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Stranger, don't bother! - the old men said, sitting on the rubble and putting their elbows on their knees. - Let him have it! And you had nothing to walk on!

This was the corner where Oblomov was suddenly transported in a dream.

Of the three or four villages scattered there, one was Sosnovka, the other was Vavilovka, one mile from each other.

Sosnovka and Vavilovka were the hereditary homeland of the Oblomov family and therefore were known under the common name Oblomovka.

There was a master's estate and residence in Sosnovka. About five versts from Sosnovka lay the village of Verkhlevo, which also once belonged to the Oblomov family and had long ago passed into other hands, and several more scattered huts belonging to the same village.

The village belonged to a wealthy landowner who never went to his estate: it was managed by a German manager.

That's the whole geography of this corner.

Ilya Ilyich woke up in the morning in his small bed. He is only seven years old. It's easy and fun for him.

How cute, red and plump he is! The cheeks are so round that some naughty people would pout on purpose, but they wouldn’t do something like that.

The nanny is waiting for him to wake up. She begins to pull on his stockings, he doesn’t give in, plays naughty, dangles his legs, the nanny catches him, and they both laugh.

Finally she managed to get him to his feet, she washes him, combs his head and takes him to his mother. Oblomov, having seen him a long time ago deceased mother

, and in his sleep he trembled with joy, with hot love for her: he, sleepy, slowly floated out from under his eyelashes and became motionless.

His mother showered him with passionate kisses, then examined him with greedy, caring eyes to see if his eyes were cloudy, asked if anything hurt, asked the nanny if he slept peacefully, if he woke up at night, if he tossed about in his sleep, if he does he have a fever? Then she took his hand and led him to the image.

There, kneeling down and hugging him with one hand, she suggested to him the words of prayer.

The boy repeated them absentmindedly, looking out the window, from where coolness and the smell of lilac poured into the room.

Mama, shall we go for a walk today? - he suddenly asked in the middle of prayer.

Let’s go, darling,” she said hastily, without taking her eyes off the icon and hastening to finish the holy words.

The boy repeated them listlessly, but the mother put her whole soul into them.

Near the tea table, Oblomov saw an elderly aunt living with them, eighty years old, constantly grumbling at her little girl, who, shaking her head from old age, served her, standing behind her chair. There are three elderly girls, distant relatives of his father, and his mother’s slightly crazy brother-in-law, and the landowner of seven souls, Chekmenev, who was visiting them, and some other old women and old men.

This entire staff and retinue of the Oblomov house picked up Ilya Ilyich and began showering him with affection and praise, he barely had time to wipe away the traces of uninvited kisses.

After that, they began feeding him buns, crackers, and cream.

Then the mother, having petted him some more, let him go for a walk in the garden, in the yard, in the meadow, with a strict confirmation to the nanny not to leave the child alone, not to let him near horses, dogs, a goat, not to go far from the house, and most importantly, not to let him into the ravine, as the most terrible place in the area, which enjoyed a bad reputation.

They once found a dog there, recognized as rabid only because it rushed away from people when they attacked it with pitchforks and axes, disappeared somewhere behind the mountain, carrion was being taken into the ravine, robbers, wolves, and various others were supposed to be in the ravine creatures that either did not exist in that region or did not exist at all.

The child did not wait for his mother’s warnings: he had been out in the yard for a long time.

With joyful amazement, as if for the first time, he looked and ran around parents' house, with a gate crooked to one side, with a wooden roof sagging in the middle, on which delicate green moss grew, with a wobbly porch, various extensions and superstructures, and a neglected garden.

He passionately wants to run up to the hanging gallery that goes around the whole house in order to look at the river from there: but the gallery is dilapidated, barely holds up, and only “people” are allowed to walk along it, but gentlemen do not walk.

He did not heed his mother’s prohibitions and was about to head towards the seductive steps, but the nanny appeared on the porch and somehow caught him.

He rushed from her to the hayloft, with the intention of climbing up the steep stairs, and as soon as she had time to reach the hayloft, she had to rush to destroy his plans to climb into the dovecote, enter the barnyard and, God forbid! - into the ravine.

Oh, my God, what a child, what a spinning top! Will you sit still, sir? Ashamed! - said the nanny.

And the whole day and all the days and nights of the nanny were filled with turmoil, running around: now torture, now living joy for the child, now fear that he would fall and break his nose, now tenderness from his unfeigned childish affection or vague longing for his distant future: this Only her heart was beating, these emotions warmed the old woman’s blood, and somehow they supported her sleepy life, which without it, perhaps, would have died out a long time ago.

The child is not all playful, however: sometimes he suddenly becomes quiet, sitting next to the nanny, and looks at everything so intently. His childish mind observes all the phenomena taking place in front of him, they sink deep into his soul, then grow and mature with him.

The morning is magnificent, the air is cool, the sun is not yet high. From the house, from the trees, and from the dovecote, and from the gallery - long shadows ran far away from everything. Cool corners have formed in the garden and yard, inviting thoughtfulness and sleep. Only in the distance the field with rye seems to be on fire and the river sparkles and sparkles so much in the sun that it hurts your eyes.

Why is it, nanny, that it is dark here and light there, and then it will be light there too? - asked the child.

Because, father, the sun goes towards the month and does not see it, it frowns, but when it sees it from afar, it brightens.

The child becomes thoughtful and looks around: he sees how Antip went to fetch water, and on the ground, next to him, walked another Antip, ten times larger than the real one, and the barrel seemed as big as a house, and the horse’s shadow covered the entire meadow, the shadow only stepped twice across the meadow and suddenly moved over the mountain, and Antip had not yet managed to leave the yard.

The child also took a step or two, another step - and he would go over the mountain.

He would like to go to the mountain to see where the horse went. He was heading towards the gate, but his mother’s voice was heard from the window:

Nanny! Don't you see that the child ran out into the sun? Take him into the cold, his head will hurt - he will hurt, he will feel nauseous, he will not eat. He'll go into your ravine like that!

Uh! Darling! - the nanny quietly grumbles, dragging him out onto the porch.

The child looks and observes with a sharp and perceptive gaze, how and what adults do, what they devote their morning to.

Not a single detail, not a single feature escapes the child’s inquisitive attention; the picture of home life is indelibly etched into the soul, the soft mind is nourished with living examples and unconsciously draws a program for his life based on the life around him.

It cannot be said that the morning was wasted in the Oblomovs’ house. The sound of knives chopping cutlets and herbs in the kitchen even reached the village.

From the people's room one could hear the hissing of a spindle and the quiet, thin voice of a woman: it was difficult to discern whether she was crying or improvising a mournful song without words...

In the yard, as soon as Antip returned with the barrel, women and coachmen crawled towards her from different corners with buckets, troughs and jugs.

And there the old woman will carry a cup of flour and a bunch of eggs from the barn into the kitchen, there the cook will suddenly throw water out of the window and pour it on Little Arap, who all morning, without taking her eyes off, looks out the window, affectionately wagging her tail and licking her lips.

Oblomov himself is an old man who is also not without activities. He sits by the window all morning and strictly watches everything that is happening in the yard.

Hey, Ignashka? What are you talking about, fool? - he will ask a man walking in the yard.

“I’m taking the knives to the servants’ room to sharpen,” he answers without looking at the master.

Well, bring it, carry it, and get it right, look, sharpen it!

Then he stops the woman:

Hey grandma! Woman! Where did you go?

“To the cellar, father,” she said, stopping and, covering her eyes with her hand, looking at the window, “to get milk for the table.”

Well, go, go! - answered the master. - Be careful not to spill the milk.

And you, Zakharka, little shooter, where are you running again? - he shouted later. - Here I will let you run! I already see that this is the third time you are running. I went back to the hallway!

And Zakharka went into the hallway again to doze.

If the cows come from the field, the old man will be the first to make sure that they are given water; if he sees from the window that a mongrel is chasing a chicken, he will immediately take strict measures against the riots.

And his wife is very busy: for three hours she talks with Averka, the tailor, about how to alter Ilyusha’s jacket from her husband’s sweatshirt, she draws with chalk and makes sure that Averka doesn’t steal the cloth, then she goes to the girls’ room, asks each girl how much lace to weave per day, then he will invite Nastasya Ivanovna, or Stepanida Agapovna, or another of his retinue to walk around the garden with a practical purpose: to see how the apple is being filled, to see if yesterday’s apple, which is already ripe, has fallen, to plant there, to prune there, etc.

But the main concern was the kitchen and dinner. The whole house discussed dinner, and the elderly aunt was invited to the council. Everyone offered their own dish: some soup with giblets, some noodles or gizzard, some tripe, some red, some white gravy for the sauce.

Any advice was taken into account, discussed in detail and then accepted or rejected according to the final verdict of the hostess.

Nastasya Petrovna and Stepanida Ivanovna were constantly sent to the kitchen to remind them of whether to add this or cancel that, to bring sugar, honey, and wine for the meal and to see if the cook would put in everything that had been set aside.

Taking care of food was the first and main concern of life in Oblomovka. What calves grew fat there for the annual holidays! What a bird was raised! How many subtle considerations, how many activities and worries go into courting her! Turkeys and chickens assigned to name days and other special days were fattened with nuts, geese were deprived of exercise and forced to hang motionless in a sack several days before the holiday so that they would become fat. What stocks there were of jams, pickles, and cookies! What honeys, what kvass were brewed, what pies were baked in Oblomovka!

And so until noon everything was fussing and worrying, everything lived such a full, ant-like, such a noticeable life.

On Sunday and holidays These hardworking ants also did not calm down: then the knocking of knives in the kitchen was heard more often and louder, the woman made several trips from the barn to the kitchen with double the amount of flour and eggs, there were more groans and bloodshed in the poultry yard. They baked a gigantic pie, which the gentlemen themselves ate the next day; on the third and fourth days, the leftovers went to the girls' room, the pie lived until Friday, so that one completely stale end, without any filling, went, as a special favor, to Antipus, who, crossing himself, with a crash, he undauntedly destroyed this curious fossil, enjoying more the knowledge that this was the master’s pie than the pie itself, like an archaeologist who enjoys drinking crappy wine from a shard of some thousand-year-old pottery.

The dream about Oblomovka shows the hero’s dream, but its paradox is that it is directed not to the future, but to the past. The hero dreams of Oblomovka, in this dream a distinctly idyllic image of the “lost paradise”, the “golden age” of his life is created.

According to Goncharov, human nature is nourished by the first unconscious childhood impressions. The dream represents Oblomov’s childhood, but Goncharov does not begin the novel with a description of childhood, but transfers it to the ninth chapter, thus, we are first introduced to the hero’s personality, and then only the origins that shaped it are revealed.

Human and nature. When describing Oblomovka, the monotony of St. Petersburg is replaced by a variety of colors, bright, carrying light, caressing: “blessed corner of the earth”, “wonderful land”, “picturesque sketches”, “magnificent morning”, “beneficial summer rain”, “thunderstorms are beneficial in this region” . The atmosphere of this world is created by light, but not glaring, but soft: “clear days”, “rays of the sun”, “the stars blink so welcomingly, so friendly from the sky.”

And in the characters of people, such a nature imprints, first of all, leisurelyness, peace: “quiet and happy”, “silence and tranquility”, “happy people”, “it’s easy and fun for him”, “trembled with joy, with ardent love for his mother”, “ traces of kisses”, “shower him with affection and praise”, “his mother showered him with passionate kisses”, addressing the stranger as “brother”. Oblomov’s followers “feared passions like fire.”

In Oblomov’s dream, nature is not just the background of the narrative, but the natural basis of human life, the human and natural worlds are inseparable, therefore one of the main methods of expressiveness is personification: the sun turns back to look again at a favorite place; the river runs merrily, frolicking and playing; winter is like an unapproachable cold beauty. The nature of Oblomovka becomes a symbol of Home as a special atmosphere that a person carries within himself all his life. The image of the mother (mother woman and mother nature) unites all the elements of the chapter and creates the image of a native space where everything is warm motherly love

and care. The sky is compared to the parental roof, protecting the chosen corner from all adversity. Family as an image of harmony.

For Ilyusha, first of all, family and Home become an inspired and warm memory. The soul of this House is the mother, and it is to her that the most inspired lines are given. The image of the mother was forever identified in Oblomov’s mind with harmony, happiness, family, love, which is probably why in Oblomov’s dreams about his possible “golden paradise”, his family in the center is also a woman, wife, mother: “The queen of everything around sits at the samovar, his deity... Woman! Wife!"

The keeper of Oblomov's paradise is Ilyusha's father, Ilya Ivanovich, but it is no coincidence that Goncharov describes this “preservation of order” comically: the discrepancy between the seriousness of the instructions and the insignificance of their content is clearly felt. “Hey, Ignashka! What are you talking about?.. Well, bring it, carry it... Hey, woman! Grandma, where did you go? Well, go, go! Be careful not to spill the milk. And you, Zakharka, where are you running again? So I'll let you run! I already see that this is the third time you’ve run.” It is no coincidence that this “order” of Oblomovka includes a shaky porch, and a collapsed part of the gallery, and a fence that Ilya Ivanovich himself “strengthened” with two poles, and a bridge that was “repaired” by placing “three new boards” on it. Oblomovka's order turns out to be internally disharmonious, chaotic, unstable, and therefore doomed. The interests of the residents of Oblomovka were focused on themselves, did not overlap or come into contact with anyone else. “They knew that eighty miles from them there was a province, that there was a provincial city; then they knew that further away, there, Saratov or Nizhny; they heard that there were Moscow and St. Petersburg, that beyond St. Petersburg the French or Germans lived, and then a dark world began for them, as for the ancients, unknown countries inhabited by monsters, people with two heads, giants; there followed darkness - and, finally, everything ended with that fish that holds the earth on itself.” The border between Oblomov’s Cosmos and Chaos was the ravine as the most terrible place in the area; in the ravine there were supposed to be “robbers, and wolves, and various other creatures that either did not exist in that region or did not exist at all.” Not far from the ravine there is a birch forest. “There, they say, there are goblins, robbers, and terrible animals.”

The unfamiliar life that surrounds Oblomovka is perceived by them as Chaos. Crossing the border of Oblomov's house has always been painful for Ilyusha - be it studying in Verkhlevo or leaving for St. Petersburg. If Verkhlevo was a kind of continuation of Oblomov’s life, then St. Petersburg turned out to be a world of Chaos; it is no coincidence that Oblomov tried to close himself in his apartment - the small island of Oblomovka - from this world alien to him. The “evil spirits” of careerism, envy, gossip, and vanity still burst into his office from time to time (“parade of guests”), but could not penetrate Oblomov’s soul - his “inner Cosmos.”

The entire life of nature and the people of Oblomovka is “inscribed” in a kind of circle. Circle of seasons: “the annual cycle is completed there correctly and calmly”; circle of the day: morning – noon – twilight – night; circle of life: “homeland, wedding, funeral”; circle of generations, completely repeating themselves in their descendants: “The norm of life was ready and taught to them by their parents, and they accepted it, also ready, from their grandfather, and grandfather from their great-grandfather,” “as it was done under Ilya Ilyich’s father,” “then repetitions began : the birth of children, rituals, feasts... some faces give way to others... so life according to this program stretches on in a continuous, monotonous fabric.” Life stretches on in a continuous monotonous fabric, imperceptibly ending at the very grave. This is the essence of Oblomovism - the cessation of life, its freezing, the absence of desires and aspirations. “What goals should we achieve? You don’t need anything...” Oblomov’s people didn’t want a different life, “they will be bitten by melancholy if tomorrow doesn’t look like today, and the day after tomorrow doesn’t look like tomorrow.”

Everything “other” for Oblomov’s people is alien, distant, fraught with an obvious or hidden threat (it is no coincidence that the word “other” uttered by Zakhar caused a storm of indignation in Oblomov: “What an agreement you have reached! I will now know that I am all the same to you.” that “other”)). The concept of “others” is associated in the minds of Oblomovites with Chaos and destruction. According to the laws of the mythological opposition “friend - foe (“other”),” the scene of the meeting of the Oblomovites with a man who has lagged behind the artel is built. “The boys were the first to notice him and ran to the village in horror with the news of some terrible snake or werewolf lying in a ditch.” On the one hand, this “alien” man evokes genuine fear (“Where is it taking you?” the old men tried to calm him down. “Is your neck strong? What do you want? Don’t bother”), and on the other hand, a desire to appease: “Hey! You, brother! What do you want here? “Nezheshny” means “dangerous,” and therefore it is better to move away from him into the equipped and ordered Cosmos of Oblomovka: “And everyone went back to the village, telling the old people that the alien lies there, does not harm anything, and God knows that he is there ..."

A similar shock of peace and quiet is caused by a letter sent to Oblomovka, as it later turned out, by Philip Matveevich with a request to send a recipe for making beer: “Everyone was stunned: the hostess even changed a little in her face; “Everyone’s eyes turned and their noses stretched towards the letter.”

The “alien” world that lies outside Oblomovka is always identified with the unknown, threatening, and therefore destructive. Stolz’s news about the construction of a pier and a highway in Verkhlev, which is why Oblomovka will be not far from the main road, horrifies Oblomov: “Oh, my God! This was still missing! Oblomovka was so quiet, off to the side, and now it’s a fair, big road! Everything is lost! Trouble!

Oblomovka is a symbolic image, in many ways an image of Russia itself. This is the way of Russian life, not only with its negative, but also its poetic sides. Goncharov does not accept much in this way of life: lazy crawling from day to day, inactivity, lack of life goals, relying on “maybe”, on “somehow”, work as punishment, fear of any changes, sleep and food as the main content of life. It was Oblomovka, with her fading of life, that infected Ilya Ilyich with the inability to live: “It began with the inability to put on stockings, and ended with the inability to live.” The inability to live (the fading of life) and the ability to love, boundless tenderness (light in the soul) - the origins of this are precisely in the world of Oblomovka. However, on the other hand, Goncharov gave Oblomovka features of the Christian image of Eden, paradise, so we cannot doubt the author’s sympathies addressed to the world of Oblomovka.

I like to re-read Goncharov, not only is he my fellow countryman, he is also a wonderful writer. I just can’t get to the Frigate Pallas.

But today I want to leave a post about the harbinger of the OMD community. Do you remember in the novel “Oblomov” there is a chapter where Ilya’s childhood is described? It's called "Oblomov's Dream". Below the cut is an excerpt from it - a lot of text and not a single photograph.

And to attract attention - Goncharov’s house in Ulyanovsk:

That's the whole geography of this corner.
Ilya Ilyich woke up in the morning in his small bed. He is only seven years old. It's easy and fun for him.
The nanny is waiting for him to wake up. She begins to pull on his stockings; he doesn’t give in, plays pranks, dangles his legs; the nanny catches him and they both laugh.
Finally she managed to get him to his feet; she washes him, combs his head and takes him to his mother.
Oblomov, seeing his long-dead mother, trembled in his sleep with joy, with ardent love for her: in his sleepy state, two warm tears slowly floated out from under his eyelashes and became motionless.
, and in his sleep he trembled with joy, with hot love for her: he, sleepy, slowly floated out from under his eyelashes and became motionless.
His mother showered him with passionate kisses, then examined him with greedy, caring eyes to see if his eyes were cloudy, asked if anything hurt, asked the nanny if he slept peacefully, if he woke up at night, if he tossed about in his sleep, if he does he have a fever? Then she took his hand and led him to the image.
There, kneeling down and hugging him with one hand, she suggested to him the words of prayer.
- Shall we go for a walk today, Mama? - he suddenly asked in the middle of prayer.
“Let’s go, darling,” she said hastily, without taking her eyes off the icon and hastening to finish the holy words.
Let’s go, darling,” she said hastily, without taking her eyes off the icon and hastening to finish the holy words.
The boy repeated them listlessly, but the mother put her whole soul into them.
Near the tea table, Oblomov saw an elderly aunt living with them, eighty years old, constantly grumbling at her little girl, who, shaking her head from old age, served her, standing behind her chair. There are three elderly girls, distant relatives of his father, and his mother’s slightly crazy brother-in-law, and the landowner of seven souls, Chekmenev, who was visiting them, and some other old women and old men.
This entire staff and retinue of the Oblomov house picked up Ilya Ilyich and began showering him with affection and praise; he barely had time to wipe away the traces of uninvited kisses.
After that, they began feeding him buns, crackers, and cream.
Then the mother, having petted him some more, let him go for a walk in the garden, in the yard, in the meadow, with a strict confirmation to the nanny not to leave the child alone, not to let him near horses, dogs, a goat, not to go far from the house, and most importantly, not to let him into the ravine, as the most terrible place in the area, which enjoyed a bad reputation.
moss, with a shaky porch, various extensions and superstructures and a neglected garden.
He passionately wants to run up to the hanging gallery that goes around the whole house in order to look at the river from there: but the gallery is dilapidated, barely holds up, and only “people” are allowed to walk along it, but gentlemen do not walk.
He did not heed his mother’s prohibitions and was about to head towards the seductive steps, but the nanny appeared on the porch and somehow caught him.
He rushed from her to the hayloft, with the intention of climbing up the steep stairs, and as soon as she had time to reach the hayloft, she had to rush to destroy his plans to climb into the dovecote, enter the barnyard and, God forbid! - into the ravine.
- Oh, my God, what a child, what a spinning top! Will you sit still, sir? Ashamed! - said the nanny.
And the whole day and all the days and nights of the nanny were filled with turmoil, running around: now torture, now living joy for the child, now fear that he would fall and break his nose, now tenderness from his unfeigned childish affection or vague longing for his distant future: this Only her heart was beating, these emotions warmed the old woman’s blood, and somehow they supported her sleepy life, which without it, perhaps, would have died out a long time ago.
The child is not all playful, however: sometimes he suddenly becomes quiet, sitting next to the nanny, and looks at everything so intently. His childish mind observes all the phenomena taking place in front of him; they sink deep into his soul, then grow and mature with him.
The morning is magnificent; the air is cool; the sun is not high yet. From the house, from the trees, and from the dovecote, and from the gallery - long shadows ran far away from everything. Cool corners have formed in the garden and yard, inviting thoughtfulness and sleep. Only in the distance the field with rye seems to be on fire and the river sparkles and sparkles so much in the sun that it hurts your eyes.
- Why is it, nanny, that it’s dark here, and it’s light there, and then it will be light there too? - asked the child.
- Because, father, the sun goes towards the month and does not see it, it frowns; and as soon as he sees it from afar, he will brighten up.
The child becomes thoughtful and looks around: he sees how Antip went to fetch water, and on the ground, next to him, walked another Antip, ten times larger than the real one, and the barrel seemed as big as a house, and the horse’s shadow covered the entire meadow, the shadow only stepped twice across the meadow and suddenly moved over the mountain, and Antip had not yet managed to leave the yard.
The child also took a step or two, another step - and he would go over the mountain.
He would like to go to the mountain to see where the horse went. He was heading towards the gate, but his mother’s voice was heard from the window:
- Nanny! Don't you see that the child ran out into the sun? Take him into the cold; if it gets on his head, he will get sick, feel nauseous, and won’t eat. He'll go into your ravine like that!
- Uh! Darling! - the nanny quietly grumbles, dragging him out onto the porch.
The child looks and observes with a sharp and perceptive gaze, how and what adults do, what they devote their morning to.
Not a single detail, not a single feature escapes the child’s inquisitive attention; the picture of home life is indelibly etched into the soul; the soft mind is fed with living examples and unconsciously draws a program for his life based on the life around him.
It cannot be said that the morning was wasted in the Oblomovs’ house. The sound of knives chopping cutlets and herbs in the kitchen even reached the village.
From the people's room one could hear the hissing of a spindle and the quiet, thin voice of a woman: it was difficult to discern whether she was crying or improvising a mournful song without words...
In the yard, as soon as Antip returned with the barrel, women and coachmen crawled towards her from different corners with buckets, troughs and jugs.
And there the old woman will carry a cup of flour and a bunch of eggs from the barn into the kitchen; there the cook will suddenly throw water out of the window and pour it on Little Arapka, who, all morning, without taking her eyes off, looks out the window, affectionately wagging her tail and licking her lips.
Oblomov himself is an old man who is also not without activities. He sits by the window all morning and strictly watches everything that is happening in the yard.
- Hey, Ignashka? What are you talking about, fool? - he will ask a man walking in the yard.
“I’m taking the knives to the servants’ room to sharpen,” he answers without looking at the master.
- Well, bring it, bring it; yes, look, sharpen it well!
Then he stops the woman:
- Hey, grandma! Woman! Where did you go?
“To the cellar, father,” she said, stopping and, covering her eyes with her hand, looked at the window, “to get milk for the table.”
- Well, go, go! - answered the master. - Be careful not to spill the milk.
- And you, Zakharka, little shooter, where are you running again? - he shouted later. - Here I will let you run! I already see that this is the third time you are running. I went back to the hallway!
And Zakharka went into the hallway again to doze.
When the cows come from the field, the old man will be the first to make sure they are given water; If he sees from the window that a mongrel is chasing a chicken, he will immediately take strict measures against the riots.
And his wife is very busy: she spends three hours talking with Averka, the tailor, about how to alter Ilyusha’s jacket from her husband’s sweatshirt, she herself draws with chalk and watches so that Averka doesn’t steal the cloth; then he will go to the girls' room, ask each girl how much lace to weave on the day; then he will invite Nastasya Ivanovna, or Stepanida Agapovna, or another of his retinue to walk around the garden with a practical purpose: to see how the apple is pouring, to see if yesterday’s apple, which is already ripe, has fallen; graft there, prune there, etc.
But the main concern was the kitchen and dinner. The whole house discussed dinner; and the elderly aunt was invited to the council. Everyone offered their own dish: some soup with giblets, some noodles or gizzard, some tripe, some red, some white gravy for the sauce.
Any advice was taken into account, discussed in detail and then accepted or rejected according to the final verdict of the hostess.
Nastasya Petrovna and Stepanida Ivanovna were constantly sent to the kitchen to remind them of whether to add this or cancel that, to bring sugar, honey, and wine for the meal and to see if the cook would put in everything that had been set aside.
Taking care of food was the first and main concern of life in Oblomovka. What calves grew fat there for the annual holidays! What a bird was raised! How many subtle considerations, how many activities and worries go into courting her! Turkeys and chickens assigned to name days and other special days were fattened with nuts; The geese were deprived of exercise and forced to hang motionless in a bag several days before the holiday, so that they would swim with fat. What stocks there were of jams, pickles, and cookies! What honeys, what kvass were brewed, what pies were baked in Oblomovka!
And so until noon everything was fussing and worrying, everything lived such a full, ant-like, such a noticeable life.
On Sundays and holidays, these hardworking ants also did not stop: then the knocking of knives in the kitchen was heard more often and louder; the woman made the journey from the barn to the kitchen several times with double the amount of flour and eggs; there was more groaning and bloodshed in the poultry yard. They baked a gigantic pie, which the gentlemen themselves ate the next day; on the third and fourth days, the leftovers went to the maiden room; the pie lived until Friday, so that one completely stale end, without any filling, went, as a special favor, to Antipus, who, crossing himself, undauntedly destroyed this curious fossil with a crash, enjoying more the knowledge that this was the master’s pie than the pie itself, like an archaeologist who enjoys drinking crappy wine from a shard of some thousand-year-old pottery.
And the child looked and observed everything with his childish mind, which did not miss anything. He saw how, after a useful and troublesome morning spent, noon and lunch came.
The afternoon is sultry; the sky is clear. The sun stands motionless overhead and burns the grass. The air has stopped flowing and hangs motionless. Neither the tree nor the water moves; There is an imperturbable silence over the village and the field - everything seems to have died out. A human voice is heard loudly and far away in the void. Twenty fathoms away you can hear a beetle flying and buzzing, and in the thick grass someone is still snoring, as if someone has fallen in there and is sleeping in a sweet dream.
And dead silence reigned in the house. The time for everyone's afternoon nap has arrived.
The child sees that his father, his mother, his old aunt, and his retinue have all scattered to their own corners; and whoever didn’t have one went to the hayloft, another to the garden, a third sought coolness in the hallway, and another, covering his face with a handkerchief from the flies, fell asleep where the heat overpowered him and the bulky dinner fell on him. And the gardener stretched out under a bush in the garden, next to his ice pick, and the coachman slept in the stable.
Ilya Ilyich looked into the people's room: in the people's room everyone lay down, on the benches, on the floor and in the hallway, leaving the children to their own devices; children crawl around the yard and dig in the sand. And the dogs climbed far into their kennels, fortunately there was no one to bark at.
You could walk through the entire house and not meet a soul; it was easy to rob everything around and take it out of the yard on carts: no one would have interfered, if only there were thieves in that region.
It was some kind of all-consuming, invincible dream, a true likeness of death. Everything is dead, only from all corners comes a variety of snoring in all tones and modes.
Occasionally, someone will suddenly raise his head from sleep, look senselessly, with surprise, on both sides and roll over to the other side, or, without opening his eyes, he will spit in his sleep and, chewing his lips or muttering something under his breath, will fall asleep again.
And the other quickly, without any preliminary preparations, will jump with both feet from his bed, as if afraid to lose precious minutes, grab a mug of kvass and, blowing on the flies floating there, so that they are carried to the other edge, causing the flies, until motionless, begin to move violently, in the hope of improving their situation, wet their throat and then fall back onto the bed as if shot.
And the child watched and watched.
After dinner, he and the nanny went out into the air again. But the nanny, despite all the severity of the lady’s orders and her own will, could not resist the charm of sleep. She also became infected with this epidemic disease that prevailed in Oblomovka.
At first she cheerfully looked after the child, did not let him go far from her, sternly grumbled about his playfulness, then, feeling the symptoms of an approaching infection, she began to beg him not to go beyond the gate, not to touch the goat, not to climb into the dovecote or gallery.
She herself sat down somewhere in the cold: on the porch, on the threshold of the cellar, or simply on the grass, apparently in order to knit a stocking and look after the child. But soon she lazily calmed him down, nodding her head.
“Oh, just behold, this spinning top will climb into the gallery,” she thought almost in a dream, “or else... into a ravine, as it were...”
Here the old woman’s head bowed to her knees, the stocking fell out of her hands; she lost sight of the child and, opening her mouth a little, let out a light snore.
And he was looking forward to this moment with which his independent life began.
It was as if he was alone in the whole world; he tiptoed away from the nanny; looked at everyone who was sleeping where; will stop and look closely at how someone wakes up, spit and mutter something in their sleep; then, with a sinking heart, he ran up to the gallery, ran around on the creaking boards, climbed the dovecote, climbed into the wilderness of the garden, listened to the buzzing of the beetle, and with his eyes followed its flight in the air far away; listened to someone chirping in the grass, looked for and caught the violators of this silence; catches a dragonfly, tears off its wings and sees what becomes of it, or pokes a straw through it and watches how it flies with this addition; with pleasure, fearing to die, he watches the spider, how it sucks the blood of a caught fly, how the poor victim beats and buzzes in his paws. The child will end up killing both the victim and the tormentor.
Then he climbs into the ditch, digs around, looks for some roots, peels off the bark and eats to his heart's content, preferring the apples and jam that his mother gives him.
He will run out of the gate: he would like to go into the birch forest; it seems so close to him that he could get to it in five minutes, not around along the road, but straight through the ditch, hedges and holes; but he is afraid: there, they say, there are goblins, and robbers, and terrible beasts.
He wants to run into the ravine: it is only fifty yards from the garden; the child was already running to the edge, closed his eyes, wanted to look like into the crater of a volcano... but suddenly all the rumors and legends about this ravine arose before him: horror seized him, and he, neither alive nor dead, rushes back and, trembling from out of fear, rushed to the nanny and woke up the old woman.
She woke up from her sleep, straightened the scarf on her head, picked up scraps of gray hair under it with her finger and, pretending that she had not slept at all, glances suspiciously at Ilyusha, then at the master's windows and begins with trembling fingers to poke the needles of the stocking that lay with her one into the other on the knees.
Meanwhile, the heat began to subside little by little; nature has become more lively; the sun has already moved towards the forest.
And little by little the silence in the house was broken: in one corner a door creaked somewhere; someone's footsteps were heard in the yard; someone sneezed in the hayloft.
Soon a man hurriedly carried a huge samovar from the kitchen, bending over from the weight. They began to get ready for tea: some of their faces were wrinkled and their eyes were swollen with tears; he left a red spot on his cheek and temples; the third speaks from sleep in a voice that is not his own. All this sniffles, groans, yawns, scratches his head and stretches, barely coming to his senses.
Lunch and sleep gave rise to an unquenchable thirst. Thirst burns my throat; twelve cups of tea are drunk, but this does not help: groaning and groaning can be heard; they resort to lingonberry water, pear water, kvass, and others even to medical aid, just to relieve the drought in their throat.
Everyone was looking for liberation from thirst, as from some kind of punishment from God; everyone is rushing about, everyone is languishing, like a caravan of travelers in the Arabian steppe, not finding a spring of water anywhere.
The child is here, next to his mother: he peers into the strange faces surrounding him, listens to their sleepy and sluggish conversation. It’s fun for him to look at them, and every nonsense they say seems curious to him.
After tea, everyone will do something: some will go to the river and quietly wander along the bank, pushing pebbles into the water with their feet; another will sit by the window and catch with his eyes every fleeting phenomenon: whether a cat runs across the yard, whether a jackdaw flies by, the observer pursues both with his eyes and the tip of his nose, turning his head now to the right, now to the left. So sometimes dogs like to sit for whole days on the window, exposing their heads to the sun and carefully looking at every passerby.
The mother will take Ilyusha’s head, put it on her lap and slowly comb his hair, admiring its softness and making Nastasya Ivanovna and Stepanida Tikhonovna admire it, and talk to them about Ilyusha’s future, making him the hero of some brilliant epic she created. They promise him mountains of gold.
But now it begins to get dark. The fire is crackling in the kitchen again, the rattling sound of knives is heard again: dinner is being prepared.
The servants have gathered at the gate: a balalaika and laughter can be heard there. People play burners.
And the sun was already setting behind the forest; it cast several slightly warm rays, which cut a fiery stripe through the entire forest, brightly bathing the tops of the pines in gold. Then the rays went out one after another; the last ray remained for a long time; he, like a thin needle, pierced the thicket of branches; but that too went out.
Objects lost their shape; everything merged first into a gray, then into a dark mass. The singing of the birds gradually weakened; soon they fell completely silent, except for one stubborn one, who, as if in defiance of everyone, in the general silence, alone chirped monotonously at intervals, but less and less, and she finally whistled weakly, silently, last time, woke up, slightly moving the leaves around her... and fell asleep.
Everything fell silent. Some grasshoppers made louder noises when they started. White vapors rose from the ground and spread across the meadow and river. The river also calmed down; a little later, someone suddenly splashed inside her one last time, and she became motionless.
It smelled damp. It got darker and darker. The trees were grouped into some kind of monsters; It became scary in the forest: there, someone would suddenly creak, as if one of the monsters was moving from its place to another, and a dry twig seemed to crunch under his foot.
The first star sparkled brightly in the sky, like a living eye, and lights flickered in the windows of the house.
These are the moments of general, solemn silence of nature, those moments when the creative mind works more powerfully, poetic thoughts boil hotter, when passion flares up more vividly in the heart or melancholy aches more painfully, when the seed of a criminal thought ripens more calmly and strongly in a cruel soul, and when... in Oblomovka everyone rests so soundly and peacefully.
“Let’s go for a walk, mom,” says Ilyusha.
- What are you, God bless you! Now go for a walk,” she replies, “it’s damp, you’ll catch cold in your legs; and it’s scary: a goblin is now walking in the forest, he’s carrying away little children.
-Where is he taking it? What is it like? Where does he live? - asks the child.
And the mother gave free rein to her unbridled imagination.
The child listened to her, opening and closing his eyes, until, finally, sleep overcame him completely. The nanny came and, taking him from his mother’s lap, carried him sleepy, with his head hanging over her shoulder, to bed.
- Well, the day has passed, and thank God! - said the Oblomovites, lying in bed, groaning and making the sign of the cross. - Lived well; God willing it will be the same tomorrow! Glory to you, Lord! Glory to you, Lord!"

Literally immediately after the release of the novel by I.A. Goncharov “Oblomov” at the end of 1859, an article by the famous critic N.A. was published in the magazine “Sovremennik”. Dobrolyubova, dedicated to the main storylines the novel, the analysis of the main character and such a collective phenomenon as Oblomovism. Unfortunately, the manuscripts of the article have not survived to this day, but the first printing proofs that were used to print the first version of the article are still alive. Today these relics are kept in the Pushkin House of the USSR Academy of Sciences.

As among literary works have their own masterpieces, and among critical materials Dobrolyubov's article can be called the pinnacle of his skill. In it, the author showed the originality of his aesthetic thoughts, and his thoughts became an independent document claiming to be of socio-political significance. For the author, “Oblomovism” became a “sign of the times.” He considered the main character a “living modern Russian type,” arguing that there are not so few people like Ilya Ilyich in Russian society. In Dobrolyubov’s article, “Oblomovshchina” was a certain allegory of serfdom.

Dobrolyubov’s article clearly showed his opinion that it was necessary to break as quickly as possible all ties that had developed between Russian revolutionary democracy and the liberal-noble intelligentsia. It was the reactionary essence of the latter, in contrast to the revolutionary outlook on life of the former, that became for Dobrolyubov evidence of the disintegration of the ruling class. The author considered this state of affairs to be a danger to the liberation struggle that was being waged in those years within Russia.

(Agafya Matveevna Pshenitsyna - Oblomov's wife)

What else is included in the concept of Oblomovism? Firstly, this is the desire to satisfy natural, almost animal needs: the main activities for them are preparing food with its subsequent absorption and sleep, which is invincible. Secondly, this is inertia and a poor spiritual world. Residents of Oblomovka are not interested in the meaning of life - for them, only solving everyday issues is important. Thirdly, the inability to do something useful for society. As a result, from the inquisitive and lively boy that Ilyusha was in childhood, he grew into a lazy man who did not want anything. And even the ardent feeling in the soul, the emerging love for Olga and sincere friendship on the part of Andrei, could not overcome laziness and reluctance to live life to the fullest.

Another person against whom the main theses of the article were directed was the famous publicist and writer A.I. Herzen. As is known, the latter was the author of articles in which he expressed a point of view different from Dobrolyubov’s regarding such a concept as extra people and the mission with which they came to this earth. It cannot be said that Herzen did not react to Dobrolyubov’s article by making changes to his previous statements.

Published critical article“What is Oblomovism” caused a controversial reaction. Conservatives, liberal nobles, and the bourgeois public were indignant, while representatives of the revolutionary vector of social development, on the contrary, celebrated their victory. Even the author who came up with the image of Ilya Ilyich agreed with Dobrolyubov.

Oblomov was noble family, had the rank of collegiate secretary and lived continuously in St. Petersburg for twelve years. When his parents were alive, he occupied only two rooms. He was served by his servant Zakhar, who had been taken from the village. After the death of his father and mother, he inherited three hundred and fifty souls in one of the remote provinces. “He was still young then and, if it cannot be said that he was alive, then at least more alive than now; he was also full of various aspirations, he kept hoping for something, expecting a lot both from fate and from himself...” He thought a lot about his role in society and painted pictures of family happiness in his imagination.

But the years passed - “the fluff turned into a coarse beard, the rays of the eyes were replaced by two dull dots, the waist rounded, the hair began to grow mercilessly.” He was thirty years old, and he had not moved forward a single step in his life - he was just gathering and preparing to start living. Life, in his understanding, was divided into two halves: one consisted of work and boredom, the other of peace and peaceful fun.

“At first, the service puzzled him in the most unpleasant way.” Brought up in the provinces, among relatives, friends and acquaintances, he was “imbued with family principles”; future service seemed to him to be some kind of family activity. Officials in one place, in his opinion, constituted a friendly family, caring for mutual peace and pleasure. He thought that going to work every day was not necessary, and reasons such as bad weather or a bad mood could be a good reason for being absent. Imagine his surprise when he realized that a healthy official might not come to work only if there was an earthquake or flood.

“Oblomov became even more thoughtful when packages with the inscription necessary And very necessary, when he was forced to make various certificates, extracts, rummage through files, write notebooks two fingers thick, which, as if in mockery, were called notes; Moreover, everyone demanded it quickly, everyone was in a hurry, they didn’t stop at anything...” Even at night they picked him up and forced him to write notes. “When to live? When to live? - he repeated. He imagined the boss as something like a second father, who always takes care of his subordinates and puts himself in their position. However, on the first day he was disappointed. When the boss arrived, everyone started running, knocking each other down, and trying to appear as good as possible.

Ilya Ilyich’s first boss was a kind and pleasant person, he never shouted or spoke badly about anyone. All his subordinates were pleased with him, but for some reason they were always timid in his presence and answered all his questions in a voice other than their own. Ilya Ilyich also became timid in the presence of his boss and spoke to him in a “thin and nasty” voice. It was not easy for him to serve under a kind boss, and it is not known what would have happened to him if he had ended up with a strict boss.

Somehow Oblomov served for two years, and if one unforeseen incident had not occurred, he would have continued to serve. One day he accidentally sent some necessary paper to Arkhangelsk instead of Astrakhan, and was afraid that he would have to answer. Without waiting for punishment, he went home, sent a medical certificate of illness to the service, and then resigned.

“So it ended - and then was not resumed - his government activity. He was better able to play a role in society.” In the first years of his stay in St. Petersburg, when he was young, “his eyes shone for a long time with the fire of life, rays of light, hope, and strength flowed from them.” But that was a long time ago when a person sees only good in any other person and falls in love with any woman, and anyone is ready to offer their hand and heart.

In previous years, Ilya Ilyich received many “passionate glances”, “promising smiles”, handshakes and kisses, but he never gave himself up to beauties and was never even their “diligent admirer”, because courtship is always accompanied by troubles. Oblomov preferred to worship from afar. Women with whom he could immediately fall in love rarely came across him in society; he avoided too ardent girls, so he love relationship never developed into novels, but stopped at the very beginning. “His soul was still pure and innocent; she, perhaps, was waiting for her love, her support, her passion, and then, over the years, it seems, she stopped waiting and despaired.”

Ilya Ilyich’s friends became fewer and fewer every year. After the headman sent the first letter about arrears in the village, he replaced his first friend, the cook, with a cook, then sold the horses and said goodbye to other friends. “Almost nothing attracted him from the house,” and every day he left the apartment less and less. At first it was hard for him to walk around dressed all day, then he gradually became lazy about dining out, and only went to close friends, where he could free himself from tight clothes and get some sleep. Soon he got tired of putting on a tailcoat and shaving every day. And only his friend Stolz managed to bring him into the public eye. But Stolz was often on the road, and, left alone, Oblomov “plunged head over heels into his solitude, from which only something extraordinary could bring him out,” but this was not expected. In addition, over the years he became more timid and expected harm from everything he encountered at home, for example, from a crack in the ceiling. “He was not used to movement, to life, to crowds, to vanity.” Sometimes he fell into a state of nervous fear, afraid of silence. He lazily waved his hand at all the hopes that youth had brought and all the bright memories.

“What was he doing at home? Read? Did you write? Studied?"

If he came across a book or newspaper, he read it. If he hears about some wonderful work, he will have a desire to get acquainted with it. He will ask you to bring it and, if it is brought quickly, he will begin to read. If he had made at least some effort, he would have mastered the subject about which we're talking about in the book. But without finishing the book, he put it aside, lay down and looked at the ceiling.

He studied, like everyone else, until he was fifteen years old in a boarding school. Then his parents sent him to Moscow, “where he, willy-nilly, followed the course of science to the end.” During his years of study he did not show laziness or whims; he listened to what the teachers told him and had difficulty learning the assigned lessons. “He generally considered all this to be a punishment sent down by heaven for our sins.” He did not read or teach more than what the teachers asked and did not require explanations. When Stolz brought him books that he needed to read beyond what he had learned, Oblomov looked at his friend for a long time, but still read. “Serious reading tired him.” At some point, he became interested in poetry, and Stolz tried to prolong this hobby longer. “Stolz’s youthful gift infected Oblomov, and he burned with a thirst for work, a distant but charming goal.” However, Ilya Ilyich soon sobered up, and only occasionally, on the advice of Stolz, lazily skimmed the lines. He had difficulty getting through the books that were brought to him and often fell asleep even in the most interesting places.

After finishing his studies, he no longer sought to learn anything. Everything he learned during his studies was stored in his head in the form of an “archive of dead cases.” The teaching had a strange effect on Ilya Ilyich: “he had a whole abyss between science and life, which he did not try to cross.” He went through the entire course of legal proceedings, but when something was stolen in his house and he needed to write some kind of paper to the police, he sent for a clerk.

All affairs in the village, including money, were conducted by the headman. Oblomov himself “continued to draw the pattern of his own life.” Thinking about the purpose of his existence, he came to the conclusion that the meaning of his life lies in himself, that he received “family happiness and worries about the estate.” Until that time, he did not know all his affairs, because Stolz took care of them. Since the death of his parents, things on the estate have been getting worse every year. Oblomov understood that he needed to go there and figure it out himself, but “the trip was a feat for him.” In his life, Ilya Ilyich made only one trip: from his village to Moscow, “among feather beds, caskets, suitcases, hams, rolls... and accompanied by several servants.” And now, lying on the sofa, he was drawing up in his mind “a new, fresh plan for organizing the estate and managing the peasants.” The idea for this plan had been in place for a long time; all that remained was to calculate a few things.

As soon as he gets out of bed in the morning, after tea, he will immediately lie down on the sofa, prop his head on his hand and think, sparing no effort, until his head is finally tired of hard work and when his conscience says: enough has been done today for the common good.

Only then does he decide to take a break from his work and change his caring posture to another, less businesslike and strict, more convenient for dreams and bliss.

Freed from business worries, Oblomov loved to withdraw into himself and live in the world he created.

The pleasures of lofty thoughts were available to him; he was no stranger to universal human sorrows. He wept bitterly in the depths of his soul at other times over the misfortunes of mankind, experienced unknown, nameless suffering, and melancholy, and a longing for somewhere far away, probably to the world where Stolz used to take him.

Sweet tears will flow down his cheeks...

But towards evening, “Oblomov’s weary forces tend towards peace: storms and unrest are humbled in the soul, the head is sobered from thoughts, the blood slowly makes its way through the veins...” Ilya Ilyich thoughtfully turned over on his back, fixed a sad look at the sky and sadly followed the sun with his eyes . But the next day came, and with it new worries and dreams arose. He liked to imagine himself as an invincible commander, a great artist or thinker, and to invent wars and their causes. In bitter moments, he turned over from side to side, lay face down, sometimes knelt down and prayed fervently. And all his moral strength went into this.

No one knew or saw this inner life of Ilya Ilyich: everyone thought that Oblomov was so-so, just lying down and eating to his health, and that there was nothing more to expect from him; that he hardly even has thoughts in his head. That’s how they talked about him everywhere they knew him.

Stolz knew in detail about his abilities, about his inner volcanic work of an ardent head, a humane heart and could testify, but Stoltz was almost never in St. Petersburg.

Only Zakhar, who spent his entire life around his master, knew even more in detail his entire inner life; but he was convinced that he and the master were doing business and living normally, as they should, and that they should not live differently.

Zakhar was over fifty years old. He faithfully served his master, and at the same time lied to him at every step, stole a little, loved to drink with friends, sometimes spread some incredible story about the master, but sometimes, at meetings at the gate, he suddenly began to exalt Ilya Ilyich, and “then there was no end to the delights.”

Zakhar is untidy. He rarely shaves and although he washes his hands and face, it seems that he mostly pretends to wash; and you can’t wash it off with any soap. When he goes to the bathhouse, his hands turn from black to red for only two hours, and then black again.

He is very awkward: whether he opens gates or doors, he opens one half, the other closes; runs to that one, this one shuts up.

He never immediately picks up a handkerchief or any other thing from the floor, but always bends down three times, as if catching it, and perhaps on the fourth he picks it up, and then sometimes he drops it again.

If he carries a bunch of dishes or other things across the room, then from the very first step the upper things begin to desert to the floor. First she will fly alone; he suddenly makes a late and useless movement to prevent her from falling, and drops two more. He looks, open-mouthed in surprise, at the things falling, and not at those that remain in his hands, and therefore holds the tray askance, and things continue to fall - and so sometimes he will bring one glass or plate to the other end of the room, and sometimes with abuse and curses he himself will throw away the last thing left in his hands.

Walking around the room, he will touch either his foot or his side on a table or a chair; he does not always hit the open half of the door directly, but hits his shoulder against the other, and curses both halves, or the owner of the house, or the carpenter who made them.

Almost all the things in Oblomov’s office are broken or broken, especially small ones that require careful handling - and all by the grace of Zakhar.

He applies his ability to pick up a thing equally to all things, without making any difference in the way he handles this or that thing.

They are told, for example, to remove it from a candle or pour water into a glass: he will use as much force for this as is necessary to open the gate.

God forbid, when Zakhar becomes inflamed with zeal to please the master and decides to remove, clean, install, quickly, put everything in order at once! There was no end to the troubles and losses: it is unlikely that an enemy soldier breaking into a house would cause so much damage. Breaking began, various things fell, dishes were broken, chairs were overturned; It ended with him having to be kicked out of the room, or he himself would leave with abuse and curses.

Fortunately, he was very rarely inflamed by such zeal.

The reason for all these troubles was Zakhar’s upbringing, which he received in the village, in the free air, and not in cramped offices. He was used to serving without any restrictions on his movements, and handling solid things - a crowbar, a shovel, massive chairs.

Zakhar drew up a certain circle of activity for himself, which he did not step beyond at will. In the morning he put on the samovar and cleaned the dress that the master asked for, and never cleaned the one that he did not ask for. Then he swept the room (and not every day), without reaching the corners, and wiped the dust only from the table on which there was nothing. After that, unencumbered by worries, he dozed on the couch or chatted with the servants at the gate. If it was necessary to do something besides this, Zakhar always did it reluctantly, and nothing could be added to the responsibilities that Zakhar himself established for himself.

But, despite all his shortcomings, Zakhar was devoted to his master, and if necessary, he would not hesitate to burn or drown for him. He did not think about his feelings for the master, they came from his heart. Zakhar would have died instead of the master, considering it his duty. But if it were necessary to sit all night at Ilya Ilyich’s bedside, and the master’s health or life depended on it, Zakhar would definitely fall asleep.

Zakhar’s feelings towards the master did not appear, he treated him rudely and familiarly, was angry with him for every little thing and slandered him at the gate, but his sense of devotion to Ilya Ilyich and to everything that was connected with the Oblomovs did not weaken. “Zakhar loved Oblomovka like a cat loves its attic.”

While serving in the village, in a manor house in Oblomovka, the naturally lazy Zakhar became even more lazy. Most of the time he dozed in the hallway or chatted with other servants. “And after such a life, he was suddenly burdened with the heavy burden of carrying the service of an entire house on his shoulders!” Having never fully come to terms with this, he became gloomy and cruel. “Because of this, he grumbled every time the master’s voice forced him to leave the couch.”

Despite, however, this outward gloominess and wildness, Zakhar had a rather soft and kind heart. He even loved spending time with the kids. In the yard, at the gate, he was often seen with a bunch of children. He makes peace with them, teases them, arranges games, or simply sits with them, taking one on one knee, the other on the other, and some other naughty person will wrap his arms around his neck from behind or pull his sideburns.

And so Oblomov prevented Zakhar from living by constantly demanding his services and presence around him, while his heart, sociable disposition, love of inaction and the eternal, never-ending need to chew drew Zakhar first to his godfather, then to the kitchen, then to the bench, then to the gate.

They had known each other for a long time and lived together for a long time. Zakhar nursed little Oblomov in his arms, and Oblomov remembers him as a young, agile, gluttonous and crafty guy.

The ancient connection was ineradicable between them. Just as Ilya Ilyich did not know how to get up, or go to bed, or be combed and put on shoes, or have dinner without Zakhar’s help, so Zakhar could not imagine another master besides Ilya Ilyich, another existence, how to dress him, feed him, be rude to him, be disingenuous , lie and at the same time inwardly revere him.

Zakhar, having closed the door behind Tarantiev and Alekseev, did not go to the couch. He stayed waiting for the master to call him, because he heard that Ilya Ilyich was going to write. But everything was quiet in the master’s office. Looking through the door crack, Zakhar saw that Oblomov was lying on the sofa, leaning his head on his palm, and reading a book. He reminded the master that he was going to wash and write. Oblomov, putting the book aside, yawned and again began to think about his misfortunes, “he was drawn to bliss and dreams.”

“No, first things first,” he thought sternly, “and then...” He lay down on his back and began to imagine the plan for a new village house and orchard. He imagined himself sitting on the terrace on a summer evening, at the tea table, in the shade of the trees and enjoying the silence and coolness. At the gate one can hear the cheerful voices of the servants, little children are frolicking around him, and “the queen of everything around him, his deity... a woman, sees behind the samovar! wife!" Zakhar sets the table in the dining room, and everyone, including his childhood friend Stolz, sits down for dinner. And this dream was so bright and alive that Oblomov’s face lit up with happiness, and “he suddenly felt a vague desire for love, quiet happiness..., for his home, wife and children. “Oh my god!” - he said from complete happiness and woke up.”

But the voices and noise heard from the street brought him back to reality, and the same worries arose in his memory: the plan of the house, the headman, the apartment... Oblomov quickly got up on the sofa, sat down and called Zakhar. When the servant arrived, he again fell into thought, began to pull himself up, yawning... Zakhar said that the manager came again and ordered him to move out next week. After another squabble with a servant, Oblomov sat down to write a letter to the landlord. The letter turned out awkward, and then there was Zakhar with his bills... “This is ruin! “This is not like anything,” said Oblomov, pushing away the greasy notebooks with bills, and Zakhar, “closing his eyes and grumbling,” explained to him where the debts came from.

Finally, Ilya Ilyich drove Zakhar away, sat down on a chair, tucked his legs under him, and at that moment the bell rang. It was the doctor who came, a short man with a bald head, rosy cheeks and a caring, attentive face.

Doctor! What destinies? - Oblomov exclaimed, extending one hand to the guest and moving the chair with the other.

“I missed you all being healthy, you didn’t call me, I came in myself,” the doctor answered jokingly. “No,” he then added seriously, “I was upstairs, at your neighbor’s, and I came in to check on you.”

Thank you. What about the neighbor?

What: three or four weeks, and maybe it will last until the fall, and then... water in the chest: the end is known. Well, what are you doing?

Oblomov sadly shook his head:

Not good, doctor. I was thinking about consulting with you myself. I do not know what to do. My stomach almost doesn’t cook, there’s a heaviness in the pit of my stomach, heartburn is tormenting me, my breathing is heavy... - Oblomov said with a pitiful expression.

Give me your hand,” said the doctor, took the pulse and closed his eyes for a minute. - Do you have a cough? - he asked.

At night, especially after I have dinner.

Hm! Is there a heartbeat? My head hurts?

And the doctor made several more similar questions, then tilted his bald head and thought deeply. Two minutes later he suddenly raised his head and said in a decisive voice:

If you live another two or three years in this climate and just lie around and eat fatty and heavy food, you will die with a blow.

Oblomov perked up.

What should I do? Teach, for God's sake! - he asked.

The same as others do: go abroad.

Abroad! - Oblomov repeated with amazement.

Yes; And what?

For mercy, doctor, go abroad! How is this possible?

Why is it not possible?

Oblomov silently looked around himself, then his office and mechanically repeated:

Abroad!

What's stopping you?

Like what? All...

Lord!.. - Oblomov groaned.

Finally,” the doctor concluded, “before winter, go to Paris and there, in the whirlwind of life, have fun, don’t think twice: from the theater to the ball, to the masquerade, to the countryside on visits, so that you have friends, noise, laughter around you...

Is there anything else needed? - asked Oblomov with thinly hidden annoyance.

The doctor thought...

How about taking advantage of the sea air: board a ship in England and take a ride to America...

He stood up and began to say goodbye.

If you do all this exactly... - he said...

“Okay, okay, I’ll definitely do it,” Oblomov answered caustically, seeing him off.

The doctor left, leaving Oblomov in the most pitiful position. He closed his eyes, put both hands on his head, curled up in the chair and sat like that, not looking anywhere, not feeling anything.

After seeing the doctor off, Oblomov again began to quarrel with Zakhar. The reasons for the discord were the same: troubles associated with the move and a letter from the headman. When Zakhar humbly remarked: “Others, no worse than us, are moving, so we can too...”, Ilya Ilyich lost his temper. He considered the fact that Zakhar compared him with others to be an insult. He imperiously pointed Zakhar to the door and for a long time could not calm down. After some time, he called the servant to explain to him the vileness of his act. Without understanding each other, the master and the servant made peace.

I hope that you have understood your misdeed,” said Ilya Ilyich, when Zakhar brought kvass, “and in future you will not compare the master with others.” To make up for your guilt, you somehow settle things with the owner so that I don’t have to move. This is how you protect the master’s peace: you completely upset me and deprived me of any new useful thought. And from whom did he take it? At home; I dedicated myself entirely to you, I retired for you, I’m locked up... Well, God bless you! Look, it's striking three o'clock! It’s only two hours before lunch, what can you do in two hours? - Nothing. There's a lot to do. So be it, I’ll put the letter aside until the next mail, and I’ll sketch out a plan tomorrow. Well, now I’ll lie down a little: I’m completely exhausted; you lower the curtains and shut me tightly so that they don’t interfere; Maybe I’ll fall asleep in an hour; and wake me up at half past four.

Zakhar began to block the master in the office; He first covered him and tucked the blanket under him, then he lowered the curtains, locked all the doors tightly and went to his room.

May you die, you devil! - he grumbled, wiping away traces of tears and climbing onto the couch. - Right, goblin! A special house, a garden, a salary! - said Zakhar, who only understood last words. - A master of speaking pitiful words: it’s like cutting through the heart like a knife... This is my home and garden, this is where I can stretch my legs! - he said, furiously hitting the couch. - Salary! Just as you can’t get your hands on hryvnias and nickels, you have nothing to buy tobacco with, and nothing to treat your godfather with! May you be empty!.. Just think, death is not coming!

Ilya Ilyich lay down on his back, but did not suddenly fall asleep. He thought, thought, worried, worried...

Two misfortunes suddenly! - he said, wrapping his head completely in the blanket. - Please resist!

But in fact, these two misfortunes, that is, the ominous letter from the headman and the move to a new apartment, ceased to disturb Oblomov and only entered into a series of restless memories...

“Or maybe Zakhar will try to arrange it in such a way that there will be no need to move at all, maybe it will work out: they will postpone until next summer or completely cancel the restructuring; Well, they’ll do it somehow! You really can’t... move!..”

So he was alternately worried and calmed down, and finally, in these conciliatory and reassuring words maybe, maybe And somehow Oblomov found this time, as he always found, a whole ark of hopes and consolations, as in the ark of the covenant of our fathers, and at the present moment he managed to protect himself with them from two misfortunes...

Almost falling asleep, Ilya Ilyich suddenly opened his eyes, became thoughtful and realized that everything he was going to do today - a plan for the estate, a letter to the police chief... - could not be completed. “But someone else could have done everything...” he thought and yawned. “This is one of the clear, conscious moments in Oblomov’s life.” Questions about human destiny and purpose arose in his mind. He felt ashamed and hurt for the way he was living - not developing, not striving anywhere... “And envy gnawed at him that others lived so fully and widely, but for him it was as if a heavy stone had been thrown on the narrow and miserable path of his existence...” He realized with complete clarity that many sides of his soul had not awakened, and all the good that was in him had not manifested itself. And there was no way out: “the forest in the soul is becoming more and more frequent and dark.” Remembering the recent scene with Zakhar, he suddenly felt a burning shame. So, sighing and cursing himself, he continued to toss and turn until sleep stopped the flow of his thoughts.

IX. Oblomov's Dream

Where are we? To what blessed corner of the earth did Oblomov’s dream take us? What a wonderful land!.. There is nothing grandiose, wild and gloomy. The sky there presses closer to the earth..; it spreads out so low above your head, like a parent’s reliable roof, in order to protect, it seems, the chosen corner from all kinds of adversity. The sun shines brightly and hotly there for about six months... The mountains there are a series of gentle hills, from which it is pleasant to ride, frolic, on your back, or, sitting on them, look thoughtfully at the setting sun. The river runs merrily, frolicking and playing... Everything promises a peaceful, long-lasting life there... The annual cycle takes place there correctly and calmly... No terrible storms or destruction can be heard in that land... How quiet everything is, everything is sleepy in three or four villages that make up this corner!.. The nearest villages and the district town were twenty-five and thirty miles away. This was the corner where Oblomov was suddenly transported in a dream.

One of the villages was Sosnovka, the other was Vavilovka. They were located a mile from each other and both belonged to the Oblomovs, therefore they were known under the common name Oblomovs.

“Ilya Ilyich woke up in the morning in his small bed. He is only seven years old. It’s easy and fun for him.” The nanny waits for him to wake up, and then dresses him, washes him, combs his hair and takes him to his mother. His mother kisses him passionately, leads him to the image and prays. The boy absentmindedly repeats the words of the prayer after her. Afterwards they go to their father and then to tea. Many people gathered at the table: distant relatives of the father, an elderly aunt, the mother’s slightly crazy brother-in-law, a landowner who had come to visit, and some other old women and old men. Everyone showers Ilya Ilyich with caresses and kisses, and then feeds him buns, crackers and cream.

Then the mother let him go for a walk in the garden, around the yard and in the meadow, strictly ordering the nanny not to leave the child alone, not to let him near horses and dogs, not to go far from the house, and most importantly, not to let him into the ravine - the most terrible place in the neighborhood , about which there were bad rumors. But the child did not wait for his mother’s warnings, and long ago ran into the yard. With joyful amazement, he ran around the entire parental house and was about to run up the shabby steps to the gallery to look at the river from there, but the nanny managed to catch him.

The child looks at how and what the adults are doing this morning, and not a single little thing escapes his gaze - “the picture of home life is indelibly etched into the soul.” The noise of a spindle and a woman's voice are heard from the people's room. In the courtyard, as soon as Antip returned with the barrel, women and coachmen rushed towards it from different corners. The old woman carries a cup of flour and eggs from the barn... The old man Oblomov himself sits at the window all morning and watches everything that is happening in the yard, and, if anything happens, takes measures against unrest. And his wife is also busy: she chats with the tailor for three hours, then goes to the maid’s room, then inspects the garden...

“But the main concern was the kitchen and dinner.” The whole house decided what to cook for dinner. “Caring for food was the first and main concern of life in Oblomovka.” Calves, turkeys and chickens were specially fattened for the holidays. “What stocks there were of jams, pickles, and cookies! What honeys, what kvass were brewed, what pies were baked in Oblomovka!” “And so until noon everything was fussing and worrying, everything lived such a full, ant-like, such a noticeable life.” And on Sundays and holidays everything was even more bustling: the knives in the kitchen were knocking more often and louder, a gigantic cake was being baked... And the child, watching all this, saw how after a busy morning, noon and lunch came. Dead silence reigned in the house - the hour of afternoon sleep was approaching.

The child sees that his father, his mother, his old aunt, and his retinue have all scattered to their own corners; and whoever didn’t have one went to the hayloft, another to the garden, a third sought coolness in the hallway, and another, covering his face with a handkerchief from the flies, fell asleep where the heat overpowered him and the bulky dinner fell on him. And the gardener stretched out under a bush in the garden, next to his ice pick, and the coachman slept in the stable.

Ilya Ilyich looked into the people's room: in the people's room everyone lay down, on the benches, on the floor and in the hallway, leaving the children to their own devices; children crawl around the yard and dig in the sand. And the dogs climbed far into their kennels, fortunately there was no one to bark at.

You could walk through the entire house and not meet a soul; it was easy to rob everything around and take it out of the yard on carts: no one would have interfered, if only there were thieves in that region.

It was some kind of all-consuming, invincible dream, a true likeness of death. Everything is dead, only from all corners comes a variety of snoring in all tones and modes.

Occasionally, someone will suddenly raise his head from sleep, look senselessly, with surprise, on both sides and roll over to the other side, or, without opening his eyes, he will spit in his sleep and, chewing his lips or muttering something under his breath, will fall asleep again.

And the other quickly, without any preliminary preparations, will jump with both feet from his bed, as if afraid to lose precious minutes, grab a mug of kvass and, blowing on the flies floating there, so that they are carried to the other edge, causing the flies, until motionless, begin to move violently, in the hope of improving their situation, wet their throat and then fall back onto the bed as if shot.

And the child watched and watched.

When it began to get dark, the servants gathered at the gate, and laughter was heard. The sun was sinking behind the forest, and everything merged into a gray and then a dark mass. Everything fell silent, the first stars appeared in the sky.

So the day has passed, and thank God! - said the Oblomovites, lying in bed, groaning and making the sign of the cross. - Lived well; God willing it will be the same tomorrow! Glory to you, Lord! Glory to you, Lord!

“Then Oblomov dreamed of another time: he was in an endless winter evening timidly presses close to the nanny, and she whispers to him about some unknown country, where there are no nights, no cold, where miracles happen... and all they know all day long is that all the good fellows, like Ilya Ilyich, are walking , yes, beauties, no matter what you can say in a fairy tale or describe with a pen.” The child listened to the story, “pricking up his ears and eyes,” and the nanny told him about the exploits of Ilya Muromets, Dobrynya Nikitich, Alyosha Popovich, about sleeping princesses, petrified cities and people, about monsters and werewolves. Listening to his nanny's fairy tales, the boy either imagined himself as a hero of a feat, or suffered for the failures of the young man. “The story flowed after story,” and the boy’s imagination was filled with strange ghosts, fear settled in his soul. Looking around and seeing harm in life, he dreams of that magical country where there is no evil, where they feed well and clothe for nothing...

“The fairy tale retains its power not only over children in Oblomovka, but also over adults until the end of their lives.” Everyone in Oblomovka believed in the existence of werewolves and the dead.

Ilya Ilyich will see later that the world is simply structured, that the dead do not rise from their graves, that giants, as soon as they get started, are immediately put in a booth, and robbers in prison; but if the very belief in ghosts disappears, then some kind of residue of fear and unaccountable melancholy remains.

Ilya Ilyich learned that there are no troubles from monsters, and what kind there are, he barely knows, and at every step everyone expects and is afraid of something terrible. And now, when left in a dark room or seeing a dead person, he trembles from the ominous melancholy implanted in his soul in childhood; laughing at his fears in the morning, he turns pale again in the evening.

“Next, Ilya Ilyich suddenly saw himself as a boy of thirteen or fourteen years old.” He studies in the village of Verkhleve, with the local manager, the German Stolz, together with his own son Andrei. “Maybe... Ilyusha would have had time to learn something well if Oblomovka had been five hundred versts from Verkhlev.” After all, this village was also once Oblomovka, and everything here, “except for Stolz’s house, everything breathed the same primitive laziness, simplicity of morals, silence and stillness.” The Oblomovites did not even know about those worries that dedicate their lives to work, they did not know worries and were afraid of passions like fire. They understood life as an ideal of peace and inaction, which is occasionally disrupted by minor troubles, such as illness and quarrels. They never asked themselves vague questions and therefore looked healthy and thriving; They didn’t talk to the children about the purpose of life, but gave it ready-made, the same as they themselves received from their parents. And they didn’t need anything: “life, like a calm river, flowed past them; they could only sit on the banks of this river and observe the inevitable phenomena that, in turn, without calling, appeared before each of them.”

Before the imagination of the sleeping Oblomov, “three main acts of his life” opened up, which are played out in every family: homeland, wedding, funeral; and then its cheerful and sad divisions followed: christenings, name days, family holidays, noisy dinners, congratulations, tears and smiles. Familiar faces floated before his mind's eye. Everything in Oblomovka was accomplished according to established rules, but these rules affected only the external side of life. When a child was born, everyone cared only that he grew up healthy and ate well; then they looked for a bride and celebrated a merry wedding. So life went on as usual until it was interrupted by the grave. One day, a dilapidated gallery collapsed in the Oblomovs’ house. Everyone began to think about how to fix the matter. About three weeks later they ordered the men to drag the boards to the barns so that they would not lie on the road. There they lay until spring. Old man Oblomov, every time he saw them through the window, thought about what could be done. He will call the carpenter over and discuss it with him, and then dismiss him with the words: “Go ahead, and I’ll think about it.” In the end, they decided to prop up the central part of the gallery with old debris, which they did by the end of the month. One day, old man Oblomov lifted a fence in the garden with his own hands and ordered the gardener to support it with poles. Thanks to the foresight of Ilya Ilyich’s father, the fence stood there all summer, and only in winter it was covered with snow again.

A long winter evening is approaching.

The mother sits on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, and lazily knits a child's stocking, yawning and occasionally scratching her head with a knitting needle.

Nastasya Ivanovna and Pelageya Ignatievna are sitting next to her and, with their noses buried in their work, they are diligently sewing something for the holiday for Ilyusha, or for his father, or for themselves.

The father, with his hands behind him, walks back and forth around the room, in complete pleasure, or sits down in a chair and, after sitting for a while, begins to walk again, carefully listening to the sound of his own steps. Then he sniffs the tobacco, blows his nose, and sniffs again.

There was one tallow candle burning dimly in the room, and this was only allowed on winter and autumn evenings. In the summer months, everyone tried to go to bed and get up without candles, in daylight.

This was done partly out of habit, partly out of economy.

For any item that was not produced at home, but was purchased by purchase, the Oblomovites were extremely stingy...

In general, they didn’t like to spend money there, and no matter how necessary the thing was, money for it was always given with great sympathy, and only if the cost was insignificant. Significant spending was accompanied by groans, screams and curses.

The Oblomovites agreed to endure all sorts of inconveniences better, they even got used to not considering them as inconveniences, rather than spending money.

Because of this, the sofa in the living room was covered in stains a long time ago, because of this, Ilya Ivanovich’s leather chair is only called leather, but in fact it is either a washcloth or a rope: there is only one scrap of leather left on the back, and the rest had already fallen into pieces and peeled off for five years; That may be why the gates are all crooked and the porch is wobbly. But suddenly paying two hundred, three hundred, five hundred rubles for something, even the most necessary thing, seemed almost suicide to them...

On the armchairs in the living room, in different positions, the inhabitants or ordinary visitors of the house are sitting and snoring.

For the most part, deep silence reigns between the interlocutors: everyone sees each other every day; mental treasures are mutually exhausted and exhausted, and there is little news from outside.

Quiet; Only the footsteps of Ilya Ivanovich’s heavy, homemade boots are heard, the wall clock in its case is still dully tapping with a pendulum, and from time to time a thread torn by hand or teeth from Pelageya Ignatievna or Nastasya Ivanovna breaks the deep silence.

So sometimes half an hour will pass, unless someone yawns out loud and crosses his mouth, saying: “Lord have mercy!”

A neighbor yawns behind him, then the next one, slowly, as if on command, opens his mouth, and so on, the infectious play of air in the lungs will bypass everyone, and some will burst into tears.

Or Ilya Ivanovich will go to the window, look there and say with some surprise: “It’s only five o’clock, and how dark it is outside!”

Yes, someone will answer, it’s always dark at this time; long evenings are coming.

And in the spring they will be surprised and happy that the long days are coming. But ask why they need these long days, they themselves don’t know.

And they will be silent again...

Ilya Ilyich sees in his dreams not just one, not two such evenings, but whole weeks, months and years of days and evenings spent like this. Nothing disturbed the monotony of this life, and the Oblomovites themselves were not burdened by it, because they could not imagine another life... They didn’t want another life... Why do they need variety, change, chance...? After all, they require care, trouble, running around...

They continued to sniffle, doze and yawn all day long, or burst into good-natured laughter from village humor, or, gathering in a circle, they told what they saw in their dreams at night.

One day, the monotonous course of life was disrupted by an unusual incident. One of Oblomov’s men brought a letter from the station. This event excited the whole family - the hostess even changed a little in her face. However, the letter was not opened immediately - for four days they wondered who it could be from. But curiosity turned out to be stronger. On the fourth day, a crowd gathered and opened the letter. In it, a family acquaintance asked to send him a recipe for beer, which was brewed especially well in Oblomovka. It was decided to send. But they were in no hurry to write: for a long time they could not find the recipe, and then they decided not to spend forty kopecks on a postal item, but to send the letter with the opportunity. Whether the author received the letter with the recipe or not is unknown.

Ilya Ivanovich considered reading a luxury - an activity that one could do without, and he looked at a book as a thing intended for entertainment. “I haven’t read a book for a long time,” he will say, and if by chance he sees a stack of books inherited from his brother, he will take out whatever he comes across and read “with even pleasure.” On Mondays, when it was necessary to go to Stolz, Ilyusha was attacked by melancholy. That morning they fed him buns and pretzels, gave him jam, cookies and other delicacies for the road. But Ilyusha’s trip was often postponed due to a holiday or an imaginary illness; his parents found any excuse to leave their son at home. “Behind pretexts, and except for holidays, the matter did not arise. In winter it seemed cold to them, in the summer it was also not good to travel in the heat, and sometimes it would rain, in the fall the slush was a hindrance...”

“The old people understood the benefits of enlightenment, but only its external benefits.” They understood that they could become people only through training, but they had a vague idea of ​​the very need for training, “that’s why they wanted to catch some brilliant advantages for their Ilyusha... They also dreamed of an embroidered uniform for him, imagined him as an adviser in the ward, and his mother was even a governor; but they wanted to achieve all this somehow cheaper, with various tricks... that is, for example, to study lightly, not to the point of exhaustion of soul and body..., but so that only to comply with the prescribed form and somehow obtain a certificate in which it was said that Ilyusha passed all sciences and arts».

Ilyusha sometimes got tired of the tender care of her parents. He will run across the yard, and rush after him: “Ah, ah! He’ll fall and hurt himself!” He wants to open the window in winter, again: “Where? How is it possible? You'll kill yourself! You’ll catch a cold!” And Ilyusha grew, “cherished like an exotic flower in a greenhouse, and just like the last one under glass, he grew slowly and sluggishly.”

And sometimes he wakes up so cheerful, fresh, cheerful; he feels: something is playing in him, seething, as if some kind of imp has taken up residence, who is teasing him to either climb onto the roof, or sit on the Savraska and gallop into the meadows where hay is being cut, or sit on the fence astride, or tease village dogs; or suddenly you want to run through the village, then into the field, along the gullies, into the birch forest, and in three leaps rush to the bottom of the ravine, or tag along with the boys to play snowballs, try your hand.

The imp just keeps trying to wash him away: he holds on and on, finally he can’t stand it and suddenly, without a cap, in winter, he jumps from the porch into the yard, from there through the gate, grabs a lump of snow in both hands and rushes towards a bunch of boys.

The fresh wind cuts his face, the frost stings his ears, his mouth and throat smell of cold, and his chest is filled with joy - he rushes where his legs came from, he himself squeals and laughs.

Here come the boys: he bangs the snow - he misses: there is no skill; Just wanted to grab another snowball, when a whole block of snow covered his whole face: he fell; and it hurts him out of habit, and he is happy, and he laughs, and there are tears in his eyes...

And there is a hubbub in the house: Ilyusha is gone! Scream, noise. Zakharka jumped out into the yard, followed by Vaska, Mitka, Vanka - everyone was running, confused, around the yard.

Two dogs rushed after them, grabbing their heels, which, as you know, cannot indifferently see a running person.

People screaming, screaming, dogs barking rush through the village.

Finally they ran at the boys and began to inflict justice: some by the hair, some by the ears, another on the back of the head; They also threatened their fathers.

Then they took possession of the little boy, wrapped him in a captured sheepskin coat, then in his father’s fur coat, then in two blankets and solemnly carried him home in his arms.

At home they despaired of seeing him, considering him dead; but at the sight of him, alive and unharmed, the parents’ joy was indescribable. They thanked the Lord God, then they gave him mint, then elderberry, and in the evening raspberries to drink, and kept him in bed for three days, but one thing could be useful for him: playing snowballs again...

As soon as Ilya Ilyich’s snoring reached Zakhar’s ears, he jumped carefully, without noise, from the couch, tiptoed out into the hallway, locked the master and went to the gate.

Ah, Zakhar Trofimych: welcome! Haven't seen you for a long time! - the coachman, footmen, women and boys at the gate spoke in different voices.

While Oblomov was sleeping, Zakhar was gossiping at the gate with the coachmen, lackeys, women and boys. He lied that Oblomov got drunk, that’s why he sleeps at such a time that the master could insult anyone for no reason at all... Afterwards he quarreled with the coachman and promised to complain about him to the master.

Well, master! - the coachman remarked sarcastically. - Where did you dig this up?

He himself, and the janitor, and the barber, and the footman, and the defender of the swearing system - all laughed.

Laugh, laugh, and I’ll tell the master! - Zakhar wheezed.

And you,” he said, turning to the janitor, “should calm down these robbers, and not laugh.” Why are you assigned here? - Correct every order. What about you? I’ll tell the master something; wait, it will be for you!

Well, that's enough, that's enough, Zakhar Trofimych! - the janitor said, trying to calm him down, - what did he do to you?

How dare he talk like that about my master? - Zakhar objected hotly, pointing to the coachman. - Does he know who my master is? - he asked with reverence. “Yes,” he said, turning to the coachman, “you’ll never see such a gentleman in your dreams: kind, smart, handsome!” And yours is definitely an unfed nag! It’s a shame to see you ride out of the yard on a brown mare: they look like beggars! Eat radish with kvass. There you are wearing an Armenian shirt: you can’t count the holes!..

Having quarreled with everyone, Zakhar went to the pub.

At the beginning of the fifth hour, Zakhar carefully, without noise, unlocked the hallway and tiptoed into his room; There he went up to the door of the master's office and first put his ear to it, then he sat down and put his eye to the keyhole.

Steady snoring was heard in the office.

“He’s asleep,” he whispered, “we need to wake him up: it’s almost half past four.”

He coughed and entered the office.

Ilya Ilyich! Ah, Ilya Ilyich! - he began quietly, standing at Oblomov’s head.

The snoring continued.

He's asleep! - said Zakhar, - like a mason. Ilya Ilyich!

Zakhar lightly touched Oblomov’s sleeve.

Get up: it's half past five.

Ilya Ilyich only hummed in response to this, but did not wake up...

Well,” Zakhar said in despair, “oh, you little head!” Why are you lying like a log? It's sickening to look at you. Look, good people!.. Ugh!

Get up, get up! - he suddenly spoke in a frightened voice. - Ilya Ilyich! Look what's happening around you.

Oblomov quickly raised his head, looked around and lay down again, with a deep sigh.

Leave me alone! - he said importantly. - I told you to wake me up, and now I’m canceling the order - do you hear? I'll wake up whenever I want.

Sometimes Zakhar will lag behind, saying: “Well, take a nap, to hell with you!” And next time he will insist on his own, and now he has insisted.

Get up, get up! - he screamed at the top of his lungs and grabbed Oblomov by the shirt and sleeve with both hands.

Oblomov suddenly, unexpectedly jumped to his feet and rushed at Zakhar.

Wait, I’ll teach you how to disturb a master when he wants to rest! - he said.

Zakhar rushed away from him as fast as he could, but on the third step Oblomov sobered up completely from sleep and began to stretch, yawning.

Give... kvass... - he said in between yawns.

Immediately, from behind Zakhar, someone burst into loud laughter. Both looked back.

Stoltz! Stoltz! - Oblomov shouted in delight, rushing to the guest.

Andrey Ivanovich! - Zakhar said, grinning.

Stolz continued to roll with laughter: he saw the whole scene that was taking place.