“To the flat of a friend of mine in the Veaborg Quarter,” continued Tarantiev.
“What? To a flat in the Veaborg Quarter? In winter the whole district is overrun with wolves!” *
* The Veaborg Quarter is one of the most outlying suburbs of
Petrograd.
“True, at times they come there from the Neva Islands, but my friend’s house has high walls to it, and, in addition, she and her family and a bachelor brother are nice people, and not like that fellow over there.” He pointed to Alexiev.
“But what has all this to do with me?” said Oblomov irritably. “I tell you I am not going to move there.”
“You fool!” exclaimed Tarantiev. “In that house you would be much quieter and more comfortable than you are here, and you would pay less, and you would have larger quarters. Besides, it is a more respectable place than this. Here one has to sit at a dirty table on which the pepper-pot is empty, the vinegar bottle the same, the knives are not clean, the tablecloth is falling to pieces, and dust, dust, dust, lies everywhere. Give me my cab-fare, and I will go and secure you the flat at once. Then you can move into it to-morrow.” Tarantiev started to leave the room.
“Stop, stop!” cried Oblomov. “I tell you I am not going to the Veaborg Quarter. Pray exercise your wits in contriving how I may remain where I am. Moreover, I have a still more important affair on hand. That is to say, I have just received from my starosta a letter concerning which I should be glad of your advice.”
With that he searched for the document, found it after some difficulty, and read it aloud.
“So you hear what the starosta says as to drought and a failure of the crops? What ought I to do?”
“The prime necessity,” replied Tarantiev, “is complete quiet for you. That you would get at the house of the friend of whom I have just spoken; and I could come to see you every day.”