Ilyitch's library, nothing was heard at first except the growling of the
watch-dog; then the thump of feet springing down from somewhere. It was
Zakhar leaping down from his couch on the stove, where he generally
spent his time immersed in drowsiness.
An elderly man appeared in the room: he was dressed in a gray coat,
through a hole under the armpit of which emerged a part of his shirt; he
also wore a gray waistcoat with brass buttons. His head was as bald as
his knee, and he had enormous reddish side-whiskers already turning
gray--so thick and bushy that they would have sufficed for three
ordinary individuals.
Zakhar would never have taken pains to change in any respect either the
form which God had bestowed on him, or the costume which he wore in the
country. His raiment was made for him in the style which he had brought
with him from his village. His gray coat and waistcoat pleased him, for
the very reason that in his semi-fashionable attire he perceived a
feeble approach to the livery which he had worn in former times when
waiting on his former masters (now at rest), either to church or to
parties; but liveries in his recollections were merely representative of
the dignity of the Oblomof family. There was nothing else to recall to
the old man the comfortable and liberal style of life on the estate in
the depths of the country. The older generation of masters had died, the
family portraits were at home, and in all probability were going to rack
and ruin in the garret; the traditions of the former life and importance
of the house of Oblomof were all extinct, or lived only in the memories
of a few old people still lingering in the country.
Consequently, precious in the eyes of Zakhar was the gray coat: in this
he saw a faint emblem of vanished greatness, and he found similar
indications in some of the characteristics of his master's features and
notions, reminding of his parentage, and in his caprices, which although
he grumbled at them under his breath and aloud, yet he prized secretly
as manifestations of the truly imperious will and autocratic spirit of a
born noble. Had it not been for these whims, he would not have felt that
his master was in any sense above him; had it not been for them, there
would have been nothing to bring back to his mind his younger days, the
village which they had abandoned so long ago, and the traditions about
that ancient home,--the sole chronicles preserved by aged servants,
nurses, and nursemaids, and handed down from mouth to mouth.
The house of the Oblomofs was rich in those days, and had great
influence in that region; but afterwards somehow or other everything had
gone to destruction, and at last by degrees had sunk out of sight,
overshadowed by parvenus of aristocratic pretensions. Only the few
gray-haired retainers of the house preserved and interchanged their
reminiscences of the past, treasuring them like holy relics.
This was the reason why Zakhar so loved his gray coat. Possibly he
valued his side-whiskers because of the fact that he saw in his
childhood many of the older servants with this ancient and aristocratic
adornment.
Ilya Ilyitch, immersed in contemplation, took no notice of Zakhar,
though the servant had been silently waiting for some time. At last he
coughed.
"What is it you want?" asked Ilya Ilyitch.
"You called me, didn't you?"
"Called you? I don't remember what I called you for," he replied,
stretching and yawning. "Go back to your room; I will try to think what
I wanted."
Zakhar went out, and Ilya Ilyitch lay down on the bed again and began to
cogitate upon that cursed letter.
A quarter of an hour elapsed.
"There now," he exclaimed, "I have dallied long enough; I must get up.
However, I must read the starosta's letter over again more attentively,
and then I will get up--Zakhar!" The same noise of leaping down from the
stove, and the same growling of the dog, only more emphatic.
Zakhar made his appearance, but again Oblomof was sunk deep in
contemplation. Zakhar stood a few moments, looking sulkily and askance
at his master, and finally he turned to go.
"Where are you going?" suddenly demanded Oblomof.
"You have nothing to say to me, and why should I waste my time standing
here?" explained Zakhar, in a hoarse gasp which served him in lieu of a
voice, he having lost his voice, according to his own account, while out
hunting with the dogs when he had to accompany his former master, and
when a powerful wind seemed to blow in his throat. He half turned round,
and stood in the middle of the room and glared at his master.
"Have your legs quite given out, that you can't stand a minute? Don't
you see I am worried? Now, please wait a moment! wasn't it lying there
just now? Get me that letter which I received last evening from the
starosta. What did you do with it?"
"What letter? I haven't seen any letter," replied Zakhar.
"Why, you yourself took it from the postman, you scoundrel!"
"It is where you put it; how should I know anything about it?" said
Zakhar, beginning to rummage about among the papers and various things
that littered the table.
"You never know anything at all. There, look on the basket. No, see if
it hasn't been thrown on the sofa.--There, the back of that sofa hasn't
been mended yet. Why have you not got the carpenter to mend it? 'Twas
you who broke it. You never think of anything!"
"I didn't break it," retorted Zakhar; "it broke itself; it was not meant
to last forever; it had to break some time."
Ilya Ilyitch did not consider it necessary to refute this argument. He
contented himself with asking:--
"Have you found it yet?"
"Here are some letters."
"But they are not the right ones."
"Well, there's nothing else," said Zakhar.
"Very good, be gone," said Ilya Ilyitch impatiently. "I am going to get
up. I will find it."
Zakhar went to his room, but he had hardly laid his hand on his couch to
climb up to it before the imperative cry was heard again:--
"Zakhar! Zakhar!"
"Oh, good Lord!" grumbled he, as he started to go for the third time to
Oblomof's library. "What a torment all this is! Oh that death would come
and take me from it!"
"What do you want?" he asked, as he stood with one hand on the door, and
glaring at Oblomof as a sign of his surliness, at such an angle that he
had to look at his master out of the corner of his eyes; while his
master could see only one of his enormous side-whiskers, so bushy that
you might have expected to have two or three birds come flying out from
them.
"My handkerchief, quick! You might have known what I wanted. Don't you
see?" remarked Ilya Ilyitch sternly.
Zakhar displayed no special dissatisfaction or surprise at such an order
or such a reproach on his master's part, regarding both, so far as he
was concerned, as perfectly natural.
"But who knows where your handkerchief is?" he grumbled, circling about
the room and making a careful examination of every chair, although it
could be plainly seen that there was nothing whatever on them.
"It is a perfect waste of time," he remarked, opening the door into the
drawing-room in order to see if there was any sign of it there.
"Where are you going? Look for it here; I have not been in that room
since day before yesterday. And make haste," urged Ilya Ilyitch.
"Where is the handkerchief? There isn't any handkerchief," exclaimed
Zakhar rummaging and searching in every corner.
"Oh, there it is," he suddenly cried angrily, "under you. There is the
end of it sticking out. You were lying on it, and yet you ask me to find
your handkerchief for you!"
And Zakhar, without awaiting any reply, turned and started to go out.
Oblomof was somewhat ashamed of his own blunder. But he quickly
discovered another pretext for putting Zakhar in the wrong.
"What kind of neatness do you call this everywhere here! Look at the
dust and dirt! Good heavens! look here, look here! See these corners!
You don't do anything at all."
"And so I don't do anything," repeated Zakhar in a tone betokening deep
resentment. "I am growing old, I shan't live much longer! But God knows
I use the duster for the dust, and I sweep almost every day."
He pointed to the middle of the floor, and at the table where Oblomof
had dined. "Here, look here," he went on: "it has all been swept and all
put in order, fit for a wedding. What more is needed?"
"Well then, what is this?" cried Ilya Ilyitch, interrupting him and
calling his attention to the walls and the ceiling. "And that? and
that?"
He pointed to a yesterday's napkin which had been flung down, and to a
plate which had been left lying on the table with a dry crust of bread
on it.
"Well, as for that," said Zakhar as he picked up the plate, "I will take
care of it."
"You will take care of it, will you? But how about the dust and the
cobwebs on the walls?" said Oblomof, making ocular demonstration.
"I put that off till Holy Week; then I clean the sacred images and sweep
down the cobwebs."
"But how about dusting the books and pictures?"
"The books and pictures? Before Christmas; then Anisiya and I look over
all the closets. But now when should we be able to do it? You are always
at home."
"I sometimes go to the theatre or go out to dine: you might--"
"Do house-cleaning at night?"
Oblomof looked at him reproachfully, shook his head, and uttered a sigh;
but Zakhar gazed indifferently out of the window and also sighed deeply.
The master seemed to be thinking, "Well, brother, you are even more of
an Oblomof than I am myself;" while Zakhar probably said to himself,
"Rubbish! You as my master talk strange and melancholy words, but how do
dust and cobwebs concern you?"
"Don't you know that moths breed in dust?" asked Ilya Ilyitch. "I have
even seen bugs on the wall!"
"Well, I have fleas on me sometimes," replied Zakhar in a tone of
indifference.
"Well, is that anything to boast about? That is shameful," exclaimed
Oblomof.
Zakhar's face was distorted by a smirking smile, which seemed to embrace
even his eyebrows and his side-whiskers, which for this reason spread
apart; and over his whole face up to his very forehead extended a ruddy
spot.
"Why, am I to blame that there are bugs on the wall?" he asked in
innocent surprise: "was it I who invented them?"
"They come from lack of cleanliness," insisted Oblomof. "What are you
talking about?"
"I am not the cause of the uncleanliness."
"But you have mice in your room there running about at night--I hear
them."
"I did not invent the mice. There are all kinds of living
creatures--mice and cats and fleas--lots of them everywhere."
"How is it that other people don't have moths and bugs?"
Zakhar's face expressed incredulity, or rather a calm conviction that
this was not so.
"I have plenty of them," he said without hesitation. "One can't look
after every bug and crawl into the cracks after them."
It seemed to be his thought, "What kind of a sleeping-room would that be
that had no bugs in it?"
"Now do you see to it that you sweep and brush them out of the corners;
don't let there be one left," admonished Oblomof.
"If you get it all cleaned up it will be just as bad again to-morrow,"
remonstrated Zakhar.
"It ought not to be as bad," interrupted the master.
"But it is," insisted the servant; "I know all about it."
"Well then, if the dust collects again, brush it out again."
"What is that you say? Brush out all the corners every day?" exclaimed
Zakhar. "What a life that would be! Better were it that God should take
my soul!"
"Why are other people's houses clean?" urged Oblomof. "Just look at the
piano-tuner's rooms: see how neat they look, and only one maid--"
"Oh, these Germans!" exclaimed Zakhar suddenly interrupting. "Where do
they make any litter? Look at the way they live! Every family gnaws a
whole week on a single bone. The coat goes from the father's back to the
son's, and back from the son's to the father's. The wives and daughters
wear little short skirts, and when they walk they all lift up their legs
like ducks--where do they get any dirt? They don't do as we do--leave a
whole heap of soiled clothes in the closet for a year at a time, or fill
up the corners with bread crusts for the winter. Their crusts are never
flung down at random: they make zweiback out of them, and eat them when
they drink their beer!"
Zakhar expressed his disgust at such a penurious way of living by
spitting through his teeth.
"Say nothing more," expostulated Ilya Ilyitch. "Do better work with your
house-cleaning."
"One time I would have cleaned up, but you yourself would not allow it,"
said Zakhar.
"That is all done with! Don't you see I have entirely changed?"
"Of course you have; but still you stay at home all the time: how can
one begin to clean up when you are right here? If you will stay out of
the house for a whole day, then I will have a general clearing-up."
"What an idea! Get out of here. You had better go to your own room."
"All right!" persisted Zakhar; "but I tell you, the moment you go out,
Anisiya and I will clear the whole place up. And we two would finish
with it in short metre; then you will want some women to wash
everything."
"Oh, what schemes you invent! Women! away with you!" cried Ilya Ilyitch.
He was by this time disgusted with himself for having led Zakhar into
this conversation. He had quite forgotten that the attainment of this
delicate object was at the expense of considerable confusion. Oblomof
would have liked a state of perfect cleanliness, but he would require
that it should be brought about in some imperceptible manner, as it were
of itself; but Zakhar always induced a discussion as soon as he was
asked to have any sweeping done, or the floors washed, and the like. In
such a contingency he was sure to point out the necessity of a terrible
disturbance in the house, knowing very well that the mere suggestion of
such a thing would fill his master with horror.
Zakhar went away, and Oblomof relapsed into cogitation. After some
minutes the half-hour struck again.
"What time is it?" exclaimed Ilya Ilyitch with a dull sense of alarm.
"Almost eleven o'clock! Can it be that I am not up yet nor had my bath?
Zakhar! Zakhar!"
"Oh, good God! what is it now?" was heard from the ante-room, and then
the well-known thump of feet.
"Is my bath ready?" asked Oblomof.
"Ready? yes, long ago," replied Zakhar. "Why did you not get up?"
"Why didn't you tell me it was ready? I should have got up long ago if
you had. Go on; I will follow you immediately. I have some business to
do; I want to write."
Zakhar went out, but in the course of a few minutes he returned with a
greasy copy-book all scribbled over, and some scraps of paper.
"Here, if you want to write--and by the way, be kind enough to verify
these accounts: we need the money to pay them."
"What accounts? what money?" demanded Ilya Ilyitch with a show of
temper.
"From the butcher, from the grocer, from the laundress, from the baker;
they all are clamoring for money."
"Nothing but bother about money," growled Ilya Ilyitch. "But why didn't
you give them to me one at a time instead of all at once?"
"You see you always kept putting me off: 'To-morrow,' always
'To-morrow.'"
"Well, why shouldn't we put them off till to-morrow now?"
"No! they are dunning you; they won't give any longer credit.
To-morrow's the first of the month."
"Akh!" cried Oblomof in vexation, "new bother! Well, why are you
standing there? Put them on the table. I will get up immediately, take
my bath, and look them over," said Ilya Ilyitch. "Is it all ready for my
bath?"
"What do you mean--'ready'?" said Zakhar.
"Well, now--"
With a groan he started to make the preliminary movement of getting up.
"I forgot to tell you," began Zakhar, "while you were still asleep the
manager sent word by the dvornik that it was imperatively necessary that
you vacate the apartment: it is wanted."
"Well, what of that? If the apartment is wanted of course we will move
out. Why do you bother me with it? This is the third time you have
spoken to me about it."
"They bother me about it also."
"Tell them that we will move out."
"He says, 'For a month you have been promising,' says he, 'and still you
don't move out,' says he: 'we'll report the matter to the police.'"
"Let him report," cried Oblomof resolutely: "we will move out as soon as
it is a little warmer, in the course of three weeks."
"Three weeks, indeed! The manager says that the workmen are coming in a
fortnight: everything is to be torn out. 'Move,' says he, 'either
to-morrow or day after to-morrow.'"
"Eh--eh--eh--that's too short notice: to-morrow? See here, what next?
How would this minute suit? But don't you dare speak a word to me about
apartments. I have already told you that once, and here you are again.
Do you hear?"
"But what shall I do?" demanded Zakhar.
"What shall you do? Now how is he going to get rid of me?" replied Ilya
Ilyitch. "He makes me responsible! How does it concern me? Don't you
trouble me any further, but make any arrangements you please, only so
that we don't have to move yet. Can't you do your best for your master?"
"But Ilya Ilyitch, little father [batiushka], what arrangements shall I
make?" began Zakhar in a hoarse whisper. "The house is not mine; how can
we help being driven out of the place if they resort to force? If only
the house were mine, then I would with the greatest pleasure--"
"There must be some way of bringing him around: tell him we have lived
here so long; tell him we'll surely pay him."
"I have," said Zakhar.
"Well, what did he say?"
"What did he say? He repeated his everlasting 'Move out,' says he; 'we
want to make repairs on the apartment.' He wants to do over this large
apartment and the doctor's for the wedding of the owner's son."
"Oh, my good Lord!" exclaimed Oblomof in despair; "what asses they are
to get married!"
He turned over on his back.
"You had better write to the owner, sir," said Zakhar. "Then perhaps he
would not drive us out, but would give us a renewal of the lease."
Zakhar as he said this made a gesture with his right hand.
"Very well, then; as soon as I get up I will write him. You go to your
room and I will think it over. You need not do anything about this," he
added; "I myself shall have to work at all this miserable business
myself."
Zakhar left the room, and Oblomof began to ponder.
But he was in a quandary which to think about,--his starosta's letter,
or the removal to new lodgings, or should he undertake to make out his
accounts? He was soon swallowed up in the flood of material cares and
troubles, and there he still lay turning from side to side. Every once
in a while would be heard his broken exclamation, "Akh, my God! life
touches everything, reaches everywhere!"
No one knows how long he would have lain there a prey to this
uncertainty, had not the bell rung in the ante-room.
"There is some one come already!" exclaimed Oblomof, wrapping himself up
in his khalat, "and here I am not up yet; what a shame! Who can it be so
early?"
And still lying on his bed, he gazed curiously at the door.
THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
EDMOND (1822-1896) JULES (1830-1870)
[Illustration: EDMOND DE GONCOURT]
Edmond and Jules Huot De Goncourt, French writers who became famous
alike for the perfectness of their collaboration, the originality of
their methods, and the finish of their style, were born, the first in
Nancy in 1822, the other in Paris in 1830. Until the death of Jules in
1870 they wrote nothing for the public that did not bear both their
names; and so entirely identical were their tastes and judgment that it
is impossible to say of a single sentence they composed that it was the
sole product of one or the other. "Charming writers," Victor Hugo called
them; "in unison a powerful writer, two minds from which springs a
single jet of talent." Born of a noble family of moderate wealth, they
were educated as became their station in life. Both had an early leaning
toward the arts; but Edmond, in deference to the wishes of his family,
took a government appointment and held the office till the death of his
mother, when he was twenty-six years of age. Their father had died while
they were boys.
Drawn together by their common bereavement and the death-bed injunction
of their parent that Edmond should be the careful guardian of his
younger brother, whose health had always been delicate, the young men
then began a companionship which was broken only by death. They set out
to make themselves acquainted with southern Europe, and at the same time
to escape the political turmoils of Paris; and extended their travels
into Africa, which country they found so congenial that in the first
ardor of their enthusiasm they determined to settle there. Business
arrangements, however, soon recalled them to Paris, where ties of
friendship and other agreeable associations bound them fast to their
native soil. They took up their residence in the metropolis, where they
lived until a short time before the death of Jules, when, to be free
from the roar of the city, they purchased a house in one of the suburbs.
Their intellectual development may be traced through their Journal and
letters to intimate friends, published by the surviving brother. From
these it appears that most of their leisure hours during their travels
were taken up with painting and drawing. Jules had attempted some
dramatic compositions while at college, and Edmond had been strongly
drawn to literature by the conversation of an aunt, of whom he saw much
before his mother's death. It was while engaged with their brushes in
1850 that it occurred to the brothers to take up writing as a regular
vocation; and thus was begun their remarkable literary partnership.
Their first essay was a drama. It was rejected; whereupon, nothing
daunted, they wrote a novel. It was entitled '18--,' and it is
interesting to observe that here, at the very outset of their career,
they seem to have had in mind the keynote of the chord on which they
ever afterwards played: the eighteenth century was the chief source of
their inspiration, and it was their life's endeavor to explore it and
reproduce it for their contemporaries with painstaking fidelity. The
novel engaged their serious and earnest attention, and when it was given
to the publisher they watched for its appearance with painful anxiety.
Unfortunately it was announced for the very day on which occurred the
_Coup d'Etat_. The book came out when Paris was in an uproar; and though
Jules Janin, one of the most influential critics of the day,
unexpectedly exploited it at great length in the Journal des Debats, its
circulation in that first edition was not more than sixty copies, most
of which were distributed gratuitously.
The blow was a hard one, but the brothers were not thus to be silenced,
nor by the subsequent failure of other dramatic ventures and an effort
to found a newspaper. They had been little more than imitators. They now
entered the field they soon made their own. The writers of their day
were for the most part classicists; a few before Victor Hugo were
romanticists. The De Goncourts stood for the modern, what they could see
and touch. In this way they became realists. What their own senses could
not apprehend they at once rejected; all they saw they deemed worthy to
be reproduced. They lived in a period of reconstruction after the
devastation of the revolution. The refinement and elegance of the
society of the later Bourbon monarchy, still within view, they yearned
for and sought to restore. A series of monographs dealing with the art
and the stage of these days, which appeared in 1851-2, won for them the
first real recognition they enjoyed. These were followed by various
critical essays on the same subjects, contributed to newspapers and
periodicals, and a novel, 'La Lorette,' which had a large sale and
marked the beginning of their success from a financial point of view.
"This makes us realize," they wrote in their Journal, "that one can
actually sell a book."