“Because you haven’t paid your rent, I suppose?” “No, that is _not_ the reason. I always pay in advance. Tell me what had better be done.” “Who made _me_ your adviser? Do you think I give advice for nothing? Ask _him_, rather”--and Tarantiev pointed to Alexiev--“or else that kinsman of his.” “No, no. Tell me what I ought to do.” “I should advise you to move to another flat.” “I could have said that myself.” “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.” “Yes, yes,” said Oblomov. “But what about this affair of the _starosta?_” “The _starosta_ is lying. He is a thief and a rogue. Why, I know an estate, only fifty versts from yours, where the harvest of last year was so good that it cleared the owner completely of debt. That being so, why have the crops on _your_ estate threatened to fail? Clearly the _starosta_ is a robber. If I were there I’d teach him! Do you suppose this letter to be a natural, an honest one? No, no more than we can suppose that that sheep’s head over there he pointed to Alexiev again--“is capable of writing an honest letter, or his kinsman either.”