Many of them have not paid up their arrears. This year, Sir, we will send you about two thousand less than last year, unless the drought ruins us completely, otherwise we shall send you the money as promised.’

There followed expressions of loyalty and the signature: ‘Your bailiff and most humble slave, Sir, Prokofy Vytyagush-kin, has put his hand to it with his own hand.’ Being illiterate he put a cross under the letter. ‘Written from the words of the said bailiff by his brother-in-law, Dyomka the One-Eyed.’

Oblomov glanced at the end of the letter. ‘No month or year,’ he said. ‘I suppose the letter must have been lying about at the bailiff’s since last year – St John’s Eve and the drought! Just woken up to it!’ He sank into thought. ‘Well?’ he went on. ‘What do you make of it? He offers to send me about two thousand less – how much will that leave? How much do you think I received last year?’ he asked, looking at Alexeyev. ‘I didn’t mention it to you at the time, did I?’

Alexeyev raised his eyes to the ceiling and pondered.

‘I must ask Stolz when he comes,’ Oblomov continued. ‘Seven or eight thousand, I believe – I should have made a note of it! So now he puts me down to six! Why, I shall starve! How can I live on it?’

‘Why worry?’ said Alexeyev. ‘A man must never give way to despair. It will all come right in the end.’

‘But did you hear what he said? He doesn’t send me the money – oh no! He doesn’t say anything to put my mind at rest. All he is thinking of is to cause me unpleasantness, and he does it deliberately! Every year the same story! I simply don’t know what to do! Two thousand less!’

‘Yes, it’s a great loss!’ said Alexeyev. ‘Two thousand is no joke! Alexey Login, I understand, also got twelve instead of seventeen thousand this year.’

‘Twelve thousand isn’t six thousand,’ Oblomov interrupted him. ‘The bailiff has thoroughly upset me! If all this is really true – I mean, the bad harvest and the drought, then why has he to worry me before the proper time?’

‘Well, of course,’ Alexeyev began, ‘he shouldn’t have done that. But you can’t expect a peasant to have nice feelings, can you? That sort of man doesn’t understand anything.’

‘But what would you do in my place?’ asked Oblomov, looking questioningly at Alexeyev in the vain hope that he might think of something to allay his fears.

‘This requires careful thought,’ said Alexeyev. ‘It’s impossible to decide at once.’

‘Ought I to write to the Governor, I wonder?’ Oblomov said, musingly.

‘Who is your Governor?’ asked Alexeyev.

Oblomov did not reply and sank into thought. Alexeyev fell silent and also pondered.

Crumpling the letter in his hands, Oblomov propped up his head on them and, resting his elbows on his knees, sat like that for some time, tormented by an onrush of profitless thoughts.

‘I wish Stolz would hurry up and come,’ he said. ‘He writes to say he’s coming soon, meanwhile he’s rushing about goodness only knows where. He’d settle it all!’

He again stared sadly about him. They were both silent a long time. Oblomov was the first to rouse himself at last.

‘That’s what has to be done,’ he said resolutely and almost got out of bed. ‘And it must be done as soon as possible. No use wasting any more time. First – –’

At that moment there was a desperate ring at the front door, so that Oblomov and Alexeyev both gave a start and Zakhar at once jumped off the stove.

3

AT HOME’ someone in the hall asked loudly and gruffly.

‘Where would he go at this hour?’ Zakhar replied, more gruffly still.

A man of about forty came into the room. He was of massive build, tall, broad-shouldered, bulky, with a large head and big features, a short, thick neck, large protruding eyes, and full lips. A glance at him made one think of something coarse and untidy. It was clear that he made no attempt at dressing elegantly. It was not often that one saw him clean-shaven. But he did not seem to care; he was not ashamed of his clothes, and wore them with a kind of cynical dignity.

It was Mikhey Andreyich Tarantyev, a country neighbour of Oblomov.

Tarantyev looked at everything morosely, with ill-disguised contempt and open hostility towards the world at large; he was ready to abuse everyone and everything as though he had suffered some injustice or had been offended in his dignity, or like a man of strong character persecuted by destiny and submitting to it under protest and unwillingly. His gestures were bold and sweeping; he spoke in a loud voice, glibly and almost always angrily; listening to him from a distance one got the impression of three empty carts going over a bridge.