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An elderly gray man entered the room.

- Zakhar! he shouted.

In the room, which was separated only by a short corridor from Ilya Ilyich's office, there was heard at first like the grumbling of a chained dog, then the sound of feet jumping off from somewhere. It was Zakhar who jumped off the couch, on which he usually spent his time, sitting immersed in a slumber.

An elderly man entered the room, in a gray frock coat, with a hole under the arm, from which a piece of shirt stuck out, in a gray waistcoat, with copper buttons, with a skull bare as a knee, and with immensely wide and thick blond with graying whiskers, of which it would be three beards.

Zakhar did not try to change not only the image given to him by God, but also his costume, in which he walked in the village. The dress was sewn for him according to the pattern he had taken out of the village. He also liked the gray frock coat and waistcoat because in this semi-uniform he saw a faint recollection of the livery that he had once worn when seeing the late gentlemen to church or on a visit; and the livery in his memoirs was the only representative of the dignity of the Oblomov family.

Nothing more reminded the old man of the lordly, wide and quiet life in the wilderness of the village. The old gentlemen have died, the family portraits have remained at home and, tea, are lying around somewhere in the attic; the legends about the ancient way of life and the importance of the surname are all dying out or live only in the memory of the few old people who remained in the village. Therefore, a gray coat was dear to Zakhar: in it, and even in some signs preserved in the face and manners of the master, reminiscent of his parents, and in his whims, to which, although he grumbled, both to himself and aloud, but which between he respected it inwardly, as a manifestation of the lord's will, the master's right, he saw faint hints of obsolete greatness.

Without these whims, he somehow did not feel the master over him; without them, nothing revived his youth, the village that they left long ago, and the legends about this old house, the only chronicle kept by old servants, nannies, mothers and passed down from generation to generation.

The Oblomov house was once rich and famous in its own area, but then, God knows why, everything became poorer, smaller, and, finally, imperceptibly got lost among the old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other the faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as a shrine.

That is why Zakhar loved his gray coat so much. Perhaps he valued his sideburns because in his childhood he saw many old servants with this old, aristocratic decoration.

Ilya Ilyich, immersed in thought, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood in front of him silently. Finally he coughed.

- What you? Ilya Ilyich asked.

- You called, didn't you?

- Called? Why did I call - I do not remember! he answered, stretching. - Go to your place for now, and I will remember.

Zakhar left, and Ilya Ilyich continued to lie and think about the accursed letter.

A quarter of an hour has passed.

- Well, it's full to lie down! he said. - Zakhar!

Again the same jump and grumbling stronger. Zakhar entered, and Oblomov again plunged into thought. Zakhar stood for about two minutes, unfavorably, glancing a little sideways at the master, and finally went to the door.

– Where are you? Oblomov suddenly asked.

“You don’t say anything, so why stand there for nothing?” - Zakhar croaked, for lack of another voice, which, according to him, he lost while hunting with dogs, when he rode with an old master and when he blew like a strong wind in his throat.

He stood half-turned in the middle of the room and kept looking sideways at Oblomov.

“Are your legs withered that you can’t stand up?” You see, I'm preoccupied - just wait! Haven't been there yet? Look for the letter I received yesterday from the headman. Where are you doing it?

- Which letter? I didn’t see any letter,” Zakhar said.

- You took it from the postman: so dirty!

“Where did they put him—why should I know? - Zakhar said, patting the papers and various things lying on the table with his hand.

“You never know anything. There, in the basket, look! Or fell behind the sofa? Here, the back of the sofa is still unrepaired; what would you call a carpenter to fix? After all, you broke it. You won't think of anything!

“I didn’t break it,” Zakhar answered, “she broke herself; it will not be a century for her to be: someday she must break.

Ilya Ilyich did not consider it necessary to prove the contrary.

- Did you find it? he only asked.

“Here are some letters.

“Well, it’s not like that anymore,” Zakhar said.

- All right, come on! - Ilya Ilyich said impatiently, - I'll get up, I'll find it myself.

Zakhar went to his room, but as soon as he put his hands on the couch in order to jump on it, a hasty cry was heard again: “Zakhar, Zakhar!”

- Oh, my God! - Zakhar grumbled, going back to the office. - What a torment this is! If only death would come sooner!

- What do you want? - he said, holding on to the door of the office with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of displeasure, so sideways that he had to see the master half-heartedly, and the master could only see one immense whisker, from which you just expect that two or three will fly out birds.

- Handkerchief, quick! You yourself could guess: you do not see! Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly.

Zakhar did not show any particular displeasure or surprise at this order and reproach from the master, probably finding both very natural on his part.

- And who knows where the handkerchief is? he grumbled, walking around the room and feeling each chair, although it could be seen even so that nothing was lying on the chairs.

- You lose everything! he remarked, opening the door to the living room to see if anyone was there.

- Where? Search here! I haven't been there since the third day. Yes, rather! - said Ilya Ilyich.

- Where is the scarf? I don't have a scarf! - said Zakhar, throwing up his hands and looking around in all corners. “Yes, there he is,” he suddenly wheezed angrily, “under you!” There the end sticks out. Lie on it yourself, and ask for a handkerchief!

And without waiting for an answer, Zakhar went out. Oblomov felt a little embarrassed at his own mistake. He quickly found another reason to make Zakhar guilty.

- What a cleanliness you have everywhere: dust, dirt, my God! There, there, look in the corners - you're not doing anything!

“If I don’t do anything ...” Zakhar spoke in an offended voice, “I try, I don’t regret my life!” And I erase the dust, and I sweep it almost every day ...

He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table on which Oblomov dined.

“Out, out,” he said, “everything is swept up, tidied up, as if for a wedding ... What else?

- And what's that? interrupted Ilya Ilyich, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. – And this? And this? - He pointed to the towel thrown from yesterday, and to the plate with a slice of bread forgotten on the table.

“Well, I’ll probably take that away,” Zakhar said condescendingly, taking the plate.

- Just this! And the dust on the walls, and the cobwebs? .. - Oblomov said, pointing to the walls.

- I'm cleaning this up for the holy week; then I clean the image and remove the web ...

- And sweep the books, pictures? ..

- Books and pictures before Christmas: then Anisya and I will go through all the cupboards. Now when are you going to clean up? You are all sitting at home.

- I sometimes go to the theater and visit; that would be...

- What a cleaning at night!

Oblomov looked reproachfully at him, shook his head and sighed, while Zakhar looked indifferently out the window and sighed too. The master, it seems, thought: “Well, brother, you are even more Oblomov than I myself,” and Zakhar almost thought: “You're lying! you are only a master of speaking tricky and miserable words, but you don’t care about dust and cobwebs.

“Do you understand,” said Ilya Ilyich, “that dust starts moths?” I sometimes even see a bed bug on the wall!

- I have fleas too! Zakhar replied indifferently.

- Do you really think that's good? After all, this is bullshit! Oblomov noted.

Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that the grin even covered his eyebrows and sideburns, which parted to the sides from this, and a red spot spread all over his face up to his forehead.

Sergey Nikolaevich SHESHUKOV (1974) - teacher of Russian language and literature at the Lyceum at Syktyvkar State University.

Materials for test papers and quizzes for Goncharov's novel "Oblomov"

Before studying a new literary work, I advise colleagues to conduct verification work that resembles a quiz. Usually, quiz questions relate to knowledge of the text of works, they allow children to pay attention to very important details when reading (portrait of a hero, interior, new vocabulary). The children quickly get used to this type of tasks and, starting to read a new work, they already involuntarily peer into the details about which they “may be asked”. And this develops the ability to notice a lot in the text. The quiz allows the teacher to find out who has mastered the text of the work - without this it is impossible to start studying. You can ask the children to come up with questions for the quiz themselves. They really like it.

Quiz on the first part of the novel

1st option

A) stingy life.

B) get driving for five horses.

B) love usurer, prude.

D) The gentleman, overgrown with whiskers, mustaches and goatee.

A) ... an elderly man, in a gray frock coat, with a hole under his arm, from where a piece of shirt stuck out, in a gray waistcoat ... with a bare skull, like a knee, and with immensely wide and thick blond whiskers with gray hair.

B) ... looked at everything sullenly and with half contempt, ready to scold everything and everyone ... His movements were bold and sweeping, he spoke loudly ... as if three carts were driving over a bridge.

3. What is the rank of Oblomov?

4. Where did Oblomov, while in the service, mistakenly send a letter?

5. The main and first concern of life in Oblomovka is ...

2nd option

1. Give an interpretation of the highlighted words.

A) Oh baby sybarite!

B) bothersome curiosity.

C) love a moneylender prude.

D) What is today? for the party I have?

2. Determine which characters in the novel "Oblomov" have these characteristics.

A) ... flabby beyond his years ... his body, judging by the matte, too white color of the neck, small, plump hands, soft shoulders, seemed too pampered for a man.

B) ... There was one person after his heart ( Which?): he also did not give him rest; he loved news, and light, and science, and all his life, but somehow deeper, sincerely ... (Oblomov) sincerely loved him alone, believed him alone, perhaps because he grew up, studied and lived with him.

3. How long has Oblomov been living in St. Petersburg?

4. What villages were included in the Oblomov estate? You write. (Malinovka, Sosnovka, Vavilovka, Verkhlevo).

5. Who was Oblomov's last visitor in the first part of the novel?

Keys

1st option

1. A) Stingy, greedy.

B) Fare for mail horses.

C) A person who lends money at high interest rates.

D) Short and narrow pointed beard.

2. A) Servant Zakhar.

B) Mikhey Tarantiev.

3. Collegiate secretary.

4. To Arkhangelsk instead of Astrakhan.

5. … about food.

2nd option

1. A) A person prone to idleness.

B) Annoying, obsessive.

C) A hypocrite hiding behind ostentatious virtue.

D) Big party, reception.

2. A) Ilya Ilyich Oblomov.

B) Stolz.

3. Twelfth.

4. Sosnovka, Vavilovka.

5. Stolz.

Verification work on the second and third parts of the novel

1st option

1. Match the highlighted words and their interpretation (see Table 1.)

Did not love arrogance; however, he was not pedant; fleur; (there was no) no affectation, no coquetry; and the more challenged it, the deeper " kosnel” he is in his obstinacy; and also dock.

Cunning is like a small coin, for which ...

3. Translate the expression into Russian. Which character from the novel does it refer to?

A) Literacy is harmful to a peasant: learn him, so he, perhaps, will not plow.

b) Life is poetry.

C) ... You are gentle ... a dove, you hide your head under your wing - and you don’t want anything else, you are ready to coo all your life under the roof.

D) This is ... some kind of Oblomovism.

5. Whose portraits are these?

A) (She) in the strict sense of the word was not a beauty, that is, there was neither whiteness in her, nor bright color of her cheeks and lips, and her eyes did not burn with rays of inner fire ... her lips are thin and for the most part compressed: a sign of constantly striving for something any thoughts. The same presence of a speaking thought shone in the vigilant, always cheerful, nothing missing look of dark, gray-blue eyes.

b) She was thirty years old. She was very white and full in the face, so that the blush could not seem to break through her cheeks. She had almost no eyebrows at all, and in their places were two slightly swollen, shiny stripes, with rare light stripes. The eyes are greyish-ingenuous, like the whole expression of the face; the hands are white, but stiff, with large knots protruding outwards ...

6. Answer the questions.

A) What plant became a symbol of Oblomov's love for Olga?

b) Who says it and in what situation?

Who cursed you, Ilya? What did you do? You are kind, smart, gentle, noble... and you perish. What ruined you? Is there a name for this evil?

2nd option

1. Match the highlighted words and their interpretation (see Table 2).

2. Continue the popular expression.

Touches…

3. Translate the expression into Russian. Which character from the novel does it refer to?

Terra incognita.

4. To whom do these statements belong?

A) Labor is the image, content, element and purpose of life.

B) Yes, godfather, until the boobies in Rus' are gone, that they sign papers without reading, our brother can live.

C) My life began with extinction.

D) Life is a duty, an obligation, therefore, love is also a duty.

5. Whose portraits are these?

A) He is all made up of bones, muscles and nerves, like a blooded English horse. He is thin; he has almost no cheeks at all, that is, there is bone and muscle, but there is no sign of fatty roundness; the complexion is even, swarthy and no blush; eyes, although a little greenish, but expressive.

B) She was a lively, agile woman, about forty-seven years old, with a caring smile, with her eyes running around vividly in all directions ... She had almost no face at all: only her nose was noticeable; although it was small, it seemed to have lagged behind the face, and, moreover, its lower part was turned up or awkwardly placed ...

6. Answer the questions.

a) How old is Stoltz?

b) Who says this and in what situation?

And this angel descended into the swamp, refreshing it with his presence.

Keys

1st option

1. Doka - A

Puffiness - B

Pedant - V

Kosnet - D

He was a man of about thirty-two or three years of age, of medium height, of pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with no definite idea, no concentration in his features. The thought walked like a free bird across the face, fluttered in the eyes, settled on half-open lips, hid in the folds of the forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness glowed all over the face. From the face, carelessness passed into the poses of the whole body, even into the folds of the dressing gown.

Sometimes his eyes were darkened by an expression as if of weariness or boredom; but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from the face the gentleness that was the dominant and basic expression, not only of the face, but of the whole soul; and the soul shone so openly and clearly in the eyes, in the smile, in every movement of the head and hand. And a superficially observant, cold person, glancing casually at Oblomov, would say: “There must be a kind man, simplicity!” A deeper and more sympathetic person, peering into his face for a long time, would walk away in pleasant thought, with a smile.

Ilya Ilyich's complexion was neither ruddy, nor swarthy, nor positively pale, but indifferent or seemed so, perhaps because Oblomov was somehow flabby beyond his years: from a lack of movement or air, or maybe that and another. In general, his body, judging by the matte, too white color of the neck, small plump hands, soft shoulders, seemed too pampered for a man.

His movements, when he was even alarmed, were also restrained by softness and laziness, not devoid of a kind of grace. If a cloud of care came over the face from the soul, the look became foggy, wrinkles appeared on the forehead, a game of doubt, sadness, fright began; but seldom did this anxiety solidify in the form of a definite idea, still more rarely did it turn into an intention. All anxiety was resolved with a sigh and faded into apathy or drowsiness.

How Oblomov's home costume went to his dead features and to his pampered body! He was wearing a dressing gown made of Persian fabric, a real oriental dressing gown, without the slightest hint of Europe, without tassels, without velvet, without a waist, very roomy, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice. The sleeves, in the same Asian fashion, went from fingers to shoulder wider and wider. Although this dressing gown had lost its original freshness and in some places replaced its primitive, natural gloss with another, acquired, it still retained the brightness of oriental color and the strength of the fabric.

The dressing gown had in the eyes of Oblomov a darkness of invaluable virtues: it is soft, flexible; the body does not feel it on itself; he, like an obedient slave, submits to the slightest movement of the body.

Oblomov always went home without a tie and without a vest, because he loved space and freedom. His shoes were long, soft and wide; when, without looking, he lowered his legs from the bed to the floor, he would certainly hit them at once.

Lying down with Ilya Ilyich was neither a necessity, like a sick person or a person who wants to sleep, nor an accident, like someone who is tired, nor a pleasure, like a lazy person: this was his normal state. When he was at home - and he was almost always at home - he was always lying, and everyone was constantly in the same room where we found him, which served him as a bedroom, study and reception room. He had three more rooms, but he rarely looked in there, unless in the morning, and then not every day when a person swept his office, which was not done every day. In those rooms, the furniture was covered with covers, the curtains were lowered.

The room where Ilya Ilyich lay seemed at first glance to be beautifully decorated. There was a bureau of mahogany, two sofas upholstered in silk, beautiful screens embroidered with birds and fruits unknown in nature. There were silk curtains, carpets, a few paintings, bronzes, porcelain, and many beautiful little things.

But the experienced eye of a man of pure taste, with one cursory glance at everything that was there, would read only a desire to somehow maintain the decorum of inevitable decorum, if only to get rid of them. Oblomov, of course, only bothered about this when he cleaned his office. Refined taste would not be satisfied with these heavy, ungraceful mahogany chairs, wobbly bookcases. The back of one sofa sank down, the pasted wood lagged behind in places.

Exactly the same character was worn by paintings, and vases, and trifles.

The owner himself, however, looked at the decoration of his office so coldly and absent-mindedly, as if asking with his eyes: “Who dragged and instructed all this here?” From such a cold view of Oblomov on his property, and perhaps even from a colder view of the same object of his servant, Zakhar, the appearance of the office, if you look there more and more closely, struck by the neglect and negligence that prevailed in it.

The Oblomovs' house was once rich and famous in its own area, but then, God knows why, everything became poorer, smaller, and, finally, imperceptibly got lost among the old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house kept and passed on to each other the faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as a shrine.

That is why Zakhar loved his gray coat so much. Perhaps he valued his sideburns because in his childhood he saw many old servants with this old, aristocratic decoration.

Ilya Ilyich, immersed in thought, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood in front of him silently. Finally he coughed.

What you? asked Ilya Ilyich.

Did you call?

Called? Why did I call - I do not remember! he answered, stretching. - Go to yourself for now, and I will remember.

Zakhar left, and Ilya Ilyich continued to lie and think about the accursed letter.

A quarter of an hour has passed.

Well, full lie! he said; Zakhar!

Where are you? - suddenly asked Oblomov.

You don't say anything, so why stand there for nothing? - Zakhar croaked, for lack of another voice, which, according to him, he lost while hunting with dogs, when he rode with an old master and when he blew like a strong wind in his throat.

He stood half-turned in the middle of the room and kept looking sideways at Oblomov.

Are your feet so dry that you can't stand up? You see, I'm preoccupied - just wait! Haven't been there yet? Look for the letter I received yesterday from the headman. Where are you doing it?

Which letter? I didn’t see any letter,” said Zakhar.

You took it from the postman: so dirty!

Where did they put him - why should I know? - said Zakhar, patting the papers and various things lying on the table with his hand.

You never know anything. There, in the basket, look! Or fell behind the sofa? Here, the back of the sofa has not yet been repaired; what would you call a carpenter to fix? After all, you broke it. You won't think of anything!

I did not break, - Zakhar answered, - she broke herself; it will not be a century for her to be: someday she must break.

Ilya Ilyich did not consider it necessary to prove the contrary.

Did you find it? he only asked.

Here are some letters.

Well, it’s not like that anymore,” Zakhar said.

Okay, come on! - Ilya Ilyich said impatiently, - I'll get up, I'll find it myself.

Zakhar went to his room, but as soon as he put his hands on the couch in order to jump on it, a hasty cry was heard again: “Zakhar, Zakhar!”

Oh you, Lord! - Zakhar grumbled, going back to the office. - What is this torment? If only death would come sooner!

What do you want? - he said, holding on to the door of the office with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of displeasure, so sideways that he had to see the master half-heartedly, and the master could only see one immense whisker, from which you just expect that two or three will fly out birds.

Handkerchief, quick! You yourself could guess: you do not see! Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly.

Zakhar did not show any particular displeasure or surprise at this order and reproach from the master, probably finding both very natural on his part.

And who knows where the handkerchief is? he grumbled, going around the room and feeling every chair, although it could be seen even so that nothing was lying on the chairs.

You are losing everything! he remarked, opening the door to the drawing-room to see if anyone was there.

Where? Search here! I haven't been there since the third day. Yes, rather! - said Ilya Ilyich.

Where is the scarf? I don't have a scarf! - said Zakhar, throwing up his hands and looking around in all corners. “Yes, there he is,” he suddenly wheezed angrily, “under you!” There the end sticks out. Lie on it yourself, and ask for a handkerchief!

And without waiting for an answer, Zakhar went out. Oblomov felt a little embarrassed at his own mistake. He quickly found another reason to make Zakhar guilty.

What a cleanliness you have everywhere: dust, dirt, my God! There, there, look in the corners - you're not doing anything!

If I don’t do anything ... - Zakhar spoke in an offended voice, - I try, I don’t regret my life! And I wash the dust, and sweep it almost every day ...

He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table on which Oblomov dined.

Get out, get out, - he said, - everything is swept up, tidied up, as if for a wedding ... What else?

And what's that? interrupted Ilya Ilyich, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. - And this? And this? - He pointed to the towel thrown from yesterday, and to the plate with a slice of bread forgotten on the table.

Well, I’ll probably take it away, ”Zakhar said condescendingly, taking a plate.

Just this! And the dust on the walls, and the cobwebs? .. - said Oblomov, pointing to the walls.

This is what I clean up for Holy Week: then I clean the images and remove the cobwebs ...

And books, paintings, sweep? ..

Books and pictures before Christmas: then Anisya and I will go through all the cupboards. Now when are you going to clean up? You are all sitting at home.

I sometimes go to the theater and visit: if only ...

What a cleaning at night!

Do you understand, - said Ilya Ilyich, - that moths start from the dust? I sometimes even see a bed bug on the wall!

I have fleas too! Zakhar replied indifferently.

Do you really think that's good? After all, this is bullshit! Oblomov noted.

Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that the grin even covered his eyebrows and sideburns, which parted to the sides from this, and a red spot spread all over his face up to his forehead.

What is my fault that there are bugs in the world? he said with naive surprise. Did I make them up?

This is from impurity, - interrupted Oblomov. - What are you all lying about!

And I did not invent the impurity.

You have, right there, mice running around at night - I can hear.

And I didn't invent mice. There are a lot of this creature, like mice, cats, bedbugs, everywhere.

How can others not have moths or bedbugs?

Distrust was expressed on Zakhar's face, or, to put it better, calm confidence that this does not happen.

I have a lot of everything,” he said stubbornly, “you can’t see through every bug, you can’t fit into a crack in it.

And he himself, it seems, thought: “Yes, and what kind of sleep is it without a bug?”

You sweep, pick rubbish from the corners - and there will be nothing, - Oblomov taught.

Take it away, and tomorrow it will be typed again, - said Zakhar.

It won’t be enough, - the master interrupted, - it shouldn’t.

It will be enough - I know, - the servant kept repeating.

And it will be typed, so sweep it again.

Like this? Every day touch all the corners? Zahar asked. - What kind of life is this? Better God to the soul went!

Why are others clean? Oblomov objected. - Look opposite, at the tuner: it’s nice to look, but there’s only one girl ...

And where will the Germans take rubbish, - Zakhar suddenly objected. - Look at how they live! The whole family has been eating bones for a whole week. The coat passes from the shoulders of the father to the son, and from the son again to the father. On the wife and daughters, the dresses are short: they all tuck their legs under themselves, like geese ... Where can they get rubbish? They don’t have it, like we do, so that in the closets a heap of old worn-out clothes lay over the years or a whole corner of crusts of bread accumulated over the winter ... They don’t even have a crust lying around in vain: they make crackers and with beer and drink it!

Zakhar even spat through his teeth, talking about such a stingy life.

Nothing to talk! - Ilya Ilyich objected, - you better clean it up.

Sometimes I would take it away, but you don’t give it yourself, ”said Zakhar.

Went yours! You see, I'm in the way.

Of course, you; you are all sitting at home: how will you clean up in front of you? Go away for the day, and I'll clean it up.

Here's another thought up - to leave! Come on, you're better off.

Yeah right! Zakhar insisted. - If only they left today, Anisya and I would clean everything up. And then we can’t manage it together: we still need to hire women, wash everything.

E! what ideas - women! Go to yourself, - said Ilya Ilyich.

He was no longer glad that he called Zakhar to this conversation. He kept forgetting that if you touch this delicate object a little, you will not end up with trouble.

Oblomov would like it to be clean, but he would like it to be done somehow, imperceptibly, naturally; and Zakhar always started a lawsuit, as soon as they began to demand from him sweeping dust, washing floors, etc. In this case, he will begin to prove the need for enormous fuss in the house, knowing very well that the mere thought of this horrified his master.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov plunged into thought. A few minutes later another half hour struck.

What is this? - Ilya Ilyich said almost with horror. - Eleven o'clock soon, but I haven't got up yet, haven't washed my face yet? Zahar, Zahar!

Oh my God! Well! - I heard from the front, and then a well-known jump.

Ready to wash? - asked Oblomov.

Done a long time ago! - answered Zakhar, - why don't you get up?

Why don't you tell me it's ready? I would have gotten up a long time ago. Come on, I'm following you now. I have to study, I'll sit down to write.

Zakhar left, but returned a minute later with a scribbled and oily notebook and scraps of paper.

Now, if you write, by the way, if you please, and check the scores: you have to pay money.

What accounts? What money? Ilya Ilyich asked with displeasure.

Well, I have to go! Volkov said. - For camellias for Misha's bouquet. Au revoir.

Come in the evening to drink tea, from the ballet: tell me how it was there, ”Oblomov invited.

I can’t, I gave my word to the Mussinskys: today is their day. Let's go and you. Do you want me to introduce you?

No, what is there to do?

At the Mussinskys? For mercy, yes there is half the city. How to do what? This is a house where everyone talks about everything...

That's what's boring about everything, - said Oblomov.

Well, visit the Mezdrovs, - Volkov interrupted, - they are talking about one thing there, about the arts; all you hear is: the Venetian school, Beethoven da Bach, Leonardo da Vinci...

A century about the same thing - what a bore! Pedants must be! - said, yawning, Oblomov.

You won't please. How many houses! Now everyone has days: at the Savinovs they dine on Thursdays, at the Maklashins - Fridays, at the Vyaznikovs - Sundays, at Prince Tyumenev - Wednesdays. My days are busy! Volkov concluded with shining eyes.

And you are not too lazy to hang around every day?

Here, laziness! What kind of laziness? Have fun! he said nonchalantly. - You read in the morning, you have to be au courant of everything, to know the news. Thank God, I have such a service that I do not need to be in office. Only twice a week I will sit and dine with the general, and then you will go on visits where you have not been for a long time; well, and there ... a new actress, now in Russian, then in the French theater. There will be an opera, I subscribe. And now in love ... Summer begins; Misha was promised a vacation; let's go to their village for a month, for a change. There is hunting. They have great neighbors, they give bals champêtres. We will walk in the grove with Lydia, ride in a boat, pick flowers ... Ah! .. - and he turned over with joy. "But it's time... Farewell," he said, trying in vain to look at himself front and back in a dusty mirror.

Wait, - Oblomov kept, - I wanted to talk to you about business.

He was a gentleman in a dark green tailcoat with coat of arms buttons, clean-shaven, with dark sideburns that evenly bordered his face, with a troubled but calmly conscious expression in his eyes, with a heavily worn face, with a thoughtful smile.

Hello Sudbinsky! Oblomov greeted cheerfully. - Forcibly looked to the old colleague! Don't come, don't come! You are cold.

Hello, Ilya Ilyich. I've been going to you for a long time, - the guest said, - but you know what a devilish service we have! There, look, I'm taking a whole suitcase to the report; and now, if they ask anything there, he ordered the courier to gallop here. You can't have yourself for a minute.

Are you still in service? So late? - asked Oblomov. - It used to be you from ten o'clock ...

It happened - yes; and now another thing: at twelve o'clock I go. - He emphasized the last word.

A! guess! Oblomov said. - Department Director! How long ago?

Sudbinsky nodded his head significantly.

To the Saint, he said. - But how much business - horror! From eight to twelve o'clock at home, from twelve to five in the office, but in the evening I study. Completely out of touch with people!

Hm! Head of department - that's how! Oblomov said. - Congratulations! What? And together they served as clerical officials. I think next year you will move to civilians.

Where! God be with you! Still this year the crown must be received; I thought they would be presented for distinction, but now I have taken a new position: it’s impossible for two years in a row ...

Come to dinner, let's drink for a promotion! Oblomov said.

No, I'm having lunch at the Vice Principal's today. We have to prepare a report by Thursday - a hell of a job! You can't rely on representations from the provinces. You have to check the lists yourself. Foma Fomich is so suspicious: he wants everything himself. Today we will sit together after dinner.

Is it after dinner? Oblomov asked incredulously.

What did you think? It’s also good if I get off early and have time to at least ride to Yekaterinhof ... Yes, I stopped by to ask: would you go for a walk? I would go...

Something is unwell, I can't! - grimacing, said Oblomov. - Yes, and there is a lot to do ... no, I can’t!

It's a pity! - said Sudbinsky, - and the day is good. Only today and I hope to breathe.

Well, what's new with you? - asked Oblomov.

Nothing bye; Svinkin lost his business!

Indeed? What about the director? Oblomov asked in a trembling voice. He, according to old memory, was scared.

He ordered the reward to be withheld until he was found. An important matter: “about penalties”. The director thinks,” Sudbinsky added almost in a whisper, “that he lost it ... on purpose.

Can't be! Oblomov said.

No no! This is in vain, - Sudbinsky confirmed with importance and patronage. - Pig's windy head. Sometimes the devil knows what results it will give you, confuse all the certificates. I'm exhausted with him; but no, he has not been seen in anything like that ... He will not, no, no! The case was lying around somewhere; after it will be found.

So here's how: everything is in the works! - said Oblomov, - you work.

Horror, horror! Well, of course, it is pleasant to serve with such a person as Foma Fomich: he does not leave him without awards; who does nothing, and those will not be forgotten. As the term came out - for the difference, it represents; who has not reached the deadline for the rank, for the cross, he will get the money ...

How much do you get?

Ugh! damn it! - said, jumping out of bed, Oblomov. - Do you have a good voice? Just an Italian singer!

What else is it? Vaughn Peresvetov receives surplus, but he does less things than I do and does not understand anything. Well, of course, he doesn't have that reputation. I am greatly valued,” he added modestly, looking downcast, “the minister recently said of me that I am “an ornament of the ministry.”

Well done! Oblomov said. - That's just to work from eight o'clock to twelve, from twelve to five, and at home also - oh, oh!

He shook his head.

What would I do if I didn't serve? - asked Sudbinsky.

You never know! I would read, write ... - said Oblomov.

I still do nothing but read and write.

Yes, that's not it; would you type...

Not everyone can be writers. So you don’t write either, ”Sudbinsky objected.

But I have an estate in my hands, ”Oblomov said with a sigh. - I think of a new plan; I introduce various improvements. I'm suffering, I'm suffering... But you're doing someone else's work, not your own.

He's a good guy! Oblomov said.

Kind kind; it costs.

Very kind, the character is soft, even, - said Oblomov.

So obligatory, - added Sudbinsky, - and there is no such thing, you know, in order to curry favor, to spoil, to put a foot in front, to get ahead ... he does everything he can.

Wonderful person! It used to be that you get confused in paper, you don’t see it, you sum up the wrong opinion or laws in a note, nothing: he only orders another to redo it. Great person! Oblomov concluded.

But our Semyon Semenych is so incorrigible, - said Sudbinsky, - only a master of throwing dust in his eyes. Recently, what he did: from the provinces, an idea was received about the construction of dog kennels near the buildings belonging to our department to save state property from plunder; our architect, a man of efficiency, knowledge and honesty, made a very moderate estimate; suddenly seemed big to him, and let's make inquiries, what can it cost to build a dog kennel? I found somewhere less than thirty kopecks - now a memorandum ...

There was another call.

Farewell, - said the official, - I chatted, something will be needed there ...

Sit still, - kept Oblomov. - By the way, I will consult with you: I have two misfortunes ...

No, no, I'd better call again one of these days, - he said, leaving.

“Stuck, dear friend, stuck up to his ears,” thought Oblomov, following him with his eyes. - And blind, and deaf, and dumb for everything else in the world. And he will come out into the people, in time he will turn things over and pick up officials ... We also call this a career! And how little a person is needed here: his mind, will, feelings - why is this? Luxury! And he will live his life, and much, much will not move in it ... And meanwhile he works from twelve to five in the office, from eight to twelve at home - unfortunate!

He experienced a feeling of peaceful joy that from nine to three, from eight to nine he could stay on his sofa, and was proud that he did not have to go with a report, write papers, that there was scope for his feelings and imagination.

Do you have a lot to do? - asked Oblomov.

Yes, that's enough. Two articles in the newspaper every week, then I write analyzes of fiction writers, but now I wrote a story ...

About how in one city the mayor beats the petty-bourgeois in the teeth...

Yes, this is indeed a real direction, - said Oblomov.

Is not it? - confirmed the delighted writer. - I spend this thought and I know that it is new and bold. One traveler witnessed these beatings and complained to him when meeting with the governor. He ordered the official, who was going there for the investigation, to casually verify this and generally collect information about the personality and behavior of the mayor. The official summoned the townspeople, as if to ask about trade, but in the meantime, let's explore this as well. What about the burghers? They bow and laugh and extol the mayor with praises. The official began to recognize the party, and he was told that the bourgeois are terrible scammers, they sell rotten things, they weigh them down, they even measure the treasury, everyone is immoral, so these beatings are a righteous punishment ...

So, beatings of the mayor appear in the story, like the fatum of ancient tragedians? Oblomov said.

Precisely, - picked up Penkin. - You have a lot of tact, Ilya Ilyich, you should write! Meanwhile, I managed to show both the arbitrariness of the mayor, and the corruption of morals among the common people; poor organization of the actions of subordinate officials and the need for strict, but legal measures ... Isn't it true, this idea ... is quite new?

Yes, especially for me, - said Oblomov, - I read so little ...

In fact, you don’t see books! Penkin said. - But, I beg you, read one thing; a magnificent, one might say, poem is being prepared: "The love of a bribe taker for a fallen woman." I can't tell you who

What is there?

The whole mechanism of our social movement has been revealed, and everything is in poetic colors. All springs are touched; all rungs of the social ladder have been moved. Here, as if for a trial, the author has summoned both a weak but vicious nobleman and a whole swarm of bribe-takers who are deceiving him; and all the ranks of fallen women are dismantled... Frenchwomen, Germans, tubs, and everything, everything... with amazing, burning fidelity... I have heard excerpts - the author is great! in it one hears Dante, then Shakespeare ...

Look where enough, ”Oblomov said in amazement, standing up.

Penkin suddenly fell silent, seeing that he really had gone far.

Why? It makes noise, they talk about it...

Yes, let them! Some people have nothing better to do than talk. There is such a calling.

Yes, read it out of curiosity.

What didn't I see there? Oblomov said. - Why do they write this: they only amuse themselves ...

As yourself: fidelity, what fidelity! It looks like a laugh. Like living portraits. As someone will be taken, whether a merchant, an official, an officer, a watchman, they will definitely be printed alive.

What are they fighting from: out of fun, or something, that we won’t take anyone, but it’s true that it will come out? And there is no life in anything: there is no understanding of it and sympathy, there is no what you call humanity there. One self-love only. They portray thieves, fallen women, as if catching them in the street and taking them to prison. In their story, one can hear not “invisible tears”, but only visible, coarse laughter, anger ...

What else is needed? And it's great, you yourself spoke out: this seething anger - bilious persecution of vice, laughter of contempt for a fallen person ... that's all!

No, not all! - suddenly ignited, said Oblomov, - portray a thief, a fallen woman, an inflated fool, and don’t forget the person right there. Where is the humanity? You want to write with one head! Oblomov almost hissed. - Do you think that a thought does not need a heart? No, it is fertilized by love. Stretch out your hand to a fallen man to lift him up, or weep bitterly over him if he perishes, and do not mock. Love him, remember yourself in him, and treat him as if you were yourself—then I will read you and bow my head before you...” he said, lying down again calmly on the sofa. “They portray a thief, a fallen woman,” he said, “but they forget about a person or they don’t know how to portray. What kind of art is here, what poetic colors did you find? Expose debauchery, dirt, only, please, without pretensions to poetry.

Well, would you order to depict nature: roses, a nightingale, or a frosty morning, while everything is boiling, moving around? We need one naked physiology of society; we don’t have time for songs now ...

Human, human give me! - said Oblomov, - love him ...

To love a usurer, a hypocrite, a stealing or stupid official - do you hear? What are you? And it is clear that you are not engaged in literature! Penkin got excited. - No, they must be punished, cast out from the civilian environment, from society ...

Spew out of the civilian environment! Oblomov suddenly spoke with inspiration, standing in front of Penkin. - It means forgetting that a higher principle was present in this worthless vessel; that he is a corrupted man, but he is still a man, that is, you yourself. Regurgitate! And how will you cast him out of the circle of humanity, out of the bosom of nature, out of the mercy of God? he almost shouted with blazing eyes.

Where did they get it! said Penkin, in his turn, with astonishment.

Oblomov saw that he had gone too far. He suddenly fell silent, stood for a minute, yawned, and slowly lay down on the sofa.

Both fell into silence.

What are you reading? asked Penkin.

I...yes all travel more.

Again silence.

So will you read the poem when it comes out? I would bring ... - asked Penkin.

Oblomov made a negative sign with his head.

Well, can I send you my story?

Oblomov nodded in agreement...

However, I have to go to the printing house! Penkin said. - Do you know why I came to you? I wanted to suggest that you go to Ekateringof; I have a stroller. Tomorrow I have to write an article about the festivities: if they began to observe together, if I didn’t notice, you would tell me; it would be more fun. Let's go...

No, he’s not feeling well, ”said Oblomov, grimacing and hiding behind a blanket,“ I’m afraid of dampness, now it hasn’t dried yet. But you would come to dinner today: we would talk ... I have two misfortunes ...

No, our editorial staff is all at Saint-Georges today, from there we will go for a walk. And at night to write and how to send light to the printing house. Goodbye.

Goodbye, Penkin.

“Writing at night,” thought Oblomov, “when to sleep, then? And go, earn five thousand a year! It's bread! Yes, write everything, waste your thought, your soul on trifles, change your beliefs, trade your mind and imagination, force your nature, worry, boil, burn, not know peace and everything is moving somewhere ... And write everything, write everything like a wheel, like a car: write tomorrow, the day after tomorrow; the holiday will come, summer will come - and he writes everything? When to stop and rest? Unhappy!"

He turned his head to the table, where everything was smooth, and the ink dried up, and the pen could not be seen, and he was glad that he was lying, carefree, like a newborn baby, that he did not scatter, did not sell anything ...

“And the elder’s letter, and the apartment?” - he suddenly remembered and thought.

His father, a provincial clerk of the old days, assigned to his son the art and experience of going about other people's affairs and his deftly passed field of service in a government office; but fate decreed otherwise. The father, who had once studied Russian himself on copper money, did not want his son to be behind the times, and wished to teach him something other than the intricate science of going about business. For three years he sent him to the priest to learn Latin.

A naturally capable boy at the age of three passed Latin grammar and syntax and began to understand Cornelius Nepos, but his father decided that it was enough that he knew that even this knowledge gave him a huge advantage over the old generation and that, finally, further occupations can, perhaps, damage the service in public places.

Sixteen-year-old Micah, not knowing what to do with his Latin, began to forget it in his parents' house, but on the other hand, in anticipation of the honor of being present in the zemstvo or district court, he was present at all his father's feasts, and at this school, among frank conversations, the mind of a young man developed to subtlety.

With youthful impressionability, he listened to the stories of his father and his comrades about various civil and criminal cases, about curious cases that passed through the hands of all these clerks of the old time.

But all this came to nothing. Micah did not develop into a businessman and a crocheter, although all the efforts of his father tended towards this and, of course, would have been crowned with success if fate had not destroyed the old man's plans. Micah really mastered the whole theory of his father's conversations, it only remained to apply it to the case, but after the death of his father he did not have time to go to court and was taken to St. Petersburg by some benefactor who found him a job as a scribe in one department, and then forgot about German

So Tarantiev remained only a theoretician for life. In the St. Petersburg service, he had nothing to do with his Latin and with subtle theory to do right and wrong deeds according to his own arbitrariness; meanwhile, he bore and realized in himself a dormant force, locked up in him by hostile circumstances forever, without hope of manifestation, as, according to fairy tales, spirits of evil were locked up in tight enchanted walls, deprived of the power to harm. Perhaps from this consciousness of useless power in himself, Tarantiev was rude, unfriendly, constantly angry and quarrelsome.

He looked with bitterness and contempt at his real occupations: copying papers, filing files, etc. Only one last hope smiled at him in the distance: to go to serve in wine farms. [On this road, he saw the only profitable replacement for the field bequeathed to him father and not achieved. And in anticipation of this, the theory of activity and life, prepared and created for him by his father, the theory of bribes and slyness, having bypassed its main and worthy field in the provinces, was applied to all the little things of his insignificant existence in Petersburg, crept into all his friendly relations for lack of official ones.

He was a bribe-taker at heart, according to theory, he managed to take bribes, in the absence of cases and petitioners, from colleagues, from friends, God knows how and for what - he forced, where and whom he could, either by cunning or importunity, to treat himself, demanded from all undeserved respect, was picky. He was never embarrassed by the shame of a worn dress, but he was not alien to anxiety if, in the prospect of the day, he did not have a huge dinner, with a decent amount of wine and vodka.

From this, in the circle of his acquaintances, he played the role of a big guard dog, which barks at everyone, does not allow anyone to move, but which at the same time will certainly grab a piece of meat on the fly, from where and wherever it flies.

These were the two most zealous visitors to Oblomov.

Why did these two Russian proletarians go to him? They knew very well why: drink, eat, smoke good cigars. They found a warm, quiet shelter and always received the same, if not cordial, then indifferent reception.

But why did Oblomov let them in - he was hardly aware of this. And it seems, then, why else about now in our remote Oblomovki, in every prosperous house, a swarm of similar persons of both sexes crowds, without bread, without craft, without hands for productivity and only with a stomach for consumption, but almost always with rank and rank .

There are still sybarites who need such additions in life: they are bored with nothing superfluous in the world. Who will give a snuffbox that has gone somewhere or pick up a handkerchief that has fallen on the floor? To whom can I complain about a headache with the right to participate, tell a bad dream and demand an interpretation? Who reads a book for the coming dream and helps you fall asleep? And sometimes such a proletarian is sent to the nearest city for a purchase, to help with the housework - it’s not like poking around!

Tarantiev made a lot of noise, brought Oblomov out of immobility and boredom. He shouted, argued and made up a kind of performance, saving the lazy gentleman himself from the need to speak and do. In the room where sleep and peace reigned, Tarantiev brought life, movement, and sometimes lead from the outside. Oblomov could listen, look, without moving a finger, at something lively, moving and speaking in front of him. In addition, he still had the innocence to believe that Tarantiev was really capable of advising him something worthwhile.

Oblomov endured Alekseev's visits for another, no less important reason. If he wanted to live in his own way, that is, lie silently, doze off or walk around the room, it was as if Alekseev was not there: he was also silent, dozing or looking at a book, looking at pictures and little things with a lazy yawn to tears. He could stay like that for at least three days. If Oblomov was bored with being alone and he felt the need to express himself, to speak, to read, to reason, to show excitement, then there was always a submissive and ready listener and participant who equally shared his silence, and his conversation, and excitement, and way of thinking, whatever it is.

Other guests came in infrequently, for a minute, like the first three guests; with them, with all of them, more and more, living ties were broken. Oblomov was sometimes interested in some news, a five-minute conversation, then, satisfied with this, was silent. They had to reciprocate, to take part in what interested them. They bathed in the human crowd; everyone understood life in his own way, just as Oblomov did not want to understand it, and they confused him with it; all this did not please him, repulsed him, did not please him.

There was one person after his own heart: he also did not give him rest; he loved news, and light, and science, and all his life, but somehow deeper, sincere - and Oblomov, although he was affectionate with everyone, he sincerely loved him alone, believed him alone, perhaps because he grew up, studied and lived with him. This is Andrei Ivanovich Stolz.

He was away, but Oblomov was waiting for him from hour to hour.

Introduction

Goncharov's novel "Oblomov" was published in 1859 at a turning point for Russian society. At the time of writing the work, there were two social strata in the Russian Empire - supporters of new, pro-European, educational views and carriers of outdated, archaic values. The representatives of the latter in the novel are the protagonist of the book, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov, and his servant Zakhar. Despite the fact that the servant is a minor character, only thanks to the introduction of this hero into the work by the author, the reader receives a realistic, and not idealized by Oblomov, picture of “Oblomovism”. The characterization of Zakhar in the novel "Oblomov" by Goncharov is fully consistent with the "Oblomov" values and lifestyle: the man is sloppy, lazy, slow, likes to embellish his speech and firmly clings to everything old, not wanting to change to new conditions of life.

Zakhar and Oblomovka

According to the plot of the novel, Oblomov's servant Zakhar began serving with the Oblomovs in his early youth, where he was assigned to little Ilya. This led to a strong attachment of the characters to each other, which eventually turned into a playfully friendly relationship rather than a “master-servant” relationship.

Zakhar moved to St. Petersburg already at a mature age. All his happy years of youth passed in Oblomovka, and the most vivid memories were connected precisely with the village of the master, so the man, even in the city, continues to hold on to his past (as, indeed, Ilya Ilyich), seeing in him all the best that happened to him .

Zakharov in "Oblomov" appears as an elderly man "in a gray frock coat, with a hole in the armpit, from which a piece of shirt stuck out, in a gray waistcoat, with copper buttons, with a skull bare as a knee, and with immensely wide and thick blond whiskers with gray hair, from each of which would have become three beards. Although Zakhar had lived for a long time in St. Petersburg, he did not try to start dressing in a new fashion, did not want to change his appearance, he even ordered clothes according to a model taken from Oblomovka. The man loved his old, worn-out gray frock coat and waistcoat, because “in this semi-uniform clothes he saw a faint recollection of the livery that he once wore when seeing off the late gentlemen to church or on a visit; and the livery in his memoirs was the only representative of the dignity of the Oblomov house. Clothes sewn according to the old fashion became for Zakhar the thread that connected him in the present, updated, noisy and restless world with the “heavenly” calm and tranquility of Oblomovka, its outdated but familiar values.

The master's estate was for a man not just a place where he was born, grew up and received his first life lessons. Oblomovka became for Zakhar an example of that ideal embodiment of the landlord, house-building values that were instilled in him by his parents, grandfathers and great-grandfathers. Once in a new society that wants to completely discard the past experience and live a new life, a man feels lonely and abandoned. That is why, even if there was an opportunity, the hero would not leave Ilya Ilyich and change his appearance, because in this way he would betray the ideals and values of his parents.

Zakhar and Ilya Ilyich Oblomov

Zakhar knew Oblomov from a very young age, so he perfectly saw his advantages and disadvantages, understood when it was possible to argue with the master, and when it was better to remain silent. Ilya Ilyich was for the servant a link between Oblomovka and the big city: “in some signs preserved in the face and manners of the master, reminiscent of his parents, and in his whims, to which, although he grumbled, both to himself and out loud, but which, meanwhile, he respected internally, as a manifestation of the lord's will, the master's right, he saw faint hints of obsolete greatness. Brought up as a devoted servant of his master, and not an independent person, as part of a large house and family, “without these whims, he somehow did not feel the master over him; without them, nothing revived his youth, the village, which they left long ago.

Zakhar did not perceive his life in another form, not as a servant of Oblomov, but, for example, as a free artisan. His image is no less tragic than the image of Ilya Ilyich, because, unlike the master, he cannot change his life - step over the "Oblomovism" and move on. Zakhar's whole life is centered around Oblomov and his well-being, comfort and importance for the servant are the main meaning of life. Illustrative evidence is the episode of the dispute between the servant and Ilya Ilyich, when Zakhar likened the master to other people and he himself felt that he had said something really offensive to Oblomov.

As in the childhood of Ilya Ilyich, in his mature years the servant continues to take care of his master, although this concern sometimes looks somewhat strange: for example, Zakhar can serve dinner on beaten or unwashed dishes, drop food and, lifting it from the floor, offer Oblomov. On the other hand, the whole life of Ilya Ilyich rests precisely on Zakhara - he knows all the master's goodness without exception (even forbids Tarantiev to take Oblomov's things when he does not mind), he is always ready to justify his master and show him the best (in conversations with other servants).
Ilya Ilyich and Zakhar complement each other, as they represent two main manifestations of Oblomov's values - the lord's and his devoted servant. And even after the death of Oblomov, the man does not agree to go to Stolz, wanting to stay near the grave of Ilya Ilyich.

Conclusion

The image of Zakhar in Oblomov is a metaphor for the dilapidated Oblomovka and outdated, archaic views on the world and society. Through his ridiculous costume, constant laziness and peculiar concern for the master, one can trace the endless longing for those distant times when Oblomovka was a prosperous landowner's village, a truly paradise, full of calm, peace, understanding that tomorrow will be as quiet and monotonous as today . Ilya Ilyich dies, but Zakhar remains, as does Oblomovka itself, which, perhaps in the future, will pass to the son of Ilya Ilyich, but will become a completely different estate.

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