«Your bailiff is a rogue – that’s what I think», Tarantyev began, putting the rouble in his pocket, «and you stand there with your mouth open and believe him. You see the sort of tall story he tells you! Drought, bad harvest, arrears, runaway peasants – it’s all a pack of lies! I’ve heard that in our district, on the Shumilov estate, the harvest last year was so good that they paid off all their debts. And Shumilov is only thirty-five miles from you: why haven’t the crops there been burnt up? Then there is something else he has invented – arrears! But what was he doing? Why did he neglect them? Why should there be arrears? Is there no work to be had in our district – no market for a peasant’s produce? Why, the thief – I’d teach him a lesson! And I daresay the peasants ran away because he got some money from them and then let them go, and he never complained to the police at all».

«I don’t believe it», said Oblomov. «Why, he actually quotes the police inspector’s answer in the letter and so authentically, too».

«Oh, you simpleton! You don’t know anything. All rogues write authentically – take my word for it. Here, for instance», he went on, pointing to Alexeyev, «sits an honest fellow who won’t hurt a fly – well, will he write an authentic letter? Never. But his relation, though a rogue and a swine, will. And you won’t write such a letter, either. Your bailiff therefore is a rascal just because he has written such a clever and authentic-sounding letter. You see how carefully he chose his words: „to send them back to their place of domicile“».

«What am I to do with him?» asked Oblomov.

«Sack him at once».

«But whom shall I appoint in his place? What do I know about the peasants? Another one might be worse. I haven’t been there for twelve years».

«Go to your estate yourself: that must be done. Spend the summer there and in the autumn come straight to the new flat. I’ll see that it’s all ready for you».

«Move to a new flat – go to the country – and all by myself! What desperate measures you suggest!» Oblomov said, looking displeased. «Nothing about avoiding extremes and suggesting some sort of compromise».

«Well, my dear fellow, you’re as good as done for. Why, in your place I’d have mortgaged the estate long ago and bought another or a house here in a good residential part of the town; that’s a damn sight better than that country place of yours. And then I’d have mortgaged the house and bought another. Let me have your estate and I’d soon make them sit up».

«Stop boasting and think of something so that I need not leave this flat or go to the country and so that everything should be settled satisfactorily», Oblomov remarked.

«But will you ever do anything?» said Tarantyev. «Have a good look at yourself. Why, you’re not good for anything. Of what use are you to your country? You can’t even go to your estate!»

«It’s a bit too soon for me to go there», replied Oblomov. «I must first finish my plan of the changes I intend to introduce on my estate… But, look here, Tarantyev», Oblomov said suddenly, «why shouldn’t you go instead? You know what the business is and you have a pretty good idea what the countryside is like in those parts – I would pay your expenses…»

«I’m not your manager, am I?» Tarantyev said haughtily. «Besides, I’ve lost the knack of dealing with peasants».

«What am I to do?» said Oblomov, pensively. «I’m hanged if I know».

«Well, write to the police inspector. Ask him if the bailiff has spoken to him about runaway peasants», Tarantyev advised, «and ask him to visit your estates too; then write to the Governor to order the police inspector to report on the bailiff’s conduct. „Will your Excellency be so good as to take a fatherly interest in me and cast a merciful eye upon the terrible and inevitable misfortune that threatens to overwhelm me as a result of my bailiff’s outrageous behaviour and the utter ruin which is bound to overtake me together with my wife and twelve little children who will be left unprovided for and starving“…»

Oblomov laughed.

«Where am I to get so many children if I am asked to produce them?» he said.

«Nonsense, man! Write: „Twelve children“. No one will pay any attention to it and no one will make inquiries, but it will sound „authentic“. The Governor will pass on the letter to his secretary, and you will write to the secretary at the same time – with an enclosure, of course – and he will give the necessary order. And ask your neighbours, too: whom have you got there?»

«Dobrynin lives near», said Oblomov. «I used to see him often here; he is in the country now».

«Well, write to him, too. Ask him nicely: „You will be doing me a great favour and oblige me as a Christian, a neighbour, and a friend.“ And add some Petersburg present to the letter – a box of cigars, for instance. That is what you should do, but you don’t seem to have any sense at all. You’re hopeless! I’d have made that bailiff sit up; I’d have shown him! When does the post go?»

«The day after to-morrow», said Oblomov.

«Very well. Sit down and write at once».

«But if it’s the day after to-morrow, why should I write now?» Oblomov remarked. «To-morrow will do. And, look here, old man», he added. «You may as well crown your „act of charity“, and I will add a fish or some bird for dinner».

«What now?»

«Sit down and write – it won’t take you long to scribble three letters. You put everything so „authentically“», he added, trying to conceal a smile, «and Alexeyev could copy it out».

«Good Lord, how do you like that!» Tarantyev replied. «Me write your letters? I haven’t written anything at the office for the last two days: the moment I sit down, my left eye begins to run. Must have caught a chill in it, and my head, too, begins to swim if I bend down. You’re lazy, my dear fellow, lazy. Hopeless, hopeless…»

«Oh, if only Andrey would hurry up and come!» said Oblomov. «He’d put everything straight!»

«Some good Samaritan you’ve found, I must say!» Tarantyev interrupted. «A damned German – a crafty rascal!»

Tarantyev had a sort of instinctive aversion to foreigners. To him a Frenchman, a German, or an Englishman were synonymous with swindler, impostor, rogue, or bandit. He made no distinction between nations: they were all alike in his eyes.

«Look here, Tarantyev», Oblomov said sternly, «I’d be glad if you would control your language, especially when speaking of an intimate friend of mine…»

«An intimate friend!» Tarantyev replied with hatred. «What sort of connexion is he of yours? A German – we all know what that is».

«He’s closer than any relation. I was brought up with him and we were educated together, and I shan’t allow any impertinence…»

Tarantyev turned purple with rage.

«Well», he said, «if you prefer the German to me, I shan’t set foot in your house again».

He put on his hat and walked to the door. Oblomov at once felt sorry.

«You ought to respect him as my friend and speak more carefully about him – that is all I ask», he said. «It isn’t much of a favour, is it?»

«To respect a German?» Tarantyev said with the utmost contempt. «Why should I?»

«But I’ve just told you – if for nothing else then because we grew up and went to the same school together».

«What does that matter? We all go to school with someone or other!»

«Well, if he’d been here», said Oblomov, «he’d long ago have solved my problems without asking for beer or champagne».

«Ah, so you blame me, do you? Well, to hell with you and with your beer and champagne I Here, take back your money! Where did I put it? Can’t remember what I did with the damned note!»

He pulled out a greasy scrap of paper covered with writing.

«No, that’s not it!» he said. «Where did I put it?»

He rummaged in his pockets.

«Don’t bother to look for it», said Oblomov. «I’m not blaming you, but merely ask you to speak with more respect of a man who is a close friend of mine and who has done so much for me». «So much!» Tarantyev said spitefully. «You wait, he’ll do even more for you – you do as he says!»

«Why do you say this to me?» asked Oblomov.

«I’m saying this so that you should know when that German of yours robs you of your last penny what it means to give up a neighbour of yours, a true Russian, for some tramp…»

«Listen, Tarantyev» – Oblomov began.

«I’m not going to listen, I’ve listened enough, you’ve given me enough trouble as it is. God knows the insults I’ve had to bear – I suppose in Germany his father was starving and he comes here and turns up his nose at us!»

«Leave the dead alone! How is his father to blame?»

«They are both to blame: father and son», Tarantyev said gloomily with a wave of his hand. «It’s not for nothing my father warned me to beware of the Germans – and he knew all sorts of people in his time!»

«But what have you against his father, pray?» asked Oblomov.

«What I have against him is that he came to our province in September with nothing but the clothes he had on and then left a fortune to his son – what does that mean?»

«He only left his son some forty thousand roubles. Some of it was his wife’s dowry and he made the rest by giving lessons and managing an estate: he received a good salary. You must admit the father didn’t do anything wrong. Now what about the son? What wrong has he done?»

«A nice fellow! All of a sudden he makes three hundred thousand out of his father’s forty and then becomes a Court Councillor, a man of learning – and now he is away travelling! The rogue has a finger in every pie! Would a good Russian, a real Russian, do all that? A Russian would choose one thing, and that, too, without rush or hurry, in his own good time, and carry on somehow or other – but this one – Good Lord! If he’d become a Government contractor, then at least one could understand how he had grown rich, but he did nothing of the kind – just got rich by some knavery! There’s certainly something wrong there! I’d prosecute a fellow like that! And now he’s knocking about goodness knows where!» Tarantyev went on. «What does he go knocking about in foreign parts for?»

«He wants to study, to see everything, to know!»

«To study! Hasn’t he been taught enough? What does he want to learn? He’s telling you lies, don’t believe him: he deceives you to your face like a small child. Do grown-up people study anything? Hear what he says! Would a Court Councillor want to study? You studied at school, but are you studying now? And does he», Tarantyev pointed to Alexeyev, «study? Does that relative of his study? Can you think of any decent man who is studying? Do you imagine he is sitting in a German school and doing his lessons? Rubbish! I’ve heard he’s gone to look at some machine and order one like it: I suppose it is a press for printing Russian money! I’d put him in jail. Some sort of shares – Oh, these shares – they make me sick!»

Oblomov burst out laughing.

«What are you laughing at?» said Tarantyev. «Isn’t it true what I say?»

«Let’s drop the subject», Oblomov interrupted him. «You’d better go about your business, and I’ll write the letters with Alexeyev and try to put down my plan on paper as quickly as possible – may as well do it all at once».

Tarantyev went out, but came back immediately.

«I’ve quite forgotten!» he began, not at all as brusquely as before. «I came to you on business this morning. I am invited to a wedding to-morrow: Rokotov is getting married. Lend me your frock-coat, old man. Mine, you can see, is rather shabby».

«But», said Oblomov, frowning at this new demand, «how can I? My coat won’t fit you».

«It will, of course it will!» Tarantyev interrupted. «You remember I tried it on once: it might have been made for me! Zakhar! Zakhar! Come here, you old brute!»

Zakhar growled like a bear, but did not come.

«Call him, old man», Tarantyev pleaded. «What a funny chap he is!»

«Zakhar!» Oblomov called.

«Oh, the devil take you!» Zakhar could be heard saying from his room as he jumped off the stove.

«Well, what do you want?» he asked, addressing Tarantyev.

«Fetch my black frock-coat», Oblomov ordered. «Mr Tarantyev wants to see if it fits him: he has to go to a wedding tomorrow».

«I won’t bring the coat, sir», Zakhar said firmly.

«How dare you, when your master orders you to?» Tarantyev shouted. «Why don’t you send him to the house of correction, old man?»

«That would be a nice thing to do: send an old man to the house of correction!» said Oblomov. «Don’t be obstinate, Zakhar, bring the coat».

«I won’t!» Zakhar answered coldly. «Let him first return your waistcoat and shirt: he’s had them for five months. He borrowed them to go to a birthday party and we’ve never seen them since. A velvet waistcoat, too, and a fine cambric shirt; cost twenty-five roubles. I won’t give him the coat».

«Well, good-bye and to hell with both of you!» Tarantyev said angrily, turning to go and shaking his fist at Zakhar. «Remember, old man, I’ll take the flat for you – do you hear?» he added.

«All right, all right», Oblomov said impatiently, just to get rid of him.

«And you write what I told you», Tarantyev went on, «and don’t forget to tell the Governor that you have twelve little children. And, mind, the soup is to be on the table at five sharp. Why haven’t you ordered a pie?»

But Oblomov did not reply; he had not been listening and, closing his eyes, was thinking of something else.

With Tarantyev’s departure a dead silence reigned in the room for about ten minutes. Oblomov was worried by the bailiff’s letter and the prospect of moving to another flat, and partly tired by Tarantyev’s loud chatter. At last he sighed.

«Why don’t you write?» Alexeyev asked quietly. «I’ll sharpen a pen for you».

«Do, and then please go away», said Oblomov. «I’ll do it myself and you can copy it out after dinner».

«Very good, sir», Alexeyev replied. «I was afraid I might be disturbing you. I’ll go now and tell them not to expect you in Yekaterinhof. Good-bye, Mr Oblomov».

But Oblomov was not listening to him; he almost lay down in the arm-chair, with his feet tucked under him, looking very dispirited, lost in thought or perhaps dozing.