideburns because in his childhood he saw many old servants with this ancient, aristocratic decoration.

Ilya Ilyich, deep in thought, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood in front of him silently. Finally he coughed.

- What you? - asked Ilya Ilyich.

- You called, didn’t you?

- Did you call? Why did I call you - I don’t remember! - he answered, stretching. - Go to your room for now, and I’ll remember.

Zakhar left, and Ilya Ilyich continued to lie and think about the damned letter.

About a quarter of an hour passed.

- Well, stop lying down! - he said, - you have to get up... But by the way, let me read the headman’s letter with attention again, and then I’ll get up. - Zakhar!

Again the same jump and the grunt stronger. Zakhar entered, and Oblomov again fell into thought. Zakhar stood for about two minutes, unfavorably, looking a little sideways at the master, and finally went to the door.

-Where are you going? - Oblomov suddenly asked.

“You don’t say anything, so why stand here for nothing?” - Zakhar wheezed, for lack of another voice, which, according to him, he lost while hunting with dogs, when he rode with the old master and when it seemed like a strong wind blew into his throat.

He stood half-turned in the middle of the room and kept looking sideways at Oblomov.

“Are your legs so withered that you can’t stand?” You see, I'm preoccupied - just wait! Have you stayed there yet? Find the letter that I received from the headman yesterday. Where are you taking him?

- Which letter? “I haven’t seen any letter,” said Zakhar.

– You received it from the postman: it’s so dirty!

- Where did they put it - why should I know? - Zakhar said, patting his hand on the papers and various things lying on the table.

-You never know anything. There, in the basket, look! Or did it fall behind the sofa? The back of the sofa has not yet been repaired; Why should you call a carpenter to fix it? After all, you broke it. You won't think about anything!

“I didn’t break it,” Zakhar answered, “she broke herself; It won’t last forever: it has to break someday.

Ilya Ilyich did not consider it necessary to prove the contrary.

- Found it, or what? – he only asked.

- Here are some letters.

“Well, not anymore,” said Zakhar.

- Well, okay, go ahead! – Ilya Ilyich said impatiently. “I’ll get up and find it myself.”

Zakhar went to his room, but as soon as he put his hands on the couch to jump on it, a hurried cry was heard again: “Zakhar, Zakhar!”

- Oh, my God! – Zakhar grumbled, going back to the office. -What kind of torment is this? If only death would come sooner!

- What do you want? - he said, holding the door of the office with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of disfavour, from such an angle that he had to see the master with half an eye, and the master could see only one immense sideburn, from which you would expect two to fly out. three birds.

- Handkerchief, hurry! You could have guessed it yourself: you don’t see! – Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly.

Zakhar did not detect any particular displeasure or surprise at this order and reproach from the master, probably finding both of them very natural on his part.

- Who knows where the handkerchief is? - he grumbled, walking around the room and feeling every chair, although it was already possible to see that there was nothing on the chairs.

- You're losing everything! - he remarked, opening the door to the living room to see if there was anything there.

-Where is the handkerchief? No scarf! - Zakhar said, spreading his arms and looking around in all corners. “Yes, there he is,” he suddenly wheezed angrily, “below you!” That's where the end sticks out. You lie on it yourself, and ask for a scarf!

And, without waiting for an answer, Zakhar went out. Oblomov felt a little embarrassed by his own mistake. He quickly found another reason to make Zakhar guilty.

- How clean you are everywhere: dust, dirt, my God! Look, look in the corners - you’re not doing anything!

“If I don’t do anything...” Zakhar spoke in an offended voice, “I try, I don’t regret my life!” And I wash away dust and sweep almost every day...

He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table on which Oblomov was having lunch.

“There, there,” he said, “everything has been swept, tidied up, as if for a wedding... What else?”

- And what's that? - Ilya Ilyich interrupted, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. - And this? And this? “He pointed to a towel thrown away from yesterday and to a forgotten plate on the table with a slice of bread.

“Well, I guess I’ll put this away,” Zakhar said condescendingly, taking the plate.

- Just this! And the dust on the walls, and the cobwebs?.. - said Oblomov, pointing to the walls.

- I clean this up for Holy Week: then I clean the images and remove the cobwebs...

- And sweep away the books and pictures?..

– Books and paintings before Christmas: then Anisya and I will go through all the closets. Now when are you going to clean up? You are all sitting at home.

– I sometimes go to the theater and visit: if only...

- What kind of cleaning at night!

Oblomov looked at him reproachfully, shook his head and sighed, and Zakhar indifferently looked out the window and also sighed. The master seemed to think: “Well, brother, you are even more Oblomov than I am,” and Zakhar almost thought: “You’re lying! You’re just a master at speaking tricky and pitiful words, but you don’t even care about dust and cobwebs.”

“Do you understand,” said Ilya Ilyich, “that moths start from dust?” Sometimes I even see a bug on the wall!

- I have fleas too! – Zakhar responded indifferently.

- Do you really think that's good? After all, this is disgusting! - Oblomov noted.

Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that the grin even covered his eyebrows and sideburns, which moved apart as a result, and a red spot spread across his entire face right up to his forehead.

- How is it my fault that there are bedbugs in the world? - he said with naive surprise. – Did I make them up?

“It’s from uncleanness,” Oblomov interrupted. - Why are you lying?

“And I didn’t invent the uncleanness.”

– You have mice running around there at night – I hear it.

“And I didn’t invent mice.” There are a lot of these creatures, like mice, cats, and bedbugs, everywhere.

- How come others don’t have moths or bedbugs?

Zakhar’s face expressed incredulity, or, better to say, calm confidence that this was not happening.

“I have a lot of everything,” he said stubbornly, “you can’t see through every bug, you can’t fit into its crack.”

And he himself, it seems, thought: “And what kind of sleep is it without a bug?”

“You sweep, pick up the rubbish from the corners - and nothing will happen,” Oblomov taught.

“You take it away, and tomorrow it will be full again,” said Zakhar.

“It won’t be enough,” the master interrupted, “it shouldn’t.”

“He’ll get enough, I know,” the servant repeated.

- If it gets full, sweep it up again.

- Like this? Do you go through all the corners every day? – Zakhar asked. - What kind of life is this? God better send your soul!

- Why are others clean? - Oblomov objected. - Look opposite, at the tuner’s: it’s nice to look at, but there’s only one girl...

“Where will the Germans take the rubbish,” Zakhar suddenly objected. - Look how they live! The whole family has been gnawing on the bone for a week. The coat passes from the father's shoulders to the son, and from the son again to the father. My wife and daughters are wearing short dresses: everyone tucks their legs under them like geese... Where can they get dirty laundry? They don’t have it like we do, so that in their closets there’s a bunch of old, worn-out clothes lying around over the years, or a whole corner of bread crusts accumulated over the winter... They don’t even have crusts lying around in vain: they’ll make crackers and drink them with beer!

Zakhar even spat through his teeth, talking about such a stingy life.

- There’s no point in talking! - Ilya Ilyich objected, you better clean up.

“Sometimes I would have removed it, but you yourself won’t let it,” said Zakhar.

- Fuck you! That's it, you see, I'm in the way.

- Of course, you; You’re all sitting at home: how can you clean up in front of you? Leave for the whole day and I'll clean it up.

- Here’s another idea - to leave! You better come to your place.

- Yeah right! – Zakhar insisted. “If only we had left today, Anisya and I would have cleaned everything up.” And we can’t handle it together: we still need to hire women and clean everything up.

- Eh! what ideas - women! “Go ahead,” said Ilya Ilyich.

He was not glad that he called Zakhar to this conversation. He kept forgetting that barely touching this delicate object would cause trouble.

Oblomov would like it to be clean, but he would like it to happen somehow, imperceptibly, by itself; and Zakhar always started a lawsuit, as soon as they began to demand that he sweep away dust, wash floors, etc. In this case, he will begin to prove the need for a huge fuss in the house, knowing very well that the very thought of this horrified his master.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov was lost in thought. A few minutes later another half hour struck.

- What is this? – Ilya Ilyich said almost in horror. “It’s eleven o’clock soon, and I haven’t gotten up yet, I still haven’t washed my face?” Zakhar, Zakhar!

- Oh, my God! Well! – was heard from the hallway, and then the famous jump.

- Are you ready to wash your face? - asked Oblomov.

- Done a long time ago! - Zakhar answered. - Why don’t you get up?

- Why don’t you tell me it’s ready? I would have gotten up a long time ago. Come on, I’m following you now. I need to study, I’ll sit down to write.

Zakhar left, but a minute later he returned with a notebook covered in writing and greasy and scraps of paper.

“Now, if you’re going to write, then by the way, if you please, check the accounts: you need to pay the money.”

- What scores? What money? – Ilya Ilyich asked with displeasure.

- From the butcher, from the greengrocer, from the laundress, from the baker: everyone asks for money.

- Only about money and care! - Ilya Ilyich grumbled. - Why don’t you file your bills little by little, and all of a sudden?

- You all chased me away: tomorrow and tomorrow...

- Well, can’t it be until tomorrow now?

- No! They really pester you: they won’t lend you money anymore. Today is the first day.

- Ah! - Oblomov said sadly. - New concern! Well, why are you standing there? Put it on the table. “I’ll get up now, wash myself and take a look,” said Ilya Ilyich. - So, are you ready to wash your face?

- Ready! - said Zakhar.

- Well, now...

He began, groaning, to rise in bed to stand up.

“I forgot to tell you,” Zakhar began, “just now, while you were still sleeping, the manager sent a janitor: he says that we definitely need to move out... we need an apartment.”

- Well, what is it? If necessary, then, of course, we will go. Why are you pestering me? This is the third time you've told me about this.

- They pester me too.

- Tell me we'll go.

“They say: you’ve been promising for a month now, but you still won’t move out; We, they say, will let the police know.

- Let them know! - Oblomov said decisively. “We’ll move ourselves when it gets warmer, in three weeks.”

- Where in three weeks! The manager says that in two weeks the workers will come: they will break everything... “Move out, he says, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow...”

- Uh-uh! too fast! See, what else! Would you like to order it now? Don’t you dare remind me about the apartment. I already forbade you once; and you again. Look!

- What should I do? – Zakhar responded.

- What should we do? - this is how he gets rid of me! - answered Ilya Ilyich. - He's asking me! What do I care? Don't bother me, do whatever you want, just so you don't have to move. Can't try hard for the master!

- But, father, Ilya Ilyich, how can I give orders? – Zakhar began in a soft hiss. - The house is not mine: how can I not move from someone else’s house if they are driving me away? If it were my house, then with great pleasure I would...

– Is it possible to persuade them somehow? “We, they say, have been living for a long time, we pay regularly.”

“He spoke,” said Zakhar.

- Well, what about them?

- What! We settled our situation: “Move, they say we need to remodel the apartment.” They want to turn this doctor's room into one big apartment for the wedding of the owner's son.

- Oh, my God! - Oblomov said with annoyance. - After all, there are such donkeys who get married!

He turned on his back.

“You would write, sir, to the owner,” said Zakhar, “so maybe he wouldn’t touch you, but would order you to destroy that apartment first.”

At the same time, Zakhar pointed with his hand somewhere to the right.

- Well, okay, as soon as I get up, I’ll write... You go to your room, and I’ll think about it. “You don’t know how to do anything,” he added, “I have to worry about this rubbish myself.”

Zakhar left, and Oblomov began to think.

But he was at a loss what to think about: should he write about the headman’s letter, should he move to a new apartment, should he begin to settle his scores? He was lost in the rush of everyday worries and kept lying there, tossing and turning from side to side. From time to time only abrupt exclamations were heard: “Oh, my God! It touches life, it reaches everywhere.”

It is not known how long he would have remained in this indecision, but a bell rang in the hallway.

- Someone has already come! - said Oblomov, wrapping himself in a robe. - And I haven’t gotten up yet - it’s a shame and that’s all! Who would it be so early?

And he, lying down, looked at the doors with curiosity.

A young man of about twenty-five entered, radiant in health, with laughing cheeks, lips and eyes. Envy took in looking at him.

He was a man about thirty-two or three years old, of average height, pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with the absence of any definite idea, any concentration in his facial features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, sat on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed throughout the face. From the face, carelessness passed into the poses of the whole body, even into the folds of the dressing gown.

Sometimes his gaze darkened with an expression as if of fatigue or boredom; but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from the face the softness that was the dominant and fundamental expression, not only of the face, but of the whole soul; and the soul shone so openly and clearly in the eyes, in the smile, in every movement of the head and hand. And a superficially observant, cold person, glancing in passing at Oblomov, would say: “He must be a good man, simplicity!” A deeper and prettier man, having peered into his face for a long time, would have walked away in pleasant thought, with a smile.

Ilya Ilyich’s complexion was neither ruddy, nor dark, nor positively pale, but indifferent or seemed so, perhaps because Oblomov was somehow flabby beyond his years: perhaps from lack of exercise or air, or maybe that and another. In general, his body, judging by its matte finish, is too white color neck, small plump arms, soft shoulders, it seemed too pampered for a man.

His movements, even when he was alarmed, were also restrained by softness and laziness, not without a kind of grace. If a cloud of care from the soul came over the face, the gaze became clouded, folds appeared on the forehead, a game of doubts, sadness, and fear began; but rarely did this anxiety congeal in the form of a definite idea, and even more rarely did it turn into an intention. All anxiety was resolved with a sigh and died away in apathy or dormancy.

How well Oblomov’s home suit suited his calm facial features and pampered body! He was wearing a robe made of Persian material, a real oriental robe, without the slightest hint of Europe, without tassels, without velvet, without a waist, very roomy, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice. The sleeves, in constant Asian fashion, went wider and wider from the fingers to the shoulder. Although this robe had lost its original freshness and in places replaced its primitive, natural gloss with another, acquired one, it still retained the brightness of the oriental paint and the strength of the fabric.

The robe had in Oblomov’s eyes a darkness of invaluable merits: it is soft, flexible; the body does not feel it on itself; he, like an obedient slave, submits to the slightest movement of the body.

Oblomov always walked around the house without a tie and without a vest, because he loved space and freedom. His shoes were long, soft and wide; when he, without looking, lowered his feet from the bed to the floor, he certainly fell into them immediately.

Lying down for Ilya Ilyich was neither a necessity, like that of a sick person or like a person who wants to sleep, nor an accident, like that of someone who is tired, nor a pleasure, like that of a lazy person: it was his normal state. When he was at home - and he was almost always at home - he kept lying down, and always in the same room where we found him, which served as his bedroom, study and reception room. He had three more rooms, but he rarely looked into them, perhaps in the morning, and then not every day, when a man cleaned his office, which was not done every day. In those rooms, the furniture was covered with covers, the curtains were drawn.

The room where Ilya Ilyich was lying seemed at first glance to be beautifully decorated. There was a mahogany bureau, two sofas upholstered in silk, beautiful screens with embroidered birds and fruits unprecedented in nature. There were silk curtains, carpets, several paintings, bronze, porcelain and many beautiful little things.

But the experienced eye of a person with pure taste, with one quick glance at everything that was here, would only read a desire to somehow observe the decorum of inevitable decency, just to get rid of them. Oblomov, of course, only bothered about this when he was cleaning his office. Refined taste would not be satisfied with these heavy, ungraceful mahogany chairs and rickety bookcases. The back of one sofa sank down, the glued wood came loose in places.

The paintings, vases, and small items bore exactly the same character.

The owner himself, however, looked at the decoration of his office so coldly and absent-mindedly, as if he was asking with his eyes: “Who brought and installed all this here?” Because of such a cold view of Oblomov on his property, and perhaps also from an even colder view of the same subject by his servant, Zakhar, the appearance of the office, if you examined it more closely, struck you with the neglect and negligence that prevailed in it.

An elderly man entered the room, wearing a gray frock coat, with a hole under his arm, from which a piece of shirt was sticking out, in a gray vest, with copper buttons, with a skull as bare as a knee, and with immensely wide and thick gray-haired sideburns, each of which that would be three beards.

Zakhar did not try to change not only the image given to him by God, but also his costume, which he wore in the village. His dress was made according to a sample he had taken from the village. He also liked the gray frock coat and waistcoat because in this semi-uniform clothing he saw a faint memory of the livery that he had once worn when accompanying the late gentlemen to church or on a visit; and the livery in his memories was the only representative of the dignity of the Oblomov house.

Nothing else reminded the old man of the lordly, wide and peaceful life in the wilderness of the village. The old gentlemen have died, the family portraits are left at home and, of course, are lying around somewhere in the attic; legends about ancient life and the importance of the family name are increasingly dying out or live only in the memory of the few old people left in the village. Therefore, the gray frock coat was dear to Zakhar: in it, and also in some of the signs preserved in the master’s face and manners, reminiscent of his parents, and in his whims, which, although he grumbled, both to himself and out loud, but which between thus he respected internally, as a manifestation of the lordly will, the master's right; he saw faint hints of outdated greatness.

Without these whims, he somehow did not feel the master above him; without them, nothing could resurrect his youth, the village they left long ago, and the legends about this ancient house, the only chronicle kept by old servants, nannies, mothers and passed on from generation to generation.

The Oblomov house was once rich and famous in its own right, but then, God knows why, it grew poorer, smaller and, finally, imperceptibly lost among the older noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other the faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as if it were a shrine.

That's why Zakhar loved his gray frock coat so much. Perhaps he valued his sideburns because in his childhood he saw many old servants with this ancient, aristocratic decoration.

Ilya Ilyich, deep in thought, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood in front of him silently. Finally he coughed.

What you? - asked Ilya Ilyich.

After all, you called?

Did you call? Why did I call you - I don’t remember! - he answered, stretching. - Go to your room for now, and I’ll remember.

Zakhar left, and Ilya Ilyich continued to lie and think about the damned letter.

About a quarter of an hour passed.

Well, stop lying down! - he said, - you have to get up... But by the way, let me read the headman’s letter with attention again, and then I’ll get up. Zakhar!

Again the same jump and the grunt stronger. Zakhar entered, and Oblomov again fell into thought. Zakhar stood for about two minutes, unfavorably, looking a little sideways at the master, and finally went to the door.

Where are you going? - Oblomov suddenly asked.

You don’t say anything, so why stand here for nothing? - Zakhar wheezed, for lack of another voice, which, according to him, he lost while hunting with dogs, when he rode with the old master and when it seemed like a strong wind blew into his throat.

He stood half-turned in the middle of the room and kept looking sideways at Oblomov.

Have your legs withered so much that you can’t stand? You see, I'm preoccupied - just wait! Haven't been there yet? Find the letter that I received from the headman yesterday. Where are you taking him?

Which letter? “I haven’t seen any letter,” said Zakhar.

You received it from the postman: it’s so dirty!

Where did they put it - why should I know? - Zakhar said, patting his hand on the papers and various things lying on the table.

You never know anything. There, in the basket, look! Or did it fall behind the sofa? The back of the sofa has not yet been repaired; Why should you call a carpenter to fix it? After all, you broke it. You won't think about anything!

“I didn’t break it,” Zakhar answered, “she broke herself; It won’t last forever: it has to break someday.

Ilya Ilyich did not consider it necessary to prove the contrary.

Found it, or what? - he only asked.

Here are some letters.

Well, not anymore,” said Zakhar.

Well, okay, go ahead! - Ilya Ilyich said impatiently, “I’ll get up and find it myself.”

Zakhar went to his room, but as soon as he put his hands on the couch to jump on it, a hurried cry was heard again: “Zakhar, Zakhar!”

Oh, my God! - Zakhar grumbled, going back to the office. - What kind of torment is this? If only death would come sooner!

What do you want? - he said, holding the door of the office with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of disfavour, from such a side that he had to see the master with half an eye, and the master could see only one immense sideburn, from which you just expected two or three to fly out birds.

Handkerchief, quickly! You could have guessed it yourself: you don’t see! - Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly.

Zakhar did not detect any particular displeasure or surprise at this order and reproach from the master, probably finding both of them very natural on his part.

Who knows where the scarf is? - he grumbled, walking around the room and feeling every chair, although it was already possible to see that there was nothing on the chairs.

You're losing everything! - he remarked, opening the door to the living room to see if there was anything there.

Where? Look here! I haven't been there since the third day. Hurry up! - said Ilya Ilyich.

Where is the scarf? No scarf! - Zakhar said, spreading his arms and looking around in all corners. “Yes, there he is,” he suddenly wheezed angrily, “below you!” That's where the end sticks out. You lie on it yourself, and ask for a scarf!

And, without waiting for an answer, Zakhar went out. Oblomov felt a little embarrassed by his own mistake. He quickly found another reason to make Zakhar guilty.

How clean you are everywhere: dust, dirt, my God! Look there, look in the corners - you’re not doing anything!

“If I don’t do anything...” Zakhar spoke in an offended voice, “I try, I don’t regret my life!” I wash away dust and sweep almost every day...

He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table on which Oblomov had lunch.

There, there,” he said, “everything has been swept, tidied up, as if for a wedding... What else?

And what's that? - Ilya Ilyich interrupted, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. - And this? And this? “He pointed to a towel thrown away from yesterday and to a plate with a loaf of bread forgotten on the table.

Well, I guess I’ll put that away,” Zakhar said condescendingly, taking the plate.

Just this! And the dust on the walls, and the cobwebs?.. - said Oblomov, pointing to the walls.

This is what I clean up for Holy Week: then I clean the images and remove the cobwebs...

What about the books and paintings?..

Books and paintings before Christmas: then Anisya and I will go through all the cupboards. Now when are you going to clean up? You're still sitting at home.

Sometimes I go to the theater and visit: if only...

What a night cleaning!

Oblomov looked at him reproachfully, shook his head and sighed, and Zakhar indifferently looked out the window and also sighed. The master seemed to think: “Well, brother, you are even more Oblomov than I am,” and Zakhar almost thought: “You’re lying! You’re just a master at speaking tricky and pitiful words, but you don’t even care about dust and cobwebs.”

Do you understand,” said Ilya Ilyich, “that moths start from dust?” Sometimes I even see a bug on the wall!

I also have fleas! - Zakhar responded indifferently.

Do you really think that's good? After all, this is disgusting! - Oblomov noted.

Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that the grin even covered his eyebrows and sideburns, which moved apart as a result, and a red spot spread across his entire face right up to his forehead.

How is it my fault that there are bedbugs in the world? - he said with naive surprise. - Did I make them up?

“It’s from uncleanness,” Oblomov interrupted. - Why are you lying?

And I didn’t invent the uncleanness.

Over there, mice are running around at night - I hear it.

And I didn’t invent mice. There are a lot of these creatures, like mice, cats, and bedbugs, everywhere.

How come others don’t have moths or bedbugs?

Zakhar’s face expressed incredulity, or, better to say, calm confidence that this was not happening.

“I have a lot of everything,” he said stubbornly, “you can’t see through every bug, you can’t fit into its crack.”

And he himself, it seems, thought: “And what kind of sleep is it without a bug?”

You sweep, pick up the rubbish from the corners - and nothing will happen,” Oblomov taught.

You take it away, and tomorrow it will be full again,” said Zakhar.

“It won’t be enough,” the master interrupted, “it shouldn’t.”

“He’ll get enough, I know,” the servant insisted.

If it gets dirty, sweep it up again.

Like this? Do you go through all the corners every day? - Zakhar asked. - What kind of life is this? God better send your soul!

Why are others clean? - Oblomov objected. - Look opposite, at the tuner’s: it’s nice to look at, but there’s only one girl...

“Where will the Germans take the rubbish,” Zakhar suddenly objected. - Look how they live! The whole family has been gnawing on the bone for a week. The coat passes from the father's shoulders to the son, and from the son again to the father. My wife and daughters are wearing short dresses: they all tuck their legs under them, like geese... Where can they get dirty laundry? They don’t have it like we do, so that in their cupboards there’s a bunch of old, worn-out clothes lying around over the years, or a whole corner of bread crusts accumulated over the winter... They don’t even have a crust lying around in vain: they’ll make some crackers and drink it with beer!

Zakhar even spat through his teeth, talking about such a stingy life.

There's nothing to talk about! - Ilya Ilyich objected, - you better clean it up.

Sometimes I would have removed it, but you yourself don’t allow it,” said Zakhar.

Fuck you! That's it, you see, I'm in the way.

Of course, you; You’re all sitting at home: how can you clean up in front of you? Leave for the whole day and I'll clean it up.

Here's another idea - to leave! You better come to your place.

Yeah right! - Zakhar insisted. - If only we had left today, Anisya and I would have cleaned everything up. And we can’t handle it together: we still need to hire women and clean everything up.

Eh! what an idea - women! “Go ahead,” said Ilya Ilyich.

He was not glad that he called Zakhar to this conversation. He kept forgetting that if you barely touched this delicate object, it wouldn’t cause any trouble.

Oblomov would like it to be clean, but he would like it to happen somehow, imperceptibly, by itself; and Zakhar always started a lawsuit as soon as they began to require him to sweep away dust, wash floors, etc. In this case, he would begin to prove the need for a huge fuss in the house, knowing very well that the mere thought of this horrified his master.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov was lost in thought. A few minutes later another half hour struck.

What is this? - Ilya Ilyich said almost with horror. - Eleven o’clock is soon, and I haven’t gotten up yet, haven’t washed my face yet? Zakhar, Zakhar!

Oh, my God! Well! - was heard from the hallway, and then the famous jump.

Are you ready to wash your face? - asked Oblomov.

Done a long time ago! - Zakhar answered, “why don’t you get up?”

Why don't you tell me it's ready? I would have gotten up a long time ago. Come on, I’m following you now. I need to study, I’ll sit down to write.

Zakhar left, but a minute later he returned with a notebook covered in writing and greasy and scraps of paper.

Now, if you write, then by the way, if you please, check the accounts: you need to pay the money.

What scores? What money? - Ilya Ilyich asked with displeasure.

Well, I have to go! - said Volkov. - For camellias for Misha’s bouquet. Au revoir.

Come and have tea in the evening, from the ballet: tell us what happened there,” Oblomov invited.

I can’t, I gave my word to the Mussinskys: their day is today. Let's go too. Would you like me to introduce you?

No, what to do there?

At the Mussinskys? For mercy's sake, there are half a city there. How to do what? This is the kind of house where they talk about everything...

This is what’s boring about everything,” said Oblomov.

Well, visit the Mezdrovs,” Volkov interrupted, “they talk about one thing there, about the arts; All you hear is: Venetian school, Beethoven da Bach, Leonardo da Vinci...

A century of talking about the same thing - what boredom! Pedants, they must be! - Oblomov said, yawning.

You won't please. There aren't enough houses! Now everyone has days: the Savinovs have lunch on Thursdays, the Maklashins have Fridays, the Vyaznikovs have Sundays, and Prince Tyumenev has Wednesdays. My days are busy! - Volkov concluded with shining eyes.

And aren’t you too lazy to hang around every day?

Here, laziness! What laziness? Have fun! - he said carelessly. - You read the morning, you have to be au courant of everything, know the news. Thank God, my service is such that I don’t need to be in office. Only twice a week I will sit and dine with the general, and then you will go on visits, where you have not been for a long time; well, and there... a new actress, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in French theater. There will be an opera, I'll subscribe. And now I’m in love... Summer begins; Misha was promised a vacation; Let's go to their village for a month, for a change. There's hunting there. They have excellent neighbors, they give bals champêtres. Lydia and I will walk in the grove, ride in a boat, pick flowers... Ah!.. - and he turned over with joy. “However, it’s time... Goodbye,” he said, trying in vain to look at himself front and back in the dusty mirror.

Wait,” Oblomov held back, “I wanted to talk to you about business.”

He was a gentleman in a dark green tailcoat with coat of arms buttons, clean-shaven, with dark sideburns that evenly bordered his face, with a weary but calmly conscious expression in his eyes, with a heavily worn face, and a thoughtful smile.

Hello, Sudbinsky! - Oblomov greeted cheerfully. - I forcibly looked into an old colleague! Don't come, don't come! You're out of the cold.

Hello, Ilya Ilyich. “I’ve been planning to come to you for a long time,” said the guest, “but you know what a devilish service we have!” Look, I’m taking a whole suitcase to the report; and now, if they ask anything there, he told the courier to gallop here. You can’t have yourself for a minute.

Are you still on duty? So late? - asked Oblomov. - It used to be that from ten o’clock...

It happened - yes; but now it’s another matter: I’m leaving at twelve o’clock. - He did it on last word emphasis.

A! I guess! - said Oblomov. - Department Director! How long ago?

Sudbinsky nodded his head significantly.

To the Holy One,” he said. - But how much is going on - it’s terrible! From eight to twelve o'clock at home, from twelve to five in the office, and in the evening I study. I'm completely unaccustomed to people!

Hm! Head of department - that's how it is! - said Oblomov. - Congratulations! What? And together they served as clerical officials. I think on next year You'll be dismissed as a civilian.

Where! God be with you! More this year the crown must be received; I thought they’d present me for excellence, but now I’ve taken up a new position: I can’t do it two years in a row...

Come to dinner, let's drink to your promotion! - said Oblomov.

No, today I’m having lunch with the vice-director. I have to prepare a report by Thursday - hell of a job! You cannot rely on representations from the provinces. You need to check the lists yourself. Foma Fomich is so suspicious: he wants everything himself. Today we’ll sit down together after lunch.

Is it really after lunch? - Oblomov asked incredulously.

What did you think? It’s still good if I get off early and at least have time to go to Ekateringhof... Yes, I stopped by to ask: would you go for a walk? I would go...

I’m not feeling well, I can’t! - Oblomov said, frowning. - Yes, and there’s a lot to do... no, I can’t!

It's a pity! - said Sudbinsky, - but the day is good. Only today I hope to breathe.

Well, what's new with you? - asked Oblomov.

Nothing bye; Svinkin has lost his business!

Indeed? What about the director? - Oblomov asked in a trembling voice. From old memory, he became scared.

He ordered the reward to be held until it was found. The matter is important: “about penalties.” The director thinks,” Sudbinsky added almost in a whisper, “that he lost it... on purpose.”

Can't be! - said Oblomov.

No no! “It’s in vain,” Sudbinsky confirmed with importance and patronage. - Pig's flighty head. Sometimes the devil knows what results he will give you, he will confuse all the certificates. I was exhausted with him; but no, he’s not seen doing anything like that... He won’t do it, no, no! There's a file lying around somewhere; will be found later.

So this is how it is: everything is in the works! - said Oblomov, - you are working.

Horror, horror! Well, of course, it’s a pleasure to serve with a person like Foma Fomich: he doesn’t leave you without rewards; whoever does nothing will not forget those. As the deadline expired - for the difference, so he represents; whoever has not reached the deadline for the rank, for the cross, will get money...

How much do you get?

Ugh! damn it! - Oblomov said, jumping out of bed. - Is your voice good? Definitely an Italian singer!

What else is this? Over there Peresvetov gets extra money, but he does less work than me and doesn’t understand anything. Well, of course, he doesn't have that reputation. “They value me very much,” he added modestly, lowering his eyes, “the minister recently said about me that I am “an adornment of the ministry.”

Well done! - said Oblomov. - Just work from eight o'clock to twelve, from twelve to five, and at home - oh, oh!

He shook his head.

What would I do if I didn’t serve? - asked Sudbinsky.

You never know! I would read, write... - said Oblomov.

Even now all I do is read and write.

Yes, that’s not it; you would print...

Not everyone can be a writer. “So you’re not writing,” Sudbinsky objected.

But I have property in my hands,” Oblomov said with a sigh. - I'm thinking new plan; I am introducing various improvements. I’m suffering, I’m suffering... But you’re doing someone else’s, not your own.

He's a good guy! - said Oblomov.

Kind kind; it costs.

“Very kind, soft, even character,” said Oblomov.

So obligatory,” Sudbinsky added, “and there’s no such thing, you know, to curry favor, to spoil things, to trip him up, to get ahead of him... he does everything he can.”

Wonderful person! It happened that you messed up a paper, didn’t notice it, summed up the wrong opinion or laws in a note, nothing: he just told someone else to redo it. Great person! - Oblomov concluded.

But our Semyon Semyonich is so incorrigible,” said Sudbinsky, “only a master of throwing dust into his eyes.” What he recently did: an idea was received from the provinces about the construction of dog kennels at buildings belonging to our department to protect government property from theft; our architect, a efficient, knowledgeable and honest man, drew up a very moderate estimate; suddenly it seemed too big to him, and let’s make inquiries, what might it cost to build a dog kennel? I found about thirty kopecks less - now a memo...

Another call rang.

“Goodbye,” said the official, “I’ve been chatting, I’ll need something there...

“Sit still,” Oblomov insisted. - By the way, I’ll consult with you: I have two misfortunes...

No, no, I’d better stop by again one of these days,” he said, leaving.

“I’m stuck, dear friend, I’m stuck up to my ears,” thought Oblomov, following him with his eyes. - And blind, and deaf, and dumb for everything else in the world. And he will become a public figure, eventually manage his affairs and acquire ranks... In our country this is also called a career! And how little of a person is needed here: his mind, will, feelings - why is this? Luxury! And he will live out his life, and many, many things will not move in him... And meanwhile he works from twelve to five in the office, from eight to twelve at home - unhappy!

He experienced a feeling of peaceful joy that he could stay on his couch from nine to three, from eight to nine, and was proud that he did not have to go with a report, write papers, that there was scope for his feelings and imagination.

Do you have a lot to do? - asked Oblomov.

Yes, that's enough. Two articles for the newspaper every week, then I write analyzes of fiction writers, and then I wrote a story...

About how in one city the mayor hits the townspeople in the teeth...

Yes, this is indeed a real direction,” Oblomov said.

Is not it? - confirmed the delighted writer. - I am pursuing this idea and I know that it is new and bold. One traveler witnessed these beatings and, during a meeting with the governor, complained to him. He ordered the official who was going there for the investigation to casually verify this and generally collect information about the personality and behavior of the mayor. The official called the townspeople together to ask about trade, but in the meantime, let’s investigate about this too. What about the bourgeoisie? They bow and laugh and praise the mayor. The official began to find out from the side, and he was told that the townspeople are terrible swindlers, they sell rot, they weigh, they even measure the treasury, they are all immoral, so these beatings are righteous punishment...

Therefore, the beatings of the mayor appear in the story as the fatum of the ancient tragedians? - said Oblomov.

Exactly,” Penkin picked up. - You have a lot of tact, Ilya Ilyich, you should write! Meanwhile, I managed to show both the arbitrariness of the mayor and the corruption of morals among the common people; the poor organization of the actions of subordinate officials and the need for strict but legal measures... Isn't it true that this idea... is quite new?

Yes, especially for me,” said Oblomov, “I read so little...

In fact, you don’t see any books! - said Penkin. - But, I beg you, read one thing; a magnificent poem, one might say, is being prepared: “The love of a bribe-taker for a fallen woman.” I can't tell you who

What is it?

The entire mechanism of our social movement has been revealed, and everything is in poetic colors. All springs are touched; all the steps of the social ladder have been moved. Here, as if for a trial, the author summoned both a weak but vicious nobleman and a whole swarm of bribe takers deceiving him; and all the categories of fallen women have been sorted out... French, German, Chukhonka, and everything, everything... with amazing, burning fidelity... I heard excerpts - the author is great! you can hear in him either Dante or Shakespeare...

“Where did they go?” Oblomov said in amazement, standing up.

Penkin suddenly fell silent, seeing that he had really gone far.

Why? It makes noise, people talk about it...

Let them in! Some people have nothing else to do but talk. There is such a calling.

Yes, at least read it out of curiosity.

What didn't I see there? - said Oblomov. - Why do they write this: they’re just to amuse themselves...

How about yourself: what loyalty, what loyalty! Looks like a laugh. Exactly living portraits. As soon as they take someone, a merchant, an official, an officer, a watchman, they will definitely stamp him alive.

What are they fighting for: for fun, perhaps, that no matter who we take, it will come out right? But there is no life in anything: there is no understanding of it and sympathy, there is no what you call humanity. Only one pride. They portray thieves, fallen women, as if they were caught on the street and taken to prison. In their story one can hear not “invisible tears”, but only visible, rough laughter, anger...

What else is needed? And it’s great, you yourself spoke out: this is seething anger - a bilious persecution of vice, laughter of contempt for fallen man... that’s all!

No, not all! - suddenly inflamed, said Oblomov, - pretend to be a thief, fallen woman, a pompous fool, and don’t forget the person right there. Where is the humanity? You want to write with one head! - Oblomov almost hissed. - Do you think that thoughts don’t require a heart? No, she is fertilized by love. Reach out your hand fallen man to raise him up, or weep bitterly over him if he dies, and do not mock him. Love him, remember yourself in him and treat him as you would treat yourself, then I will begin to read you and bow my head before you...” he said, lying down again calmly on the sofa. “They portray a thief, a fallen woman,” he said, “but they forget the person or do not know how to portray him.” What kind of art is there, what poetic colors have you found? Denounce debauchery and filth, but please, without pretending to be poetry.

So, would you like to depict nature: roses, a nightingale, or a frosty morning, while everything is boiling and moving around? We need one bare physiology of society; We have no time for songs now...

Give me a man, a man! - said Oblomov, - love him...

To love a usurer, a bigot, a thief or a stupid official - do you hear? What are you? And it’s clear that you don’t study literature! - Penkin got excited. - No, they need to be punished, expelled from the civilian environment, from society...

Eject from the civilian environment! - Oblomov suddenly spoke with inspiration, standing in front of Penkin. - This means forgetting that a higher principle was present in this worthless vessel; that he is a spoiled person, but he is still a person, that is, you yourself. Spew out! How will you cast him out of the circle of humanity, from the bosom of nature, from the mercy of God? - he almost shouted with flaming eyes.

That's enough! - Penkin, in turn, said with amazement.

Oblomov saw that he too had gone far. He suddenly fell silent, stood for a minute, yawned and slowly lay down on the sofa.

Both fell into silence.

What are you reading? - Penkin asked.

I... yes, all the travel is bigger.

Silence again.

So will you read the poem when it comes out? “I would bring it...” asked Penkin.

Oblomov did negative sign head.

Well, shall I send you my story?

Oblomov nodded in agreement...

However, it’s time for me to go to the printing house! - said Penkin. - Do you know why I came to you? I wanted to invite you to go to Ekateringof; I have a stroller. Tomorrow I need to write an article about the festivities: if we would observe together, if I didn’t notice, you would tell me; It would be more fun. Let's go...

“No, I’m not feeling well,” Oblomov said, wincing and covering himself with a blanket, “I’m afraid of the dampness, now it hasn’t dried out yet.” But you should come to dinner today: we would talk... I have two misfortunes...

No, our editorial office is all at Saint-Georges today, and from there we’ll go for a walk. And write at night and send light to the printing house. Goodbye.

Goodbye, Penkin.

“Write at night,” thought Oblomov, “when can I sleep? Come on, he’ll earn five thousand a year! This is bread! Yes, write everything, waste your thought, your soul on trifles, change beliefs, trade your mind and imagination, rape your nature, worry, seethe, burn, know no peace and keep moving somewhere... And write everything, write everything , like a wheel, like a car: write tomorrow, the day after tomorrow; the holiday will come, summer will come - and he writes everything? When should you stop and rest? Unhappy!"

He turned his head to the table, where everything was smooth, and the ink had dried, and the pen was not visible, and he was glad that he was lying there, carefree, like a newborn baby, that he was not scattered, not selling anything...

“And the headman’s letter, and the apartment?” - he suddenly remembered and thought.

His father, a provincial clerk of the old days, intended his son to inherit the art and experience of handling other people's affairs and his deftly accomplished field of service in a public place; but fate decreed otherwise. The father, who himself once studied Russian with copper money, did not want his son to lag behind the times, and wanted to teach him something other than the tricky science of running errands. For three years he sent him to the priest to study Latin.

The naturally talented boy at the age of three learned Latin grammar and syntax and began to understand Cornelius Nepos, but his father decided that it was enough that he knew that this knowledge gave him a huge advantage over the old generation and that, finally, further classes may, perhaps, harm the service in public places.

Sixteen-year-old Micah, not knowing what to do with his Latin, began to forget it in his parents’ house, but, in anticipation of the honor of being present in the zemstvo or district court, he was present at all his father’s feasts, and in this school, among frank conversations, the young man’s mind developed to the point of subtlety.

With youthful impressionability, he listened to the stories of his father and his comrades about various civil and criminal cases, about curious cases that passed through the hands of all these clerks of the old days.

But all this led to nothing. Micah did not develop into a businessman and a trickster, although all his father’s efforts tended towards this and, of course, would have been crowned with success if fate had not destroyed the old man’s plans. Micah really mastered the whole theory of his father’s conversations, all that remained was to apply it to business, but after his father’s death he did not have time to go to court and was taken to St. Petersburg by some benefactor, who found him a place as a scribe in one department, and then forgot about German

So Tarantiev remained only a theorist for the rest of his life. In the St. Petersburg service, he had nothing to do with his Latin and subtle theory, to do right and wrong according to his own will; and meanwhile he carried and was aware of a dormant power within himself, locked inside him by hostile circumstances forever, without hope of manifestation, as, according to fairy tales, the spirits of evil, deprived of the power to harm, were locked in close enchanted walls. Perhaps because of this awareness of the useless strength in himself, Tarantyev was rude in his manners, unkind, constantly angry and scolding.

He looked with bitterness and contempt at his real occupations: rewriting papers, filing files, etc. Only one woman in the distance smiled at him last hope: go to serve on wine farms. [On this road he saw the only profitable replacement for the field bequeathed to him by his father and not achieved. And in anticipation of this, the theory of activity and life, ready-made and created for him by his father, the theory of bribes and deceit, having bypassed its main and worthy field in the provinces, was applied to all the little things of his insignificant existence in St. Petersburg, crept into all his friendly relations for the lack of official ones.

He was a bribe-taker at heart, according to theory, he managed to take bribes, in the absence of business and applicants, from colleagues, from friends, God knows how and for what - he forced, wherever and whomever he could, either by cunning or importunity, to treat himself, he demanded from everyone undeserved respect, he was picky. He was never embarrassed by the shame of a worn dress, but he was no stranger to anxiety if in the future he did not have a huge dinner, with a decent amount of wine and vodka.

Because of this, in the circle of his acquaintances, he played the role of a large guard dog that barks at everyone, does not allow anyone to move, but at the same time will certainly grab a piece of meat on the fly, from where and wherever it flies.

These were Oblomov’s two most zealous visitors.

Why did these two Russian proletarians go to see him? They knew very well why: drink, eat, smoke good cigars. They found a warm, peaceful shelter and always received the same, if not warm, then indifferent welcome.

But why Oblomov allowed them to come to him - he was hardly aware of this. And it seems, then, why else at this time in our remote Oblomovki, in every wealthy house, is there a swarm of similar persons of both sexes, without bread, without crafts, without hands for productivity and only with a stomach for consumption, but almost always with rank and title .

There are also sybarites who need such additions in life: they are bored without anything extra in the world. Who will hand over a lost snuffbox or pick up a handkerchief that has fallen to the floor? Who can I complain to? headache with the right to participate, tell a bad dream and demand an interpretation? Who will read a book for bedtime and help you fall asleep? And sometimes such a proletarian is sent to the nearest city to buy something and help with the housework - he shouldn’t be poking around himself!

Tarantiev made a lot of noise, brought Oblomov out of immobility and boredom. He shouted, argued and put on some kind of performance, saving the lazy master himself from the need to speak and do. Into the room where sleep and peace reigned, Tarantiev brought life, movement, and sometimes news from the outside. Oblomov could listen, look, without lifting a finger, at something lively, moving and speaking in front of him. In addition, he still had the simplicity to believe that Tarantiev was really capable of advising him of something worthwhile.

Oblomov endured Alekseev’s visits for another, no less important reason. If he wanted to live his own way, that is, lie silently, doze or walk around the room, Alekseev seemed not to be there: he was also silent, dozing or looking at a book, looking at pictures and little things with a lazy yawn until he cried. He could have stayed like this for at least three days. If Oblomov was bored with being alone and he felt the need to express himself, speak, read, reason, show excitement, there was always a submissive and ready listener and participant who shared equally in his silence, and his conversation, and excitement, and way of thinking, whatever it is.

Other guests came in infrequently, for a minute, like the first three guests; Living ties with all of them were increasingly severed. Oblomov would sometimes be interested in some news, a five-minute conversation, then, satisfied with this, he would remain silent. They had to reciprocate, take part in what interested them. They were swimming in the crowd of people; everyone understood life in their own way, just as Oblomov did not want to understand it, and they confused him into it; He didn’t like all this, it repulsed him, he didn’t like it.

There was one person after his heart: he also did not give him peace; he loved news, and light, and science, and his whole life, but somehow deeper, sincerely - and Oblomov, although he was affectionate with everyone, he sincerely loved him alone, believed him alone, perhaps because he grew up, studied and lived with him. This is Andrey Ivanovich Stolts.

He was away, but Oblomov was waiting for him from hour to hour.