Only the few gray-haired
retainers
of the house.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v11 - Fro to Gre
friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care, that never must be mine,
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these
A youth of labor with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
No surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate:
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way:
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
## p. 6526 (#516) ###########################################
6526
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below:
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind:
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail;
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale;
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widowed, solitary thing
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched matron,- forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn,-
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.
―
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place:
Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,-
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
## p. 6527 (#517) ###########################################
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
6527
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side:
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all.
And as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace.
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed, with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven:
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew:
## p. 6528 (#518) ###########################################
6528
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes,- for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew:
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For even though vanquished he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlor splendors of that festive place:
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay,
While broken teacups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain, transitory splendors! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.
## p. 6529 (#519) ###########################################
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
6529
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
Spontaneous joys where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,—
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy.
CONTRASTED NATIONAL TYPES
From The Traveller'
MⓇ
Y SOUL, turn from them; turn we to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display;
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread.
No product here the barren hills afford,
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword;
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter lingering chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm.
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small
He sees his little lot the lot of all;
XI-409
## p. 6530 (#520) ###########################################
6530
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head
To shame the meanness of his humble shed;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal
To make him loathe his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Or drives his venturous plowshare to the steep;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, every labor sped,
He sits him down, the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board;
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
Thus every good his native wilds impart,
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;
And even those ills that round his mansion rise,
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.
Such are the charms to barren states assigned;
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined.
Yet let them only share the praises due,-
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few;
For every want that stimulates the breast
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest.
Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies
That first excites desire, and then supplies;
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid pause with finer joy;
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame.
## p. 6531 (#521) ###########################################
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
6531
Their level life is but a smoldering fire,
Unquenched by want, unfanned by strong desire;
Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.
But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow:
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low;
For as refinement stops, from sire to son
Unaltered, unimproved, the manners run;
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart
Falls blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest;
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way,
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please,
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire!
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew;
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,
But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's skill,
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.
Alike all ages: dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze;
And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,
Has frisked beneath the burthen of threescore.
So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,
Thus idly busy rolls their world away:
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honor forms the social temper here.
Honor, that praise which real merit gains,
Or even imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts splendid traffic round the land;
## p. 6532 (#522) ###########################################
6532
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise:
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise:
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year:
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
## p. 6533 (#523) ###########################################
6533
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
(1812-)
BY NATHAN HASKELL DOLE
MONG the Russian novelists of the first rank stands Iván the
son of Alexander Goncharóf. His life has been almost syn-
chronous with the century. He was born in 1812 in the
city of Simbirsk, on the Volga below Nízhni Novgorod. His father,
a wealthy merchant of that flourishing town, died when the boy was
only three years old, leaving him in the care of his mother, a con-
scientious and lovely woman, who, without a remarkable education,
nevertheless determined that her son should have the best that could
be provided. In this she was cordially as-
sisted by Iván's godfather, a retired naval
officer who lived in one of her houses and
was a cultivated, lively, and lovable man,
the centre of the best society of the pro-
vincial city. His tales of travel and adven-
ture early implanted in the boy a great
passion for reading and study about for-
eign lands, and the desire to see the world.
I. V. GONCHARÓF
He was at first taught at home; then
he was sent to a private school which had
been established by a local priest for the
benefit of neighboring land-owners and
gentry. This priest had been educated at
the Theological School at Kazán, and was
distinguished for his courtly manners and general cultivation. His
wife-for it must be remembered that the Russian priesthood is not
celibate was a fascinating French woman, and she taught her native
tongue in her husband's school. This remarkable little institution
had a small but select library, and here young Goncharóf indulged
his taste in reading by devouring the Voyages of Captain Cook, Mungo
Park, and others, the histories of Karamzin and Rollin, the poetical
works of Tasso and Fénelon, as well as the romantic fiction of that
day; he was especially fascinated by The Heir of Redclyffe. ' His
reading, however, was ill regulated and not well adapted for his men-
tal discipline. At twelve he was taken by his mother to Moscow,
where he had the opportunity to study English and German as well
as to continue his reading in French, in which he had already been
well grounded.
## p. 6534 (#524) ###########################################
6534
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
In 1831 he entered Moscow University, electing the Philological
Faculty. There were at that time in the University a coterie of young
men who afterwards became famous as writers, and the lectures
delivered by a number of enthusiastic young professors were admi-
rably calculated to develop the best in those who heard them. He
finished the complete course, and after a brief visit at his native place
went to St. Petersburg, where he entered the Ministry of Finance.
Gogol, and Goncharóf himself, have painted the depressing influence
of the officialdom then existing. The chinovnik as painted by those
early realists was a distinct type. But on the other hand, there was
a delightful society at St. Petersburg, and the literary impulses of tal-
ented young men were fostered by its leaders. Some of these men
founded a new journal of which Salonitsuin was the leading spirit,
and in this appeared Goncharóf's first articles. They were of a
humoristic tendency. His first serious work was entitled 'Obuikna-
vénnaya Istóriya' (An Ordinary Story), a rather melancholy tale,
showing how youthful enthusiasm and the dreams of progress and per-
fection can be killed by formalism: Aleksandr Adúyef the romantic
dreamer is contrasted with his practical uncle Peter Ivánovitch. The
second part was not completed when the first part was placed in the
hands of the critic Byelínsky, the sovereign arbiter on things literary.
Byelínsky gave it his "imprimatur," and it was published in the Sov-
reménnik (Contemporary) in 1847. The conception of his second and
by all odds his best romance, Oblómof,' was already in his mind;
and the first draft was published in the Illustrated Album, under
the title Son Oblómova' (Oblómof's Dream), the following year.
In 1852 Goncharóf received from the Marine Ministry a proposition
to sail around the world as private secretary to Admiral Putyátin.
On his return he contributed to various magazines sketches of his
experiences, and finally published a handsome volume of his travels
entitled 'Phregat Pállada' (The Frigate Pallas). In 1857 he went to
Carlsbad and completed 'Oblómof,' on which he had been working
so many years. It appeared in Otetchestvenniya Zapíski (Annals of
the Fatherland) in 1858 and 1859, and made a profound sensation.
The hero was recognized as a perfectly elaborated portrait of a not
uncommon type of Russian character: a good-natured, warm-hearted,
healthy young man, so enervated by the atmosphere of indolence into
which he has allowed himself to sink, that nothing serves to rouse
him. Love is the only impulse which could galvanize him into life.
Across his path comes the beautiful Olga, whom the Russians claim
as a poetic and at the same time a genuine representative of the
best Russian womanhood. Vigorous, alert, with mind and heart
equally well developed, she stirs the latent manhood of Oblómof; but
when he comes to face the responsibilities, the cares, and the duties
of matrimony, he has not the courage to enter upon them. Olga
## p. 6535 (#525) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6535
marries Oblómof's friend Stoltz, whom Goncharóf intended to be a no
less typical specimen of Russian manhood, and whom most critics
consider overdrawn and not true to life. The novel is a series of
wonderful genre pictures: his portraits are marvels of finish and deli-
cacy; and there are a number of dramatic scenes, although the story
as a whole lacks movement. The first chapter, which is here repro-
duced, is chosen not as perhaps the finest in the book, but as thor-
oughly characteristic. It is also a fine specimen of Russian humor.
Goncharóf finished in 1868 his third novel, entitled 'Abruíf' (The
Precipice). It was published first in the Viéstnik Yevrópui (European
Messenger), and in book form in 1870. In this he tries to portray the
type of the Russian Nihilist; but Volokhóf is regarded rather as a
caricature than as a faithful portrait. In contrast with him stands
the beautiful Viera; but just as Volokhóf falls below Oblómof, so
Viera yields to Olga in perfect realism. One of the best characters
in the story is the dilettante Raïsky, the type of the man who has an
artistic nature but no energy. One of the most important characters
of the book is Viera's grandmother: the German translation of The
Precipice is entitled 'The Grandmother's Fault. '
Goncharóf has written a few literary essays, and during the past
few years has contributed to one of the Russian reviews a series of
literary recollections. But his fame with posterity will depend princi-
pally on his 'Oblómof,' the name of which has given to the language
a new word,-oblómovshchina,* Oblómovism,- the typically Russian
indolence which was induced by the peculiar social conditions exist-
ing in Russia before the emancipation of the serfs in 1861: indiffer-
ence to all social questions; the expectation that others will do your
work; or as expressed in the Russian proverb, "the trusting in others
as in God, but in yourself as in the Devil. "
Not. Dola
*Oblómof is the genitive plural of the word oblóm or oblám, a term ex-
pressive of anything broken or almost useless, or even bad; a rude, awkward,
unfinished man.
## p. 6536 (#526) ###########################################
6536
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
OBLÓMOF
N GARÓKHAVAYA STREET, in one of those immense houses the
population of which would suffice for a whole provincial city,
there lay one morning in bed in his apartment Ílya Ílyitch
Oblómof. He was a pleasant-appearing man of two or three and
twenty, of medium stature, with dark gray eyes; but his face
lacked any fixed idea or concentration of purpose. A thought
would wander like a free bird over his features, flutter in his
eyes, light on his parted lips, hide itself in the wrinkles of his
brow, then entirely vanish away; and over his whole countenance
would spread the shadeless light of unconcern.
From his face this indifference extended to the attitudes of
his whole body, even to the folds of his dressing-gown. Occas-
ionally his eyes were darkened by an expression of weariness or
disgust, but neither weariness nor disgust could for an instant
dispel from his face the indolence which was the dominant and
habitual expression not only of his body, but also of his very
soul. And his soul was frankly and clearly betrayed in his
eyes, in his smile, in every movement of his head, of his hands.
A cool superficial observer, glancing at Oblómof as he passed
him by, would have said, "He must be a good-natured, simple-
hearted fellow. " Any one looking deeper, more sympathetically,
would after a few moments' scrutiny turn away with a smile, with
a feeling of agreeable uncertainty.
Oblómof's complexion was not florid, not tawny, and not posi-
tively pallid, but was indeterminate, or seemed to be so, per-
haps because it was flabby; not by reason of age, but by lack of
exercise or of fresh air or of both. His body, to judge by the
dull, transparent color of his neck, by his little plump hands,
his drooping shoulders, seemed too effeminate for a man. His
movements, even if by chance he were aroused, were kept under
restraint likewise by a languor and by a laziness that was not
devoid of its own peculiar grace.
If a shadow of an anxious thought arose from his spirit and
passed across his face, his eyes would grow troubled, the wrin-
kles in his brow would deepen, a struggle of doubt or pain would
seem to begin: but rarely indeed would this troubled thought
crystallize into the form of a definite idea; still more rarely
would it be transformed into a project.
## p. 6537 (#527) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6537
All anxiety would be dissipated in a sigh and settle down into
apathy or languid dreaming.
How admirably Oblómof's house costume suited his unruffled
features and his effeminate body! He wore a dressing-gown of
Persian material—a regular Oriental khalát, without the slightest
suggestion of anything European about it, having no tassels, no
velvet, no special shape. It was ample in size, so that he might
have wrapped it twice around him. The sleeves, in the invariable
Asiatic style, grew wider and wider from the wrist to the shoul-
der. Although this garment had lost its first freshness, and in
places had exchanged its former natural gloss for another that
was acquired, it still preserved the brilliancy of its Oriental color-
ing and its firmness of texture.
The khalát had in Oblómof's eyes a multitude of precious
properties: it was soft and supple; the body was not sensible of
its weight; like an obedient slave, it accommodated itself to every
slightest motion.
Oblómof while at home always went without cravat and
without waistcoat, for the simple reason that he liked simplicity
and comfort. The slippers which he wore were long, soft, and
wide; when without looking he put down one foot from the bed
to the floor it naturally fell into one of them.
Oblómof's remaining in bed was not obligatory upon him, as
in the case of a sick man or of one who was anxious to sleep;
nor was it accidental, as in the case of one who was weary; nor
was it for mere pleasure, as a sluggard would have chosen: it
was the normal condition of things with him. When he was at
home and he was almost always at home-he invariably lay
in bed and invariably in the room where we have just found
him: a room which served him for sleeping-room, library, and
parlor. He had three other rooms, but he rarely glanced into
them; in the morning, perhaps, but even then not every day,
but only when his man came to sweep the rooms-and this,
you may be sure, was not done every day. In these rooms the
furniture was protected with covers; the curtains were always
drawn.
The room in which Oblómof was lying appeared at first
glance to be handsomely furnished There were a mahogany
bureau, two sofas upholstered in silk, handsome screens embroid-
ered with birds and fruits belonging to an imaginary nature.
There were damask curtains, rugs, a number of paintings, bronzes,
## p. 6538 (#528) ###########################################
6538
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
porcelains, and a quantity of beautiful bric-a-brac. But the expe-
rienced eye of a man of pure taste would have discovered at a
single hasty glance that everything there betrayed merely the
desire to keep up appearances in unimportant details, while
really avoiding the burden. That had indeed been Oblómof's
object when he furnished his room. Refined taste would not
have been satisfied with those heavy ungraceful mahogany chairs,
with those conventional étagères. The back of one sofa was dis-
located; the veneering was broken off in places. The same char-
acteristics were discoverable in the pictures and the vases, and
all the ornaments.
The proprietor himself, however, looked with such coolness
and indifference on the decoration of his apartment that one
might think he asked with his eyes, "Who brought you here and
set you up? " As the result of such an indifferent manner of
regarding his possessions, and perhaps of the still more indifferent
attitude of Oblómof's servant Zakhár, the appearance of the
room, if it were examined rather more critically, was amazing
because of the neglect and carelessness which held sway there.
On the walls, around the pictures, spiders' webs, loaded with
dust, hung like festoons; the mirrors, instead of reflecting objects,
would have served better as tablets for scribbling memoranda in
the dust that covered them. The rugs were rags. On the sofa
lay a forgotten towel; on the table you would generally find in the
morning a plate or two with the remains of the evening meal,
the salt-cellar, gnawed bones, and crusts of bread. Were it not
for these plates, and the pipe half smoked out and flung down
on the bed, or even the master himself stretched out on it, it
might easily have been supposed that the room was uninhabited,
it was so dusty, so lacking in all traces of human care. On the
étagères, to be sure, lay two or three opened books or a crum-
pled newspaper; on the bureau stood an inkstand with pens; but
the pages where the books were open were covered thick with
dust and had turned yellow, evidently long ago thrown aside; the
date of the newspaper was long past; and if any one had dipped
a pen into the inkstand it would have started forth only a fright-
ened, buzzing fly!
Ílya Ílyitch was awake, contrary to his ordinary custom, very
early, at eight o'clock. Some anxiety was preying on his mind.
Over his face passed alternately now apprehension, now annoy-
ance, now vexation. It was evident that an internal conflict had
----
## p. 6539 (#529) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6539
him in its throes, and his intellect had not as yet come to his
aid.
The fact was that the evening before, Oblómof had received
from the stárosta (steward) of his estate a letter filled with dis-
agreeable tidings. It is not hard to guess what unpleasant details
one's steward may write about: bad harvests, large arrearages,
diminution in receipts, and the like. But although his stárosta
had written his master almost precisely the same kind of letter
the preceding year and the year before that, nevertheless this
latest letter came upon him exactly the same, as a disagreeable
surprise.
Was it not hard? - he was facing the necessity of considering
the means of taking some measures!
However, it is proper to show how far Ílya Ílyitch was justi-
fied in feeling anxiety about his affairs.
When he received the first letter of disagreeable tenor from
his stárosta some years before, he was already contemplating a
plan for a number of changes and improvements in the manage-
ment of his property. This plan presupposed the introduction of
various new economical and protectional measures; but the details
of the scheme were still in embryo, and the stárosta's disagree-
able letters were annually forthcoming, urging him to activity and
really disturbing his peace of mind. Oblómof recognized the
necessity of coming to some decision if he were to carry out his
plan.
As soon as he woke he decided to get up, bathe, and after
drinking his tea, to think the matter over carefully, then to write
his letters; and in short, to act in this matter as was fitting. But
for half an hour he had been still in bed tormenting himself with
this proposition; but finally he came to the conclusion that he
would still have time to do it after tea, and that he might drink
his tea as usual in bed with all the more reason, because one can
think even if one is lying down!
And so he did. After his tea he half sat up in bed, but did
not entirely rise; glancing down at his slippers, he started to put
his foot into one of them, but immediately drew it back into bed
again.
As the clock struck half-past nine, Ílya Ílyitch started up.
"What kind of a man am I? " he said aloud in a tone of vex-
ation. "Conscience only knows. It is time to do something:
where there's a will-Zakhár! " he cried.
## p. 6540 (#530) ###########################################
6540
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
In a room which was separated merely by a narrow corridor
from Ílya Ílyitch's library, nothing was heard at first except the
growling of the watch-dog; then the thump of feet springing
down from somewhere. It was Zakhár leaping down from his
couch on the stove, where he generally spent his time immersed
in drowsiness.
An elderly man appeared in the room: he was dressed in a
gray coat, through a hole under the armpit of which emerged a
part of his shirt; he also wore a gray waistcoat with brass but-
tons. His head was as bald as his knee, and he had enormous
reddish side-whiskers already turning gray-so thick and bushy
that they would have sufficed for three ordinary individuals.
Zakhar would never have taken pains to change in any re-
spect either the form which God had bestowed on him, or the
costume which he wore in the country. His raiment was made
for him in the style which he had brought with him from his
village. His gray coat and waistcoat pleased him, for the very
reason that in his semi-fashionable attire he perceived a feeble
approach to the livery which he had worn in former times when
waiting on his former masters (now at rest), either to church or
to parties; but liveries in his recollections were merely representa-
tive of the dignity of the Oblómof family. There was nothing
else to recall to the old man the comfortable and liberal style of
life on the estate in the depths of the country. The older gener-
ation of masters had died, the family portraits were at home, and
in all probability were going to rack and ruin in the garret; the
traditions of the former life and importance of the house of
Oblómof were all extinct, or lived only in the memories of a few
old people still lingering in the country.
Consequently, precious in the eyes of Zakhár was the gray
coat: in this he saw a faint emblem of vanished greatness, and
he found similar indications in some of the characteristics of his
master's features and notions, reminding of his parentage, and in
his caprices, which although he grumbled at them under his
breath and aloud, yet he prized secretly as manifestations of the
truly imperious will and autocratic spirit of a born noble. Had
it not been for these whims, he would not have felt that his
master was in any sense above him; had it not been for them,
there would have been nothing to bring back to his mind his
younger days, the village which they had abandoned so long ago,
and the traditions about that ancient home, the sole chronicles
## p. 6541 (#531) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6541
preserved by aged servants, nurses, and nursemaids, and handed.
down from mouth to mouth.
The house of the Oblómofs was rich in those days, and had
great influence in that region; but afterwards somehow or other
everything had gone to destruction, and at last by degrees had
sunk out of sight, overshadowed by parvenus of aristocratic
pretensions.
Only the few gray-haired retainers of the house.
preserved and interchanged their reminiscences of the past, treas-
uring them like holy relics.
This was the reason why Zakhár so loved his gray coat. Pos-
sibly he valued his side-whiskers because of the fact that he saw
in his childhood many of the older servants with this ancient and
aristocratic adornment.
Ílya Ílyitch, immersed in contemplation, took no notice of
Zakhar, though the servant had been silently waiting for some
time. At last he coughed.
"What is it you want? " asked Ílya Ílyitch.
"You called me, didn't you? ”
"Called you? I don't remember what I called you for," he
replied, stretching and yawning. "Go back to your room; I
will try to think what I wanted. "
Zakhar went out, and Ílya Ílyitch lay down on the bed again
and began to cogitate upon that cursed letter.
A quarter of an hour elapsed.
"There now," he exclaimed, "I have dallied long enough; I
must get up. However, I must read the stárosta's letter over
again more attentively, and then I will get up-Zakhár! " The
same noise of leaping down from the stove, and the same growl-
ing of the dog, only more emphatic.
Zakhár made his appearance, but again Oblómof was sunk
deep in contemplation. Zakhár stood a few moments, looking
sulkily and askance at his master, and finally he turned to go.
"Where are you going? " suddenly demanded Oblómof.
"You have nothing to say to me, and why should I waste
my time standing here? " explained Zakhár, in a hoarse gasp
which served him in lieu of a voice, he having lost his voice,
according to his own account, while out hunting with the dogs
when he had to accompany his former master, and when a
powerful wind seemed to blow in his throat. He half turned
round, and stood in the middle of the room and glared at his
master.
## p. 6542 (#532) ###########################################
6542
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
"Have your legs quite given out, that you can't stand a min-
ute? Don't you see I am worried? Now, please wait a moment!
wasn't it lying there just now? Get me that letter which I
received last evening from the stárosta. What did you do with
it ? »
"What letter? I haven't seen any letter,” replied Zakhár.
"Why, you yourself took it from the postman, you scoun-
drel! "
"It is where you put it; how should I know anything about
it? " said Zakhár, beginning to rummage about among the papers
and various things that littered the table.
"You never know anything at all.
There, look on the bas-
ket. No, see if it hasn't been thrown on the sofa. — There, the
back of that sofa hasn't been mended yet. Why have you not
got the carpenter to mend it?
'Twas you who broke it. You
never think of anything! "
"I didn't break it," retorted Zakhár; "it broke itself; it was
not meant to last forever; it had to break some time. "
Ílya Ílyitch did not consider it necessary to refute this argu-
He contented himself with asking:
ment.
"Have you found it yet? "
"Here are some letters. "
"But they are not the right ones.
"Well, there's nothing else," said Zakhár.
"Very good, be gone," said Ílya Ílyitch impatiently. “I am
going to get up. I will find it. "
Zakhar went to his room, but he had hardly laid his hand on
his couch to climb up to it before the imperative cry was heard
again:-
>>>>
"Zakhár! Zakhár! "
«< Oh, good Lord! " grumbled he, as he started to go for the
third time to Oblómof's library. "What a torment all this is!
Oh that death would come and take me from it! "
"What do you want? " he asked, as he stood with one hand
on the door, and glaring at Oblómof as a sign of his surliness,
at such an angle that he had to look at his master out of the
corner of his eyes; while his master could see only one of his
enormous side-whiskers, so bushy that you might have expected
to have two or three birds come flying out from them.
«<
My handkerchief, quick! You might have known what I
wanted. Don't you see? " remarked Ílya Ílyitch sternly.
## p. 6543 (#533) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6543
Zakhár displayed no special dissatisfaction or surprise at such
an order or such a reproach on his master's part, regarding both,
so far as he was concerned, as perfectly natural.
"But who knows where your handkerchief is? " he grumbled,
circling about the room and making a careful examination of
every chair, although it could be plainly seen that there was
nothing whatever on them.
"It is a perfect waste of time," he remarked, opening the door
into the drawing-room in order to see if there was any sign of it.
there.
"Where are you going? Look for it here; I have not been
in that room since day before yesterday. And make haste,"
urged ĺlya Ílyitch.
"Where is the handkerchief? There isn't any handkerchief,"
exclaimed Zakhár rummaging and searching in every corner.
"Oh, there it is," he suddenly cried angrily, "under you.
There is the end of it sticking out. You were lying on it, and
yet you ask me to find your handkerchief for you! "
And Zakhár, without awaiting any reply, turned and started
to go out. Oblómof was somewhat ashamed of his own blunder.
But he quickly discovered another pretext for putting Zakhár in
the wrong.
"What kind of neatness do you call this everywhere here!
Look at the dust and dirt! Good heavens! look here, look here!
See these corners! You don't do anything at all. ”
"And so I don't do anything," repeated Zakhár in a tone
betokening deep resentment. "I am growing old, I shan't live
much longer! But God knows I use the duster for the dust, and
I sweep almost every day. "
He pointed to the middle of the floor, and at the table where
Oblómof had dined. "Here, look here," he went on: it has all
been swept and all put in order, fit for a wedding. What more
is needed? ”
"Well then, what is this? " cried flya flyitch, interrupting
him and calling his attention to the walls and the ceiling. “And
that? and that? "
He pointed to a yesterday's napkin which had been flung
down, and to a plate which had been left lying on the table
with a dry crust of bread on it.
"Well, as for that," said Zakhár as he picked up the plate,
"I will take care of it. "
## p. 6544 (#534) ###########################################
6544
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
"You will take care of it, will you? But how about the dust
and the cobwebs on the walls? " said Oblómof, making ocular
demonstration.
"I put that off till Holy Week; then I clean the sacred
images and sweep down the cobwebs. "
"But how about dusting the books and pictures? »
"The books and pictures? Before Christmas; then Anísiya
and I look over all the closets. But now when should we be
able to do it? You are always at home. ”
"I sometimes go to the theatre or go out
might - "
"Do house-cleaning at night? "
Oblómof looked at him reproachfully, shook his head, and
uttered a sigh; but Zakhár gazed indifferently out of the window
and also sighed deeply. The master seemed to be thinking,
"Well, brother, you are even more of an Oblómof than I am
myself;" while Zakhár probably said to himself, "Rubbish! You
as my master talk strange and melancholy words, but how do
dust and cobwebs concern you? "
"Don't you know that moths breed in dust? " asked Ílya
İlyitch. "I have even seen bugs on the wall! »
"Well, I have fleas on me sometimes," replied Zakhár in a
tone of indifference.
to dine: you
"Well, is that anything to boast about? That is shameful,"
exclaimed Oblómof.
Zakhar's face was distorted by a smirking smile, which
seemed to embrace even his eyebrows and his side-whiskers,
which for this reason spread apart; and over his whole face up
to his very forehead extended a ruddy spot.
"Why, am I to blame that there are bugs on the wall? " he
asked in innocent surprise: "was it I who invented them? ”
"They come from lack of cleanliness," insisted Oblómof.
"What are you talking about? "
"I am not the cause of the uncleanliness. "
"But you have mice in your room there running about at
night - I hear them. "
"I did not invent the mice. There are all kinds of living
creatures mice and cats and fleas - lots of them everywhere. "
"How is it that other people don't have moths and bugs? "
Zakhár's face expressed incredulity, or rather a calm conviction
that this was not so.
## p. 6545 (#535) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6545
« One
"I have plenty of them," he said without hesitation.
can't look after every bug and crawl into the cracks after
them. "
It seemed to be his thought, "What kind of a sleeping-room
would that be that had no bugs in it? "
"Now do you see to it that you sweep and brush them out
of the corners; don't let there be one left," admonished Oblómof.
"If you get it all cleaned up it will be just as bad again to-
morrow," remonstrated Zakhár.
"It ought not to be as bad," interrupted the master.
"But it is," insisted the servant; "I know all about it. "
"Well then, if the dust collects again, brush it out again. "
"What is that you say? Brush out all the corners every
day? " exclaimed Zakhár. "What a life that would be! Better
were it that God should take my soul! "
"Why are other people's houses clean? " urged Oblómof.
"Just look at the piano-tuner's rooms: see how neat they look,
and only one maid—»
"Oh, these Germans! " exclaimed Zakhár suddenly interrupt-
ing. "Where do they make any litter? Look at the way they
live! Every family gnaws a whole week on a single bone. The
coat goes from the father's back to the son's, and back from the
son's to the father's. The wives and daughters wear little short
skirts, and when they walk they all lift up their legs like ducks
- where do they get any dirt? They don't do as we do - leave
a whole heap of soiled clothes in the closet for a year at a time,
or fill up the corners with bread crusts for the winter. Their
crusts are never flung down at random: they make zweiback out
of them, and eat them when they drink their beer! "
Zakhár expressed his disgust at such a penurious way of liv
ing by spitting through his teeth.
"Say nothing more," expostulated Ílya Ílyitch. "Do better
work with your house-cleaning. "
"One time I would have cleaned up, but you yourself would
not allow it," said Zakhár.
"That is all done with! Don't you see I have entirely
changed? »
“Of course you have; but still you stay at home all the time:
how can one begin to clean up when you are right here? If you
will stay out of the house for a whole day, then I will have a
general clearing-up. ”
XI-410
## p. 6546 (#536) ###########################################
6546
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
"What an idea! Get out of here. You had better go to your
own room. "
"All right! " persisted Zakhár; "but I tell you, the moment
you go out, Anísiya and I will clear the whole place up. And
we two would finish with it in short metre; then you will want
some women to wash everything. "
"Oh, what schemes you invent! Women! away with you! "
cried ĺlya Ílyitch.
He was by this time disgusted with himself for having led
Zakhár into this conversation. He had quite forgotten that the
attainment of this delicate object was at the expense of consider-
able confusion. Oblómof would have liked a state of perfect
cleanliness, but he would require that it should be brought about
in some imperceptible manner, as it were of itself; but Zakhár
always induced a discussion as soon as he was asked to have any
sweeping done, or the floors washed, and the like. In such a
contingency he was sure to point out the necessity of a terrible
disturbance in the house, knowing very well that the mere sug-
gestion of such a thing would fill his master with horror.
Zakhar went away, and Oblómof relapsed into cogitation.
After some minutes the half-hour struck again.
"What time is it? " exclaimed Ílya Ílyitch with a dull sense
of alarm. "Almost eleven o'clock! Can it be that I am not up
yet nor had my bath? Zakhár! Zakhár! ”
"Oh, good God! what is it now? " was heard from the ante-
room, and then the well-known thump of feet.
"Is my bath ready? " asked Oblómof.
"Ready? yes, long ago,” replied Zakhár. "Why did you not
get up? "
"Why didn't you tell me it was ready? I should have got up
long ago if you had. Go on; I will follow you immediately.
have some business to do; I want to write. "
I
Zakhar went out, but in the course of a few minutes he
returned with a greasy copy-book all scribbled over, and some
scraps of paper.
]
"Here, if you want to write-and by the way, be kind enough
to verify these accounts: we need the money to pay them. "
"What accounts?
Retreat from care, that never must be mine,
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these
A youth of labor with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
No surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate:
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way:
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
## p. 6526 (#516) ###########################################
6526
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below:
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind:
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail;
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale;
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widowed, solitary thing
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched matron,- forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn,-
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.
―
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place:
Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,-
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
## p. 6527 (#517) ###########################################
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
6527
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side:
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all.
And as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace.
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed, with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven:
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew:
## p. 6528 (#518) ###########################################
6528
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes,- for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew:
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For even though vanquished he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlor splendors of that festive place:
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay,
While broken teacups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain, transitory splendors! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.
## p. 6529 (#519) ###########################################
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
6529
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
Spontaneous joys where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,—
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy.
CONTRASTED NATIONAL TYPES
From The Traveller'
MⓇ
Y SOUL, turn from them; turn we to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display;
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread.
No product here the barren hills afford,
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword;
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter lingering chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm.
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small
He sees his little lot the lot of all;
XI-409
## p. 6530 (#520) ###########################################
6530
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head
To shame the meanness of his humble shed;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal
To make him loathe his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Or drives his venturous plowshare to the steep;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, every labor sped,
He sits him down, the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board;
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
Thus every good his native wilds impart,
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;
And even those ills that round his mansion rise,
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.
Such are the charms to barren states assigned;
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined.
Yet let them only share the praises due,-
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few;
For every want that stimulates the breast
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest.
Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies
That first excites desire, and then supplies;
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid pause with finer joy;
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame.
## p. 6531 (#521) ###########################################
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
6531
Their level life is but a smoldering fire,
Unquenched by want, unfanned by strong desire;
Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.
But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow:
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low;
For as refinement stops, from sire to son
Unaltered, unimproved, the manners run;
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart
Falls blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest;
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way,
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please,
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire!
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew;
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,
But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's skill,
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.
Alike all ages: dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze;
And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,
Has frisked beneath the burthen of threescore.
So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,
Thus idly busy rolls their world away:
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honor forms the social temper here.
Honor, that praise which real merit gains,
Or even imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts splendid traffic round the land;
## p. 6532 (#522) ###########################################
6532
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise:
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise:
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year:
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
## p. 6533 (#523) ###########################################
6533
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
(1812-)
BY NATHAN HASKELL DOLE
MONG the Russian novelists of the first rank stands Iván the
son of Alexander Goncharóf. His life has been almost syn-
chronous with the century. He was born in 1812 in the
city of Simbirsk, on the Volga below Nízhni Novgorod. His father,
a wealthy merchant of that flourishing town, died when the boy was
only three years old, leaving him in the care of his mother, a con-
scientious and lovely woman, who, without a remarkable education,
nevertheless determined that her son should have the best that could
be provided. In this she was cordially as-
sisted by Iván's godfather, a retired naval
officer who lived in one of her houses and
was a cultivated, lively, and lovable man,
the centre of the best society of the pro-
vincial city. His tales of travel and adven-
ture early implanted in the boy a great
passion for reading and study about for-
eign lands, and the desire to see the world.
I. V. GONCHARÓF
He was at first taught at home; then
he was sent to a private school which had
been established by a local priest for the
benefit of neighboring land-owners and
gentry. This priest had been educated at
the Theological School at Kazán, and was
distinguished for his courtly manners and general cultivation. His
wife-for it must be remembered that the Russian priesthood is not
celibate was a fascinating French woman, and she taught her native
tongue in her husband's school. This remarkable little institution
had a small but select library, and here young Goncharóf indulged
his taste in reading by devouring the Voyages of Captain Cook, Mungo
Park, and others, the histories of Karamzin and Rollin, the poetical
works of Tasso and Fénelon, as well as the romantic fiction of that
day; he was especially fascinated by The Heir of Redclyffe. ' His
reading, however, was ill regulated and not well adapted for his men-
tal discipline. At twelve he was taken by his mother to Moscow,
where he had the opportunity to study English and German as well
as to continue his reading in French, in which he had already been
well grounded.
## p. 6534 (#524) ###########################################
6534
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
In 1831 he entered Moscow University, electing the Philological
Faculty. There were at that time in the University a coterie of young
men who afterwards became famous as writers, and the lectures
delivered by a number of enthusiastic young professors were admi-
rably calculated to develop the best in those who heard them. He
finished the complete course, and after a brief visit at his native place
went to St. Petersburg, where he entered the Ministry of Finance.
Gogol, and Goncharóf himself, have painted the depressing influence
of the officialdom then existing. The chinovnik as painted by those
early realists was a distinct type. But on the other hand, there was
a delightful society at St. Petersburg, and the literary impulses of tal-
ented young men were fostered by its leaders. Some of these men
founded a new journal of which Salonitsuin was the leading spirit,
and in this appeared Goncharóf's first articles. They were of a
humoristic tendency. His first serious work was entitled 'Obuikna-
vénnaya Istóriya' (An Ordinary Story), a rather melancholy tale,
showing how youthful enthusiasm and the dreams of progress and per-
fection can be killed by formalism: Aleksandr Adúyef the romantic
dreamer is contrasted with his practical uncle Peter Ivánovitch. The
second part was not completed when the first part was placed in the
hands of the critic Byelínsky, the sovereign arbiter on things literary.
Byelínsky gave it his "imprimatur," and it was published in the Sov-
reménnik (Contemporary) in 1847. The conception of his second and
by all odds his best romance, Oblómof,' was already in his mind;
and the first draft was published in the Illustrated Album, under
the title Son Oblómova' (Oblómof's Dream), the following year.
In 1852 Goncharóf received from the Marine Ministry a proposition
to sail around the world as private secretary to Admiral Putyátin.
On his return he contributed to various magazines sketches of his
experiences, and finally published a handsome volume of his travels
entitled 'Phregat Pállada' (The Frigate Pallas). In 1857 he went to
Carlsbad and completed 'Oblómof,' on which he had been working
so many years. It appeared in Otetchestvenniya Zapíski (Annals of
the Fatherland) in 1858 and 1859, and made a profound sensation.
The hero was recognized as a perfectly elaborated portrait of a not
uncommon type of Russian character: a good-natured, warm-hearted,
healthy young man, so enervated by the atmosphere of indolence into
which he has allowed himself to sink, that nothing serves to rouse
him. Love is the only impulse which could galvanize him into life.
Across his path comes the beautiful Olga, whom the Russians claim
as a poetic and at the same time a genuine representative of the
best Russian womanhood. Vigorous, alert, with mind and heart
equally well developed, she stirs the latent manhood of Oblómof; but
when he comes to face the responsibilities, the cares, and the duties
of matrimony, he has not the courage to enter upon them. Olga
## p. 6535 (#525) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6535
marries Oblómof's friend Stoltz, whom Goncharóf intended to be a no
less typical specimen of Russian manhood, and whom most critics
consider overdrawn and not true to life. The novel is a series of
wonderful genre pictures: his portraits are marvels of finish and deli-
cacy; and there are a number of dramatic scenes, although the story
as a whole lacks movement. The first chapter, which is here repro-
duced, is chosen not as perhaps the finest in the book, but as thor-
oughly characteristic. It is also a fine specimen of Russian humor.
Goncharóf finished in 1868 his third novel, entitled 'Abruíf' (The
Precipice). It was published first in the Viéstnik Yevrópui (European
Messenger), and in book form in 1870. In this he tries to portray the
type of the Russian Nihilist; but Volokhóf is regarded rather as a
caricature than as a faithful portrait. In contrast with him stands
the beautiful Viera; but just as Volokhóf falls below Oblómof, so
Viera yields to Olga in perfect realism. One of the best characters
in the story is the dilettante Raïsky, the type of the man who has an
artistic nature but no energy. One of the most important characters
of the book is Viera's grandmother: the German translation of The
Precipice is entitled 'The Grandmother's Fault. '
Goncharóf has written a few literary essays, and during the past
few years has contributed to one of the Russian reviews a series of
literary recollections. But his fame with posterity will depend princi-
pally on his 'Oblómof,' the name of which has given to the language
a new word,-oblómovshchina,* Oblómovism,- the typically Russian
indolence which was induced by the peculiar social conditions exist-
ing in Russia before the emancipation of the serfs in 1861: indiffer-
ence to all social questions; the expectation that others will do your
work; or as expressed in the Russian proverb, "the trusting in others
as in God, but in yourself as in the Devil. "
Not. Dola
*Oblómof is the genitive plural of the word oblóm or oblám, a term ex-
pressive of anything broken or almost useless, or even bad; a rude, awkward,
unfinished man.
## p. 6536 (#526) ###########################################
6536
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
OBLÓMOF
N GARÓKHAVAYA STREET, in one of those immense houses the
population of which would suffice for a whole provincial city,
there lay one morning in bed in his apartment Ílya Ílyitch
Oblómof. He was a pleasant-appearing man of two or three and
twenty, of medium stature, with dark gray eyes; but his face
lacked any fixed idea or concentration of purpose. A thought
would wander like a free bird over his features, flutter in his
eyes, light on his parted lips, hide itself in the wrinkles of his
brow, then entirely vanish away; and over his whole countenance
would spread the shadeless light of unconcern.
From his face this indifference extended to the attitudes of
his whole body, even to the folds of his dressing-gown. Occas-
ionally his eyes were darkened by an expression of weariness or
disgust, but neither weariness nor disgust could for an instant
dispel from his face the indolence which was the dominant and
habitual expression not only of his body, but also of his very
soul. And his soul was frankly and clearly betrayed in his
eyes, in his smile, in every movement of his head, of his hands.
A cool superficial observer, glancing at Oblómof as he passed
him by, would have said, "He must be a good-natured, simple-
hearted fellow. " Any one looking deeper, more sympathetically,
would after a few moments' scrutiny turn away with a smile, with
a feeling of agreeable uncertainty.
Oblómof's complexion was not florid, not tawny, and not posi-
tively pallid, but was indeterminate, or seemed to be so, per-
haps because it was flabby; not by reason of age, but by lack of
exercise or of fresh air or of both. His body, to judge by the
dull, transparent color of his neck, by his little plump hands,
his drooping shoulders, seemed too effeminate for a man. His
movements, even if by chance he were aroused, were kept under
restraint likewise by a languor and by a laziness that was not
devoid of its own peculiar grace.
If a shadow of an anxious thought arose from his spirit and
passed across his face, his eyes would grow troubled, the wrin-
kles in his brow would deepen, a struggle of doubt or pain would
seem to begin: but rarely indeed would this troubled thought
crystallize into the form of a definite idea; still more rarely
would it be transformed into a project.
## p. 6537 (#527) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6537
All anxiety would be dissipated in a sigh and settle down into
apathy or languid dreaming.
How admirably Oblómof's house costume suited his unruffled
features and his effeminate body! He wore a dressing-gown of
Persian material—a regular Oriental khalát, without the slightest
suggestion of anything European about it, having no tassels, no
velvet, no special shape. It was ample in size, so that he might
have wrapped it twice around him. The sleeves, in the invariable
Asiatic style, grew wider and wider from the wrist to the shoul-
der. Although this garment had lost its first freshness, and in
places had exchanged its former natural gloss for another that
was acquired, it still preserved the brilliancy of its Oriental color-
ing and its firmness of texture.
The khalát had in Oblómof's eyes a multitude of precious
properties: it was soft and supple; the body was not sensible of
its weight; like an obedient slave, it accommodated itself to every
slightest motion.
Oblómof while at home always went without cravat and
without waistcoat, for the simple reason that he liked simplicity
and comfort. The slippers which he wore were long, soft, and
wide; when without looking he put down one foot from the bed
to the floor it naturally fell into one of them.
Oblómof's remaining in bed was not obligatory upon him, as
in the case of a sick man or of one who was anxious to sleep;
nor was it accidental, as in the case of one who was weary; nor
was it for mere pleasure, as a sluggard would have chosen: it
was the normal condition of things with him. When he was at
home and he was almost always at home-he invariably lay
in bed and invariably in the room where we have just found
him: a room which served him for sleeping-room, library, and
parlor. He had three other rooms, but he rarely glanced into
them; in the morning, perhaps, but even then not every day,
but only when his man came to sweep the rooms-and this,
you may be sure, was not done every day. In these rooms the
furniture was protected with covers; the curtains were always
drawn.
The room in which Oblómof was lying appeared at first
glance to be handsomely furnished There were a mahogany
bureau, two sofas upholstered in silk, handsome screens embroid-
ered with birds and fruits belonging to an imaginary nature.
There were damask curtains, rugs, a number of paintings, bronzes,
## p. 6538 (#528) ###########################################
6538
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
porcelains, and a quantity of beautiful bric-a-brac. But the expe-
rienced eye of a man of pure taste would have discovered at a
single hasty glance that everything there betrayed merely the
desire to keep up appearances in unimportant details, while
really avoiding the burden. That had indeed been Oblómof's
object when he furnished his room. Refined taste would not
have been satisfied with those heavy ungraceful mahogany chairs,
with those conventional étagères. The back of one sofa was dis-
located; the veneering was broken off in places. The same char-
acteristics were discoverable in the pictures and the vases, and
all the ornaments.
The proprietor himself, however, looked with such coolness
and indifference on the decoration of his apartment that one
might think he asked with his eyes, "Who brought you here and
set you up? " As the result of such an indifferent manner of
regarding his possessions, and perhaps of the still more indifferent
attitude of Oblómof's servant Zakhár, the appearance of the
room, if it were examined rather more critically, was amazing
because of the neglect and carelessness which held sway there.
On the walls, around the pictures, spiders' webs, loaded with
dust, hung like festoons; the mirrors, instead of reflecting objects,
would have served better as tablets for scribbling memoranda in
the dust that covered them. The rugs were rags. On the sofa
lay a forgotten towel; on the table you would generally find in the
morning a plate or two with the remains of the evening meal,
the salt-cellar, gnawed bones, and crusts of bread. Were it not
for these plates, and the pipe half smoked out and flung down
on the bed, or even the master himself stretched out on it, it
might easily have been supposed that the room was uninhabited,
it was so dusty, so lacking in all traces of human care. On the
étagères, to be sure, lay two or three opened books or a crum-
pled newspaper; on the bureau stood an inkstand with pens; but
the pages where the books were open were covered thick with
dust and had turned yellow, evidently long ago thrown aside; the
date of the newspaper was long past; and if any one had dipped
a pen into the inkstand it would have started forth only a fright-
ened, buzzing fly!
Ílya Ílyitch was awake, contrary to his ordinary custom, very
early, at eight o'clock. Some anxiety was preying on his mind.
Over his face passed alternately now apprehension, now annoy-
ance, now vexation. It was evident that an internal conflict had
----
## p. 6539 (#529) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6539
him in its throes, and his intellect had not as yet come to his
aid.
The fact was that the evening before, Oblómof had received
from the stárosta (steward) of his estate a letter filled with dis-
agreeable tidings. It is not hard to guess what unpleasant details
one's steward may write about: bad harvests, large arrearages,
diminution in receipts, and the like. But although his stárosta
had written his master almost precisely the same kind of letter
the preceding year and the year before that, nevertheless this
latest letter came upon him exactly the same, as a disagreeable
surprise.
Was it not hard? - he was facing the necessity of considering
the means of taking some measures!
However, it is proper to show how far Ílya Ílyitch was justi-
fied in feeling anxiety about his affairs.
When he received the first letter of disagreeable tenor from
his stárosta some years before, he was already contemplating a
plan for a number of changes and improvements in the manage-
ment of his property. This plan presupposed the introduction of
various new economical and protectional measures; but the details
of the scheme were still in embryo, and the stárosta's disagree-
able letters were annually forthcoming, urging him to activity and
really disturbing his peace of mind. Oblómof recognized the
necessity of coming to some decision if he were to carry out his
plan.
As soon as he woke he decided to get up, bathe, and after
drinking his tea, to think the matter over carefully, then to write
his letters; and in short, to act in this matter as was fitting. But
for half an hour he had been still in bed tormenting himself with
this proposition; but finally he came to the conclusion that he
would still have time to do it after tea, and that he might drink
his tea as usual in bed with all the more reason, because one can
think even if one is lying down!
And so he did. After his tea he half sat up in bed, but did
not entirely rise; glancing down at his slippers, he started to put
his foot into one of them, but immediately drew it back into bed
again.
As the clock struck half-past nine, Ílya Ílyitch started up.
"What kind of a man am I? " he said aloud in a tone of vex-
ation. "Conscience only knows. It is time to do something:
where there's a will-Zakhár! " he cried.
## p. 6540 (#530) ###########################################
6540
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
In a room which was separated merely by a narrow corridor
from Ílya Ílyitch's library, nothing was heard at first except the
growling of the watch-dog; then the thump of feet springing
down from somewhere. It was Zakhár leaping down from his
couch on the stove, where he generally spent his time immersed
in drowsiness.
An elderly man appeared in the room: he was dressed in a
gray coat, through a hole under the armpit of which emerged a
part of his shirt; he also wore a gray waistcoat with brass but-
tons. His head was as bald as his knee, and he had enormous
reddish side-whiskers already turning gray-so thick and bushy
that they would have sufficed for three ordinary individuals.
Zakhar would never have taken pains to change in any re-
spect either the form which God had bestowed on him, or the
costume which he wore in the country. His raiment was made
for him in the style which he had brought with him from his
village. His gray coat and waistcoat pleased him, for the very
reason that in his semi-fashionable attire he perceived a feeble
approach to the livery which he had worn in former times when
waiting on his former masters (now at rest), either to church or
to parties; but liveries in his recollections were merely representa-
tive of the dignity of the Oblómof family. There was nothing
else to recall to the old man the comfortable and liberal style of
life on the estate in the depths of the country. The older gener-
ation of masters had died, the family portraits were at home, and
in all probability were going to rack and ruin in the garret; the
traditions of the former life and importance of the house of
Oblómof were all extinct, or lived only in the memories of a few
old people still lingering in the country.
Consequently, precious in the eyes of Zakhár was the gray
coat: in this he saw a faint emblem of vanished greatness, and
he found similar indications in some of the characteristics of his
master's features and notions, reminding of his parentage, and in
his caprices, which although he grumbled at them under his
breath and aloud, yet he prized secretly as manifestations of the
truly imperious will and autocratic spirit of a born noble. Had
it not been for these whims, he would not have felt that his
master was in any sense above him; had it not been for them,
there would have been nothing to bring back to his mind his
younger days, the village which they had abandoned so long ago,
and the traditions about that ancient home, the sole chronicles
## p. 6541 (#531) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6541
preserved by aged servants, nurses, and nursemaids, and handed.
down from mouth to mouth.
The house of the Oblómofs was rich in those days, and had
great influence in that region; but afterwards somehow or other
everything had gone to destruction, and at last by degrees had
sunk out of sight, overshadowed by parvenus of aristocratic
pretensions.
Only the few gray-haired retainers of the house.
preserved and interchanged their reminiscences of the past, treas-
uring them like holy relics.
This was the reason why Zakhár so loved his gray coat. Pos-
sibly he valued his side-whiskers because of the fact that he saw
in his childhood many of the older servants with this ancient and
aristocratic adornment.
Ílya Ílyitch, immersed in contemplation, took no notice of
Zakhar, though the servant had been silently waiting for some
time. At last he coughed.
"What is it you want? " asked Ílya Ílyitch.
"You called me, didn't you? ”
"Called you? I don't remember what I called you for," he
replied, stretching and yawning. "Go back to your room; I
will try to think what I wanted. "
Zakhar went out, and Ílya Ílyitch lay down on the bed again
and began to cogitate upon that cursed letter.
A quarter of an hour elapsed.
"There now," he exclaimed, "I have dallied long enough; I
must get up. However, I must read the stárosta's letter over
again more attentively, and then I will get up-Zakhár! " The
same noise of leaping down from the stove, and the same growl-
ing of the dog, only more emphatic.
Zakhár made his appearance, but again Oblómof was sunk
deep in contemplation. Zakhár stood a few moments, looking
sulkily and askance at his master, and finally he turned to go.
"Where are you going? " suddenly demanded Oblómof.
"You have nothing to say to me, and why should I waste
my time standing here? " explained Zakhár, in a hoarse gasp
which served him in lieu of a voice, he having lost his voice,
according to his own account, while out hunting with the dogs
when he had to accompany his former master, and when a
powerful wind seemed to blow in his throat. He half turned
round, and stood in the middle of the room and glared at his
master.
## p. 6542 (#532) ###########################################
6542
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
"Have your legs quite given out, that you can't stand a min-
ute? Don't you see I am worried? Now, please wait a moment!
wasn't it lying there just now? Get me that letter which I
received last evening from the stárosta. What did you do with
it ? »
"What letter? I haven't seen any letter,” replied Zakhár.
"Why, you yourself took it from the postman, you scoun-
drel! "
"It is where you put it; how should I know anything about
it? " said Zakhár, beginning to rummage about among the papers
and various things that littered the table.
"You never know anything at all.
There, look on the bas-
ket. No, see if it hasn't been thrown on the sofa. — There, the
back of that sofa hasn't been mended yet. Why have you not
got the carpenter to mend it?
'Twas you who broke it. You
never think of anything! "
"I didn't break it," retorted Zakhár; "it broke itself; it was
not meant to last forever; it had to break some time. "
Ílya Ílyitch did not consider it necessary to refute this argu-
He contented himself with asking:
ment.
"Have you found it yet? "
"Here are some letters. "
"But they are not the right ones.
"Well, there's nothing else," said Zakhár.
"Very good, be gone," said Ílya Ílyitch impatiently. “I am
going to get up. I will find it. "
Zakhar went to his room, but he had hardly laid his hand on
his couch to climb up to it before the imperative cry was heard
again:-
>>>>
"Zakhár! Zakhár! "
«< Oh, good Lord! " grumbled he, as he started to go for the
third time to Oblómof's library. "What a torment all this is!
Oh that death would come and take me from it! "
"What do you want? " he asked, as he stood with one hand
on the door, and glaring at Oblómof as a sign of his surliness,
at such an angle that he had to look at his master out of the
corner of his eyes; while his master could see only one of his
enormous side-whiskers, so bushy that you might have expected
to have two or three birds come flying out from them.
«<
My handkerchief, quick! You might have known what I
wanted. Don't you see? " remarked Ílya Ílyitch sternly.
## p. 6543 (#533) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6543
Zakhár displayed no special dissatisfaction or surprise at such
an order or such a reproach on his master's part, regarding both,
so far as he was concerned, as perfectly natural.
"But who knows where your handkerchief is? " he grumbled,
circling about the room and making a careful examination of
every chair, although it could be plainly seen that there was
nothing whatever on them.
"It is a perfect waste of time," he remarked, opening the door
into the drawing-room in order to see if there was any sign of it.
there.
"Where are you going? Look for it here; I have not been
in that room since day before yesterday. And make haste,"
urged ĺlya Ílyitch.
"Where is the handkerchief? There isn't any handkerchief,"
exclaimed Zakhár rummaging and searching in every corner.
"Oh, there it is," he suddenly cried angrily, "under you.
There is the end of it sticking out. You were lying on it, and
yet you ask me to find your handkerchief for you! "
And Zakhár, without awaiting any reply, turned and started
to go out. Oblómof was somewhat ashamed of his own blunder.
But he quickly discovered another pretext for putting Zakhár in
the wrong.
"What kind of neatness do you call this everywhere here!
Look at the dust and dirt! Good heavens! look here, look here!
See these corners! You don't do anything at all. ”
"And so I don't do anything," repeated Zakhár in a tone
betokening deep resentment. "I am growing old, I shan't live
much longer! But God knows I use the duster for the dust, and
I sweep almost every day. "
He pointed to the middle of the floor, and at the table where
Oblómof had dined. "Here, look here," he went on: it has all
been swept and all put in order, fit for a wedding. What more
is needed? ”
"Well then, what is this? " cried flya flyitch, interrupting
him and calling his attention to the walls and the ceiling. “And
that? and that? "
He pointed to a yesterday's napkin which had been flung
down, and to a plate which had been left lying on the table
with a dry crust of bread on it.
"Well, as for that," said Zakhár as he picked up the plate,
"I will take care of it. "
## p. 6544 (#534) ###########################################
6544
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
"You will take care of it, will you? But how about the dust
and the cobwebs on the walls? " said Oblómof, making ocular
demonstration.
"I put that off till Holy Week; then I clean the sacred
images and sweep down the cobwebs. "
"But how about dusting the books and pictures? »
"The books and pictures? Before Christmas; then Anísiya
and I look over all the closets. But now when should we be
able to do it? You are always at home. ”
"I sometimes go to the theatre or go out
might - "
"Do house-cleaning at night? "
Oblómof looked at him reproachfully, shook his head, and
uttered a sigh; but Zakhár gazed indifferently out of the window
and also sighed deeply. The master seemed to be thinking,
"Well, brother, you are even more of an Oblómof than I am
myself;" while Zakhár probably said to himself, "Rubbish! You
as my master talk strange and melancholy words, but how do
dust and cobwebs concern you? "
"Don't you know that moths breed in dust? " asked Ílya
İlyitch. "I have even seen bugs on the wall! »
"Well, I have fleas on me sometimes," replied Zakhár in a
tone of indifference.
to dine: you
"Well, is that anything to boast about? That is shameful,"
exclaimed Oblómof.
Zakhar's face was distorted by a smirking smile, which
seemed to embrace even his eyebrows and his side-whiskers,
which for this reason spread apart; and over his whole face up
to his very forehead extended a ruddy spot.
"Why, am I to blame that there are bugs on the wall? " he
asked in innocent surprise: "was it I who invented them? ”
"They come from lack of cleanliness," insisted Oblómof.
"What are you talking about? "
"I am not the cause of the uncleanliness. "
"But you have mice in your room there running about at
night - I hear them. "
"I did not invent the mice. There are all kinds of living
creatures mice and cats and fleas - lots of them everywhere. "
"How is it that other people don't have moths and bugs? "
Zakhár's face expressed incredulity, or rather a calm conviction
that this was not so.
## p. 6545 (#535) ###########################################
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
6545
« One
"I have plenty of them," he said without hesitation.
can't look after every bug and crawl into the cracks after
them. "
It seemed to be his thought, "What kind of a sleeping-room
would that be that had no bugs in it? "
"Now do you see to it that you sweep and brush them out
of the corners; don't let there be one left," admonished Oblómof.
"If you get it all cleaned up it will be just as bad again to-
morrow," remonstrated Zakhár.
"It ought not to be as bad," interrupted the master.
"But it is," insisted the servant; "I know all about it. "
"Well then, if the dust collects again, brush it out again. "
"What is that you say? Brush out all the corners every
day? " exclaimed Zakhár. "What a life that would be! Better
were it that God should take my soul! "
"Why are other people's houses clean? " urged Oblómof.
"Just look at the piano-tuner's rooms: see how neat they look,
and only one maid—»
"Oh, these Germans! " exclaimed Zakhár suddenly interrupt-
ing. "Where do they make any litter? Look at the way they
live! Every family gnaws a whole week on a single bone. The
coat goes from the father's back to the son's, and back from the
son's to the father's. The wives and daughters wear little short
skirts, and when they walk they all lift up their legs like ducks
- where do they get any dirt? They don't do as we do - leave
a whole heap of soiled clothes in the closet for a year at a time,
or fill up the corners with bread crusts for the winter. Their
crusts are never flung down at random: they make zweiback out
of them, and eat them when they drink their beer! "
Zakhár expressed his disgust at such a penurious way of liv
ing by spitting through his teeth.
"Say nothing more," expostulated Ílya Ílyitch. "Do better
work with your house-cleaning. "
"One time I would have cleaned up, but you yourself would
not allow it," said Zakhár.
"That is all done with! Don't you see I have entirely
changed? »
“Of course you have; but still you stay at home all the time:
how can one begin to clean up when you are right here? If you
will stay out of the house for a whole day, then I will have a
general clearing-up. ”
XI-410
## p. 6546 (#536) ###########################################
6546
IVÁN ALEKSANDROVITCH GONCHARÓF
"What an idea! Get out of here. You had better go to your
own room. "
"All right! " persisted Zakhár; "but I tell you, the moment
you go out, Anísiya and I will clear the whole place up. And
we two would finish with it in short metre; then you will want
some women to wash everything. "
"Oh, what schemes you invent! Women! away with you! "
cried ĺlya Ílyitch.
He was by this time disgusted with himself for having led
Zakhár into this conversation. He had quite forgotten that the
attainment of this delicate object was at the expense of consider-
able confusion. Oblómof would have liked a state of perfect
cleanliness, but he would require that it should be brought about
in some imperceptible manner, as it were of itself; but Zakhár
always induced a discussion as soon as he was asked to have any
sweeping done, or the floors washed, and the like. In such a
contingency he was sure to point out the necessity of a terrible
disturbance in the house, knowing very well that the mere sug-
gestion of such a thing would fill his master with horror.
Zakhar went away, and Oblómof relapsed into cogitation.
After some minutes the half-hour struck again.
"What time is it? " exclaimed Ílya Ílyitch with a dull sense
of alarm. "Almost eleven o'clock! Can it be that I am not up
yet nor had my bath? Zakhár! Zakhár! ”
"Oh, good God! what is it now? " was heard from the ante-
room, and then the well-known thump of feet.
"Is my bath ready? " asked Oblómof.
"Ready? yes, long ago,” replied Zakhár. "Why did you not
get up? "
"Why didn't you tell me it was ready? I should have got up
long ago if you had. Go on; I will follow you immediately.
have some business to do; I want to write. "
I
Zakhar went out, but in the course of a few minutes he
returned with a greasy copy-book all scribbled over, and some
scraps of paper.
]
"Here, if you want to write-and by the way, be kind enough
to verify these accounts: we need the money to pay them. "
"What accounts?
