Oblomov also dreamt of the big, dark drawing-room in his parents’ house, with its ancient ashwood arm-chairs, which were always covered, a huge, clumsy and hard sofa, upholstered in faded and stained blue barracan and one large leather arm-chair. A long winter evening; his mother sat on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, lazily knitting a child’s stocking, yawning, and occasionally scratching her head with a knitting-needle. Nastasya Ivanovna and Pelageya Ignatyevna sat beside her and, bending low over their work, were diligently sewing something for Oblomov for the holidays or for his father or for themselves. His father paced the room with his hands behind his back, looking very pleased with himself, or sat down in the arm-chair, and after a time once more walked up and down the room, listening attentively to the sound of his own footsteps. Then he took a pinch of snuff, blew his nose and took another pinch. One tallow candle burned dimly in the room, and even this was permitted only on autumn and winter evenings. In the summer months everyone tried to get up and go to bed by daylight. This was done partly out of habit and partly out of economy. Oblomov’s parents were extremely sparing with any article which was not produced at home but had to be bought. They gladly killed an excellent turkey or a dozen chickens to entertain a guest, but they never put an extra raisin in a dish, and turned pale when their guest ventured to pour himself out another glass of wine. Such depravity, however, was a rare occurrence at Oblomovka: that sort of thing would be done only by some desperate character, a social outcast, who would never be invited to the house again. No, they had quite a different code of behaviour there: a visitor would never dream of touching anything before he had been asked at least three times. He knew very well that if he was asked only once to savour some dish or drink some wine, he was really expected to refuse it. It was not for every visitor, either, that two candles were lit: candles were bought in town for money and, like all purchased articles, were kept under lock and key by the mistress herself. Candle-ends were carefully counted and safely put away. Generally speaking, they did not like spending money at Oblomovka, and however necessary a purchase might be, money for it was issued with the greatest regret and that, too, only if the sum was insignificant. Any considerable expense was accompanied by moans, shrieks, and abuse. At Oblomovka they preferred to put up with all sorts of inconveniences, and even stopped regarding them as such, rather than spend money. That was why the sofa in the drawing-room had for years been covered in stains; that was why the leather arm-chair of Oblomov’s father was leather only in name, being all rope, a piece of leather remaining only on the back, the rest having all peeled off five years before; and that was perhaps why the gate was lopsided and the front steps rickety. To pay 200, 300, or 500 roubles all at once for something, however necessary it might be, seemed almost suicidal to them. Hearing that a young local landowner had been to Moscow and bought a dozen shirts for 300 roubles, a pair of boots for twenty-five roubles, and a waistcoat for his wedding for forty roubles, Oblomov’s father crossed himself and said, with a look of horror on his face, that ‘such a scamp must be locked up’. They were, generally speaking, impervious to economic truths about the desirability of a quick turnover of capital, increased production, and exchange of goods. In the simplicity of their souls they understood and put into practice only one way of using capital – keeping it under lock and key – in a chest.
The other inhabitants of the house and the usual visitors sat in the arm-chairs in the drawing-room in different positions, breathing hard. As a rule, deep silence reigned among them: they saw each other every day, and had long ago explored and exhausted all their intellectual treasures, and there was little news from the outside world. All was quiet; only the sound of the heavy, home-made boots of Oblomov’s father, the muffled ticking of a clock in its case on the wall, and the snapping of a thread by the teeth or the hands of Pelageya Ignatyevna or Nastasya Ivanovna broke the dead silence from time to time. Half an hour sometimes passed like that, unless of course someone yawned aloud and muttered, as he made the sign of the cross over his mouth, ‘Lord, have mercy upon us!’ His neighbour yawned after him, then the next person, as though at a word of command, opened his mouth slowly, and so the infectious play of the air and lungs spread among them all, moving some of them to tears.
Oblomov’s father would go up to the window, look out, and say with mild surprise:
‘Good Lord, it’s only five o’clock, and how dark it is outside!’
‘Yes,’ someone would reply, ‘it is always dark at this time of the year: the evenings are drawing in.’
And in the spring they would be surprised and happy that the days were drawing out. But if asked what they wanted the long days for, they did not know what to say.
And again they were silent. Then someone snuffed the candle and suddenly extinguished it, and they all gave a start.
‘An unexpected guest!’ someone was sure to say. Sometimes this would serve as topic for conversation.
‘Who would that be?’ the mistress would ask. ‘Not Nastasya Faddeyevna? I wish it was! But no, she won’t come before the holiday. That would have been nice! How we should embrace each other and have a good cry! And we should have gone to morning and afternoon Mass together.… But I’m afraid I couldn’t keep up with her! I may be the younger one, but I can’t stand as long as she can!’
‘When was it she left here?’ Oblomov’s father asked. ‘After St Elijah’s Day, I believe.’
‘You always get the dates mixed up,’ his wife corrected him. ‘She left before Whitsun.’
‘I think she was here on the eve of St Peter’s Fast,’ retorted Oblomov’s father.
‘You’re always like that,’ his wife said reprovingly. ‘You will argue and make yourself ridiculous.’
‘Of course she was here. Don’t you remember we had mushroom pies because she liked them?’
‘That’s Maria Onisimovna: she likes mushroom pies – I do remember that! And Maria Onisimovna did not stop till St Elijah’s Day, but only till St Prokhov’s and Nikanor’s.’
They reckoned the time by holy-days, by the seasons of the years, by different family and domestic occurrences, and never referred to dates or months. That was perhaps partly because, except for Oblomov’s father, they all got mixed up with the dates and the months. Defeated, Oblomov’s father made no answer, and again the whole company sank into drowsiness. Oblomov, snuggled up behind his mother’s back, was also drowsing and occasionally dropped off to sleep.
‘Aye,’ some visitor would then say with a deep sigh, ‘Maria Onisimovna’s husband, the late Vassily Fomich, seemed a healthy chap, if ever there was one, and yet he died! Before he was fifty, too! He should have lived to be a hundred!’
‘We shall all die at the appointed time – it’s God’s will,’ Pelageya Ignatyevna replied with a sigh. ‘Some people die, but the Khlopovs have one christening after another – I am told Anna Andreyevna has just had another baby – her sixth!’
‘It isn’t only Anna Andreyevna,’ said the lady of the house. ‘Wait till her brother gets married – there’ll be one child after another – there’s going to be plenty of trouble in that family! The young boys are growing up and will soon be old enough to marry; then the daughters will have to get married, and where is one to find husbands for them? To-day everyone is asking for a dowry, and in cash, too.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Oblomov’s father, going up to them.
‘Well, we’re saying that – –’
And they told him what they were talking about.
‘Yes,’ Oblomov’s father said sententiously, ‘that’s life for you! One dies, another one is born, a third one marries, and we just go on getting older. There are no two days that are alike, let alone two years. Why should it be so? Wouldn’t it have been nice if one day were just like the day before, and yesterday were just like to-morrow? It’s sad, when you come to think of it.’
‘The old are ageing and the young are growing up,’ someone muttered sleepily in a corner of the room.
/> ‘One has to pray more and try not to think of anything,’ the lady of the house said sternly.
‘True, true,’ Oblomov’s father, who had meant to indulge in a bit of philosophy, remarked apprehensively and began pacing the room again.
There was another long silence; only the faint sound made by the wool as it was pulled through the material by the needles could be heard. Sometimes the lady of the house broke the silence.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is dark outside. At Christmas time, when our people come to stay, it will be merrier and we shan’t notice the evenings pass. If Malanya Petrovna comes, there will be no end of fun! The things she does! Telling fortunes by melting down tin or wax, or running out of the gate; my maids don’t know where they are when she’s here. She’d organize all sorts of games – she is a rare one!’
‘Yes,’ someone observed, ‘a society lady! Two years ago she took it into her head to go tobogganing – that was when Luka Savich injured his forehead.’
They all suddenly came to life and burst out laughing as they looked at Luka Savich.
‘How did you manage to do that, Luka Savich?’ said Oblomov’s father, dying with laughter. ‘Come on, tell us!’
And they all went on laughing, and Oblomov woke up, and he, too, laughed.
‘Well, what is there to tell?’ Luka Savich said, looking put out. ‘Alexey Naumich has invented it all: there was nothing of the kind at all.’
‘Oh!’ they shouted in chorus. ‘What do you mean – nothing happened at all? We’re not dead, are we? And what about that scar on your forehead? You can still see it.’
And they shook with laughter.
‘What are you laughing at?’ Luka Savich tried to put in a word between the outbursts of laughter. ‘I – I’d have been all right if that rascal Vaska had not given me that old toboggan – it came to pieces under me – I – –’
His voice was drowned in the general laughter. In vain did he try to finish the story of his fall: the laughter spread to the hall and the maids’ room, till the whole house was full of it; they all recalled the amusing incident, they all laughed and laughed in unison, ineffably, like the Olympian gods. When the laughter began to die down, someone would start it anew and – off they went again.
At last they managed somehow to compose themselves.
‘Will you go tobogganing this Christmas?’ Luka Savich asked Oblomov’s father after a pause.
Another general outburst of laughter which lasted for about ten minutes.
‘Shall I ask Antip to get the hill ready before the holidays?’ Oblomov’s father said suddenly. ‘Luka Savich is dying to have another go – he can’t bear to wait – –’
The laughter of the whole company interrupted him.
‘But is that toboggan still in working order?’ one of them asked, choking with laughter.
There was more laughter.
They all went on laughing for a long time, then gradually began quieting down: one was wiping his tears, another blowing his nose, a third coughing violently and clearing his throat, saying with difficulty: ‘Oh dear, oh dear, this will be the death of me! Dear me, the way he rolled over on his back with the skirts of his coat flying – –’
This was followed by another outburst of laughter, the last and the longest of all, and then all was quiet. One man sighed, another yawned aloud, muttering something under his breath, and everyone fell silent.
As before, the only sounds that could be heard were the ticking of the clock, Oblomov’s father’s footfalls, and the sharp snapping of a thread broken off by one of the ladies. Suddenly Oblomov’s father stopped in the middle of the room, looking dismayed and touching the tip of his nose.
‘Good heavens,’ he said, ‘what can this mean? Someone’s going to die: the tip of my nose keeps itching.’
‘Goodness,’ his wife cried, throwing up her hands, ‘no one’s going to die if it’s the tip of the nose that’s itching. Someone’s going to die when the bridge of the nose is itching. Really, my dear, you never can remember anything! You’ll say something like this when strangers or visitors are in the house, and you will disgrace yourself!’
‘But what does it mean when the tip of your nose is itching?’ Oblomov’s father asked, looking embarrassed.
‘Looking into a wine-glass! How could you say a thing like that! Someone’s going to die, indeed!’
‘I’m always mixing things up!’ said Oblomov’s father. ‘How is one to remember – the nose itching at the side, or at the tip, or the eyebrows – –’
‘At the side means news,’ Pelageya Ivanovna chimed in. ‘If the eyebrows are itching, it means tears; the forehead, bowing, if it’s on the right – to a man, and if it’s on the left side – to a woman; if the ears are itching, it means that it’s going to rain; lips – kissing; moustache – eating sweets; elbow – sleeping in a new place; soles of the feet – a journey – –’
‘Well done, Pelageya Ivanovna!’ said Oblomov’s father. ‘And I suppose when butter is going to be cheap, your neck will be itching – –’
The ladies began to laugh and whisper to one another; some of the men smiled; it seemed as though they would burst out laughing again, but at that moment there came a sound like a dog growling and a cat hissing when they are about to throw themselves upon each other. That was the clock striking.
‘Good Lord, it’s nine o’clock already!’ Oblomov’s father cried with joyful surprise. ‘Dear me, I never noticed how the time was passing. Hey, there! Vaska! Vanka! Motka!’
Three sleepy faces appeared at the door.
‘Why don’t you lay the table?’ Oblomov’s father asked with surprise and vexation. ‘You never think of your masters! Well, what are you standing there for? Come on, vodka!’
‘That’s why the tip of your nose was itching,’ Pelageya Ivanovna said quickly. ‘When you drink vodka, you’ll be looking into your glass.’
After supper, having kissed and made the sign of the cross over each other, they all went to bed, and sleep descended over their untroubled heads. In his dream Oblomov saw not one or two such evenings, but weeks, months, and years of days and evenings spent in this way. Nothing interfered with the monotony of their life, and the inhabitants of Oblomovka were not tired of it because they could not imagine any other kind of existence; and if they could, they would have recoiled from it in horror. They did not want any other life, and they would have hated it. They would have been sorry if circumstances had brought any change in their mode of living, whatever its nature. They would have been miserable if to-morrow were not like yesterday and if the day after to-morrow were not like tomorrow. What did they want with variety, change, or unforeseen contingencies, which other people were so keen on? Let others make the best of them if they could; at Oblomovka they did not want to have anything to do with it. Let others live as they liked. For unforeseen contingencies, though they might turn out well in the end, were disturbing: they involved constant worry and trouble, running about, restlessness, buying and selling or writing – in a word, doing something in a hurry, and that was no joking matter: they went on for years snuffling and yawning, or laughing good-humouredly at country jokes or, gathering in a circle, telling each other their dreams. If a dream happened to be frightening, they all looked depressed and were afraid in good earnest; if it were prophetic, they were all unfeignedly glad or sad, according to whether the dream was comforting or ominous. If the dream required the observance of some rite, they took the necessary steps at once. Or they played cards – ordinary games on weekdays, and Boston with their visitors on holy-days – or they played patience, told fortunes for a king of hearts or a queen of clubs, foretelling a marriage. Sometimes Natalya Faddeyevna came to stay for a week or a fortnight. To begin with, the two elderly ladies would tell each other all the latest news in the neighbourhood, what everyone did or how everyone lived; they discussed not only all the details of their family life and what was going on behind the scenes, but also everyone’s most secret thoughts and intention
s, prying into their very souls, criticizing and condemning the unworthy, especially the unfaithful husbands, and then they would go over all the important events: name-days, christenings, births, who invited or did not invite whom and how those who had been invited were entertained. Tired of this, they began showing each other their new clothes, dresses, coats, even skirts and stockings. The lady of the house boasted of her linen, yarn and lace of home manufacture. But that topic, too, would be exhausted. Then they would content themselves with coffee, tea, jam. Only after that would they fall silent. They sat for some time looking at each other and from time to time sighing deeply. Occasionally one of them would burst out crying.
‘What’s the matter, my dear?’ the other one asked anxiously.
‘Oh, I feel so sad, my dear,’ the visitor replied with a heavy sigh. ‘We’ve angered the good Lord, sinners that we are. No good will come of it.’
‘Oh, don’t frighten me, dear, don’t scare me,’ the lady of the house interrupted.
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Natalya Faddeyevna went on, ‘the day of judgement is coming: nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom – the end of the world is near!’ she exclaimed at last, and the two ladies burst out crying bitterly.
Natalya Faddeyevna had no grounds at all for her final conclusion, no one having risen against anyone and there not having been even a comet that year, but old ladies sometimes have dark forebodings.
Only very seldom was this way of passing the time interrupted by some unexpected event, such as, for instance, the whole household being overcome by the fumes from the stoves. Other sicknesses were practically unknown in the house and the village, except when a man would accidentally stumble in the dark against the sharp end of a stake, or fall off the hay-loft, or be hit on the head by a plank dropping from the roof. But this happened only seldom, and against such accidents there was a score of well-tried domestic remedies: the bruise would be rubbed with a fresh-water sponge or with daphne, the injured man was given holy water to drink or had some spell whispered over him – and he would be well again. But poisoning by charcoal fumes was a fairly frequent occurrence. If that happened, they all took to their beds, moaning and groaning were heard all over the house, some tied pickled cucumbers round their heads, some stuffed cranberries into their ears and sniffed horse-radish, some went out into the frost with nothing but their shirts on, and some simply lay unconscious on the floor. This happened periodically once or twice a month, because they did not like to waste the heat in the chimney and shut the flues while flames like those in Robert the Devil still flickered in the stoves. It was impossible to touch a single stove without blistering one’s hand.
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