4

ALTHOUGH it was already late, they managed to make a business call, then Stolz took an owner of some gold-mines to dinner, then they went to the latter’s country house for tea. There they found a large company, and after his complete seclusion Oblomov found himself in a crowd. They returned home late at night.

The next day and the day after, the same thing happened, and a whole week passed by in a flash. Oblomov protested, complained, argued, but he was overborne and followed his friend everywhere. One morning, when they came home late, he protested especially against this sort of life.

«All day long», Oblomov muttered, putting on his dressing- gown, «you don’t take off your boots: my feet are throbbing! I dislike this Petersburg life of yours!» he went on, lying down on the sofa.

«What sort of life do you like?» asked Stolz.

«Not this sort».

«What is it you dislike particularly?»

«Everything – this constant rushing about, this eternal interplay of petty passions, greed especially, the eagerness with which they try to get the better of one another, the scandalmongering, the gossip, the way they look you up and down; listening to their talk makes your head swim and you go silly. They look so dignified and intelligent, but all you hear them say is, „This one has been given something and that one has got a big Government contract…“ „Heavens above, what for?“ someone cries. „So-and-so lost all his money at cards at the club last night; so-and-so takes three hundred thousand for his dowry!“ The whole thing is boring, boring, boring! Where is the real man here? Where is his integrity? Where has he disappeared? How has he managed to squander his great gifts on trifles?»

«But society has to be occupied by something or other», said Stolz. «Everyone has his own interests. That’s life…»

«Society! I suppose, Andrey, you are sending me into society on purpose so as to discourage me from going there. Life! A fine life! What is one to look for there? Intellectual interests? True feeling? Just see whether you can find the centre round which all this revolves; there is no such centre, there is nothing deep, nothing vital. All these society people are dead, they are all asleep, they are worse than II What is their aim in life? They do not lie about, they scurry to and fro every day like flies, but to what purpose? You come into a drawing-room and you cannot help admiring the symmetrical way in which the visitors are seated – at the card tables! It is indeed an excellent purpose in life! A wonderful example for a mind looking for something exciting. Aren’t they all dead men? Aren’t they asleep all their life sitting there like that? Why am I more to blame because I lie about at home and do not infect the minds of others with my talk of aces and knaves?»

«This is all old stuff», Stolz remarked. «It’s been said a thousand times before. You’ve nothing newer, have you?»

«Well, and what about the best representatives of our younger generation? What do they do? Aren’t they asleep even while walking or driving along the Nevsky, or dancing? What a continual, futile shuffling and reshuffling of days! But observe the pride and wonderful dignity, the supercilious look with which they regard everyone who is not dressed or of the same rank and social position as they. And the poor wretches imagine that they are above the common people! „We,“ they say, „occupy the best posts in the Civil Service, we sit in the front row of the stalls, we go to Prince N“.s balls where no other people are invited». And when they come together, they get drunk and fight like savages. Why, are these alive, wide-awake people? And it isn’t just the young people, either. Take a look at the older people. They meet, entertain each other at meals, but there is no real good-fellowship, no real hospitality, no mutual sympathy. If they meet at a dinner or a party, it is just the same as at their office – coldly, without a spark of gaiety, to boast of their chef or their drawing-room, and then to jeer at each other in a discreet aside, to trip one another up. The other day at dinner I honestly did not know where to look and wished I could hide under the table, when they began tearing to shreds the reputations of those who did not happen to be there: so-and-so is an ass, so-and-so is a mean scoundrel; that one is a thief, and another one is ridiculous – a regular massacre! And as they said it, they looked at each other as if to say, «Just go out of the door, my dear fellow, and we’ll do the same to you». Why, then, do they meet if they are like that? Why do they press each other’s hands so warmly? No genuine laughter, no glimmer of sympathy! They are all out to get someone of high rank, someone with a name, to come to their place. «So-and-so has called on me», they boast afterwards. «I’ve been to see so-and-so». What kind of life is that? I don’t want it. What can I get out of it? What will I learn there?

«Do you know, Ilya», said Stolz, «you talk like the ancients: they all used to write like that in old books. However, that, too, is a good thing: at least you talk and don’t sleep. Well, what else? Go on».

«Why go on? You have a good look: not a single person here looks fresh and healthy».

«It’s the climate», Stolz interrupted. «Your face, too, looks puffy and you’re not running about – you lie in bed all day».

«Not one of them has clear, calm eyes», Oblomov went on. «They all infect each other by a sort of tormenting anxiety and melancholy; they are all painfully searching for something. And if only it were for truth or their own and other people’s welfare – but no, they turn pale when they learn of a friend’s success. One man’s only worry in the world is to be present in court tomorrow; his case has been dragging on for five years, the other side is winning, and for five years he has had only one desire, one thought in his head: to trip up the other man and erect his own welfare on his ruin. To go regularly to court for five years and to sit and wait in the corridor – that is the aim and the ideal of his life! One man is depressed because he has to go to his office every day and stay there for five hours, and another man is sighing deeply because such bliss has not fallen to his lot – ’

„You’re a philosopher, Ilya“, said Stolz. „Everyone is worrying, you alone want nothing“.

„That sallow-faced gentleman in glasses“, Oblomov went on, „kept asking me if I had read the speech of some French deputy, and glared at me when I told him that I did not read the papers. And he kept talking and talking about Louis-Philippe as though he were his own father. Then he kept pestering me to tell him why the French ambassador had left Rome. Do you expect me to load myself every day with a fresh supply of world news and then to shout about it all week till it runs out? To-day Mahomet-Ali dispatched a ship to Constantinople and he is racking his brains wondering why. To-morrow Don Carlos has a setback and he is terribly worried. Here they are digging a canal, there a detachment of troops has been sent to the East: good Lord, it’s war! He looks terribly upset, he runs, he shouts, as though an army was marching against him personally. They argue, they discuss everything from every possible point of view, but they are bored, they are not really interested in the whole thing: you can see they are fast asleep in spite of their shouts! The whole thing does not concern them; it is as if they walked about in borrowed hats. They have nothing to do, so they squander their energies all over the place without trying to aim at anything in particular. The universality of their interests merely conceals emptiness and a complete absence of sympathy with everything! To choose the modest path of hard work and follow it, to dig a deep channel – is dull and unostentatious, and knowing everything would be of no use there, and there would be no one to impress!“

„Well, Ilya“, said Stolz, „you and I have not scattered our energies in all directions, have we? Where is our modest path of hard work?“

Oblomov suddenly fell silent.

„Oh, I’ve only to finish – er – my plan“, he said. „Anyway, why should I worry about them?“ he added with vexation after a pause. „I’m not interfering with them. I’m not after anything. All I say is that I can’t see that their life is normal. No, that is not life, but a distortion of the norm, of the ideal of life, which nature demands that man should regard as his aim“.

„What is this ideal, this norm of life?“

Oblomov made no answer.

„Now, tell me“, Stolz went on, „what sort of life would you have planned for yourself?“

„I have already planned it“.

„Oh? Tell me, what is it?“

„What is it?“ said Oblomov, turning over on his back and staring at the ceiling. „Well, I’d go to the country“.

„Why don’t you?“

„My plan isn’t ready. Besides, I wouldn’t have gone by myself, but with my wife“.

„Oh, I see! Well, why not? What are you waiting for? In another three or four years nobody will marry you“.

„Well, it can’t be helped“, said Oblomov, sighing. „I’m too poor to marry“.

„Good heavens, and what about Oblomovka? Three hundred serfs!“

„What about it? That isn’t enough to live on with a wife“.

„Not enough for two people to live on?“

„But what about the children?“

„If you give them a decent education, they’ll be able to earn their own living. You must know how to start them in the right direction“ -

„No, sir, it’s no use making workmen out of gentlemen“, Oblomov interrupted dryly. „Besides, even if we disregard the question of children, we shouldn’t be just by ourselves. Alone with your wife is only a manner of speaking. Actually, hundreds of women will invade your house as soon as you are married. Look at any family you like: female relatives, housekeepers, and if they don’t live in the house, they come every day to coffee and to dinner. How is one to keep such an establishment with three hundred serfs?“

„All right. Now, suppose you were given another three hundred thousand – what would you have done then?“ Stolz asked, his curiosity aroused.

„I’d mortgage it at once and live on the interest“.

„But you wouldn’t get a high enough interest. Why not invest your money in some company – ours, for instance?“

„No, sir, you won’t catch me doing that“.

„Why not? Wouldn’t you trust even me?“

„Certainly not. It isn’t a question of not trusting you, but anything might happen: suppose your company went bankrupt and I was left without a penny! A bank is a different matter“.

„Very well. What would you do then?“

„I’d move into a comfortable new house. There would be good neighbours living in the vicinity – you, for instance. But no, you couldn’t stay in one place long, could you?“

„Could you? Wouldn’t you go on a journey at all?“

„Never“.

„Why, then, are they taking so much trouble building railways, steamers, if the ideal of life is to stay in the same place? Let’s send in a proposal for them to stop, Ilya. We aren’t going anywhere, are we?“

There are lots of people who are – all sorts of agents, managers, merchants, civil servants, travellers with no home of their own. Let them travel as much as they like».

«But who are you?»

Oblomov made no answer.

«To what category of people do you think you belong?»

«Ask Zakhar», said Oblomov.

Stolz carried out Oblomov’s wish literally.

«Zakhar!» he shouted.

Zakhar came in, looking sleepy.

«Who is it lying there?» asked Stolz.

Zakhar woke up suddenly and cast a suspicious, sidelong glance at Stolz, then at Oblomov.

«Who is it, sir? Why, don’t you see?»

«I don’t», said Stolz.

«Good gracious! Why, it’s the master, Ilya Ilyich».

He grinned.

«All right, you can go».

«The master!» Stolz repeated and burst out laughing.

«Oh, well», Oblomov corrected with vexation, «a gentleman, then».

«No, no! You’re a master!» Stolz continued, laughing.

«What’s the difference?» said Oblomov. «Gentleman is the same as master».

«A gentleman», Stolz defined, «is the sort of master who puts on his socks and takes off his boots himself».

«Yes, an Englishman does it himself because in England they haven’t got many servants, but a Russian…»

«Go on painting the ideal of your life for me. Well, you have your good friends around you: what next? How would you spend your days?»

«Well, I’d get up in the morning», began Oblomov, putting his- hands behind his neck, and his face assuming an expression of repose (in his thoughts he was already in the country). «The weather is lovely, the sky is as blue as blue can be, not a cloud», he said. «The balcony on one side of the house in my plan faces east towards the garden and the fields, and the other side towards the village. While waiting for my wife to waken, I’d put on my dressing-gown and go for a walk in the garden, for a breath of fresh morning air. There I’d already find the gardener and we’d water the flowers together and prune the bushes and trees. I’d make a bouquet for my wife. Then I’d have my bath or go for a swim in the river. On my return, I’d find the balcony door open. My wife is wearing her morning dress and a light cap which looks as if it might be blown off any moment… She is waiting for me. „Tea’s ready,“ she says. What a kiss! What tea! What an easy-chair! I sit down at the table: rusks, cream, fresh butter…»

«Well?»

«Well, then, having put on a loose coat or some sort of tunic and with my arm round my wife’s waist, we walk down an endless dark avenue of trees; we walk along quietly, dreamily, in silence or thinking aloud, day-dreaming, counting the moments of happiness as the beating of one’s pulse; we listen to the throbbing of our heart, we look for sympathy in nature and – imperceptibly – we come to the river, to the fields… There is scarcely a ripple on the river, the ears of corn wave in the light breeze – it is hot – we get into a boat, my wife steers, scarcely raising an oar».

«Why, you’re a poet, Ilya!» Stolz interrupted.

«Yes, a poet in life, because life is poetry. People are free to distort it, if they like!.. Then we might go into a hot-house», Oblomov went on, carried away by the ideal of happiness he was depicting.

He was extracting from his imagination ready-made scenes, which he had drawn long ago, and that was why he spoke with such animation and without stopping.

«… to have a look at the peaches and grapes, to tell them what we want for the table, then to go back, have a light lunch and wait for visitors… Meanwhile there would be a note for my wife from Maria Petrovna, with a book and music, or somebody would send US a pineapple as a present, or a huge watermelon would ripen in my hot-house and I would send it to a dear friend for next day’s dinner, and go there myself… In the meantime things are humming in the kitchen, the chef, in a snow-white cap and apron, is terribly busy, putting one saucepan on the stove, taking off another, stirring something in a third, making pastry, throwing away some water… A clatter of knives – the vegetables are being chopped – ice-cream is being made… I like to look into the kitchen before dinner, take the lid off a saucepan and have a sniff, to see them rolling up pasties, whipping cream. Then lie down on the sofa; my wife is reading something new aloud – we stop and discuss it… But the visitors arrive, you and your wife, for instance».

«Oh, so you’ve married me, too, have you?»

«Certainly! Two or three friends more, all familiar faces. We resume the conversation where we had left off the day before – we crack jokes or there is an interval of eloquent silence – of reverie, not because we are worried by some High Court case, but because all our desires have been fully satisfied and we are plunged into a mood of thoughtful enjoyment… You will not hear someone delivering a violent philippic against an absent friend, you will not catch a glance that promises the same to you the moment you leave the house. You will not sit down to dinner with anyone you do not like. The eyes of your companions are full of sympathy, their jokes are full of sincere and kindly laughter… Everything is sincere! Everyone looks and says what he feels! After dinner there is mocha coffee, a Havana cigar on the verandah…»

«You are describing to me the same sort of thing our fathers and grandfathers used to do».

«No, I’m not», Oblomov replied, almost offended. «How can you say it’s the same thing? Would my wife be making jams or pickling mushrooms? Would she be measuring yam and sorting out home-spun linen? Would she box her maids’ ears? You heard what I said, didn’t you? Music, books, piano, elegant furniture?»

«Well, and you?»

«I should not be reading last year’s papers, travelling in an unwieldy old carriage, or eating noodle soup and roast goose, but I should have trained my chef in the English Club or at a foreign embassy»,

«And then?»

«Then, when the heat abated, I’d send a cart with the samovar and dessert to the birch copse or else to the hay-field, spread rugs on the newly mown grass between the ricks, and be blissfully happy there till it was time for the cold soup and beefsteak. The peasants are returning from the fields with scythes on their shoulders, a hay-cart crawls past loaded so high that it conceals the cart and the horse from view, a peasant’s cap with flowers and a child’s head sticking out from the hay on top; and there comes a crowd of women, barefoot and with sickles, singing at the top of their voices… Suddenly they catch sight of their master and his guests, grow quiet, and bow low. One of them, a young girl with a sunburnt neck, bare arms, and timidly lowered, sly eyes, pretends to avoid her master’s caress, but is really happy – hush! my wife mustn’t see it!»

Oblomov and Stolz burst out laughing.

«It is damp in the fields», Oblomov concluded, «it’s dark; a mist, like an inverted sea, hangs over the rye; a shiver passes over the flanks of the horses and they paw the ground; it is time to go home. In the house lights are already burning; knives are clattering in the kitchen; a frying-pan full of mushrooms, cutlets, berries – music in the drawing-room – Casta diva, Casta diva!.». Oblomov burst into song. «I can’t think of Casta diva without wishing to sing it», he said, singing the beginning of the cavatina. «How that woman cried her heart out! How full of sadness those sounds are! And no one around her knows anything… She is alone… Her secret oppresses her; she entrusts it to the moon…»

«You are fond of that aria? That’s fine! Olga Ilyinsky sings it beautifully. I’ll introduce you to her. She has a lovely voice and she sings wonderfully. And she herself is such a charming child! But I’m afraid I may be a little partial: I have a soft spot in my heart for her… However», he added, «go on, please».

«Well», Oblomov went on, «what else is there? That is all. The visitors go to their rooms in the cottages and pavilions, and on the following day they disperse in different directions; some go fishing, some shooting, and some simply sit still».

«Simply? Have they nothing in their hands?» asked Stolz.

«What would you like them to have? A handkerchief, maybe. Now, wouldn’t you like to live like that?» asked Oblomov. «It is real life, isn’t it?»

«Always like that?» asked Stolz.

«Yes, till old age – till the grave. That is life!»

«No, that isn’t life!»

«No? Why not? Did I leave anything out? Just think, you wouldn’t see a single pale, worried face, no troubles, no questions about the high court, the stock exchange, shares, reports, the minister’s reception, ranks, larger allowances for expenses. Instead, everything you heard people say would be sincere! You would never have to move to a new flat – that alone is worth something! And that isn’t life?»

«No, it isn’t!» Stolz repeated obstinately.

«What, then, is this life in your opinion?»

«It is…», Stolz pondered for a while, trying to find a name for this sort of life – «it is a sort of – Oblomovitis!» he said at last.

«Oblomovitis!» Oblomov repeated slowly, surprised at this strange definition and scanning it syllable by syllable. «Oblo- movitis – ob-lo-mo-vi-tis!»

He gave Stolz a strange and intent look.

«And what is the ideal of life, in your opinion, then? What is not Oblomovitis?» he asked timidly and without enthusiasm. «Doesn’t everybody strive to achieve the very thing I dream of? Why», he added, «isn’t the whole purpose of all your rushing about, all your passions, wars, trade, and politics to attain rest – reach this ideal of a lost paradise?»

«Your utopia, too, is a typical Oblomov utopia», replied Stolz.

«But everyone seeks peace and rest!» Oblomov defended himself.

«No, not all. Ten years ago you, too, were looking for something different».

«What was I looking for?» Oblomov asked in perplexity, lost in thoughts of his past.

«Think! Try to remember! Where are your books, your translations?»

«Zakhar put them away somewhere», replied Oblomov. «In one of the corners of this room, I suppose».

«In a corner!» Stolz said, reproachfully. «In the same corner, I suppose, as your plan to serve Russia so long as you have any strength left, because Russia needs hands and brains for the exploitation of her inexhaustible resources (your own words!); to work so that rest should be the sweeter, and to rest means to live a different and more artistic, more elegant kind of life, the life of poets and artists! Has Zakhar put away all those plans in a corner too? Do you remember telling me that after you had finished with your studies you wanted to visit foreign countries so as to be able to appreciate and love your own country the more? „All life is work and thought,“ you used to repeat then, „obscure, unknown but incessant work – to die in the consciousness that you have performed your task.“ Didn’t you say that? In what corner have you put that away?»

«Yes, yes», Oblomov said, following anxiously every word of Stolz’s. «I remember I did actually – I believe – of course», he went on, suddenly remembering the past, «you and I, Andrey, were planning first to travel all over Europe, walk through Switzerland, scorch our feet on Vesuvius, go down to Herculaneum. We nearly went off our heads! Oh, the stupidities» —

«Stupidities!» Stolz repeated reproachfully. «Wasn’t it you who said with tears in your eyes, as you looked at the prints of Raphael’s Madonnas, Correggio’s Night, Apollo Belvedere: „Good Lord, shall I never be able to see the originals and be struck dumb with awe at the thought that I am standing before the works of Michelangelo and Titian, and treading the soil of Rome? Shall I never in all my life see those myrtles, cypresses, and citrons in their native land instead of in hot-houses? Shall I never breathe the air of Italy and feast my eyes on her azure skies?“ And what magnificent intellectual fireworks you used to let off in those days! Stupidities!»

«Yes, yes, I remember», Oblomov said, going over the past in his mind. «You took me by the hand and said, „Let us vow to see it all before we die“».

«I remember», Stolz went on, «how once you brought me a translation from a book by Jean-Baptiste Say which you dedicated to me on my name-day. I have it still. And how you used to closet yourself with the teacher of mathematics because you were determined to find out why you had to know all about circles and squares, but threw it up half-way and never found out! You began to learn English and – never did learn it! And when I drew up a plan for a journey abroad and asked you to take a course at the German universities with me, you jumped to your feet, embraced me, and solemnly held out your hand to me: „I’m yours, Andrey, and I will go with you everywhere“ – those were your very words. You always were a bit of an actor. Well, Ilya? I’ve been abroad twice, and after all the things I learned at our universities, I humbly sat on the students’ benches in Bonn, Jena, and Erlangen, and then got to know Europe like my own estate. But after all a journey abroad is a luxury and not everybody can afford it – but Russia? I have travelled all over Russia. I work…»

«But one day you will stop working, won’t you?» Oblomov remarked.

«I shall never stop. Why should I?»

«When you have doubled your capital», said Oblomov.

«I won’t stop even when I have quadrupled it».

«So why», said Oblomov after a pause, «do you work so hard if it is not your intention to get enough money to last you your lifetime and then retire to the country for a well-earned rest?»

«Oblomovitis in the country!» said Stolz.

«Or achieve a high position in society by your work as a civil servant and then enjoy a well-earned rest in honourable inactivity…»

«Oblomovitis in Petersburg!» Stolz retorted.

«In that case when are you going to live?» Oblomov replied, vexed by Stolz’s remarks. «Why work hard all your life?»

«For the sake of the work itself and nothing else. Work means everything to me, it is the very breath of life – of my life, at any rate. You have banished work from your life, and what is it like? I’ll try to raise you up, perhaps for the last time. If after this you still go on sitting here with the Tarantyevs and Alexeyevs, you will be done for and become a burden even to yourself. Now or never!» he concluded.

Oblomov listened, looking at him with anxious eyes. His friend seemed to have held out a mirror to him, and he was frightened when he recognized himself.

«Don’t scold me, Andrey», he began with a sigh, «but help me rather! I’m worried to death about it myself, and had you seen me to-day and heard me bewailing my fate digging my own grave, you would not have had the heart to reproach me. I know and understand everything, but I have no strength and no will of my own. Give me some of your will and your intelligence and lead me where you like. I may perhaps follow you, but alone I shall not stir from the place. You are right: it is now or never. In another year it will be too late».

«Is this you, Ilya?» Andrey said. «I remember you such a slim, lively boy, walking every day from Prechistenka to Kudrino – in the garden there – You have not forgotten the two sisters, have you? You have not forgotten Rousseau, Schiller, Goethe, Byron, whose works you used to take them, taking away from them the novels of Genlis and Cottin – how you used to give yourself airs before them and how you wanted to improve their taste?»

Oblomov jumped off the sofa.

«Do you remember that, too, Andrey? Of course, I dreamed with them, whispered hopes of the future, made plans, developed ideas and – feelings, too, without your knowledge so that you should not make fun of me. It all died there, and was never repeated again! And where did it all disappear to? Why has it become extinguished? I can’t understand it! There were no storms or shocks in my life; I never lost anything; there is no load on my conscience: it is clear as glass; no blow has killed ambition in me, and goodness only knows why everything has been utterly wasted!»

He sighed.

«You see, Andrey, the trouble is that no devastating or redeeming fires have ever burnt in my life. It never was like a morning which gradually fills with light and colour and then turns, like other people’s, into a blazing, hot day, when everything seethes and shimmers in the bright noonday sun, and then gradually grows paler and more subdued, fading naturally into the evening twilight. No! My life began by flickering out. It may sound strange but it is so. From the very first moment I became conscious of myself, I felt that I was already flickering out. I began to flicker out over the writing of official papers at the office; I went on flickering out when I read truths in books which I did not know how to apply in life, when I sat with friends listening to rumours, gossip, jeering, spiteful, cold, and empty chatter, and watching friendships kept up by meetings that were without aim or affection; I was flickering out and wasting my energies with Minna on whom I spent more than half of my income, imagining that I loved her; I was flickering out when I walked idly and dejectedly along Nevsky Avenue among people in raccoon coats and beaver collars – at parties, on reception days, where I was welcomed with open arms as a fairly eligible young man; I was flickering out and wasting my life and mind on trifles moving from town to some country house, and from the country house to Gorokhovaya, fixing the arrival of spring by the fact that lobsters and oysters had appeared in the shops, of autumn and winter by the special visiting days, of summer by the fetes, and life in general by lazy and comfortable somnolence like the rest… Even ambition – what was it wasted on? To order clothes at a famous tailor’s? To get an invitation to a famous house? To shake hands with Prince Р.? And ambition is the salt of life! Where has it gone to? Either I have not understood this sort of life or it is utterly worthless; but I did not know of a better one. No one showed it to me. You appeared and disappeared like a bright and swiftly moving comet, and I forgot it all and went on flickering out…»

Stolz no longer replied to Oblomov with light mockery. He listened in gloomy silence.

«You said just now that my face had lost its freshness and was flabby», Oblomov continued. «Yes, I am an old shabby, worn-out coat, but not because of the climate or hard work, but because for twelve years the light has been shut up within me and, unable to find an outlet, it merely consumed itself inside its prison house and was extinguished without breaking out into the open. And so twelve years have passed, my dear Andrey: I did not want to wake up any more».

«But why didn’t you break out? Why didn’t you run away somewhere, but preferred to perish in silence?» Stolz asked impatiently.

«Where to?»

«Where to? Why not to the Volga with your peasants? There is more life there, you could have found all sorts of interests there, a purpose, work! I’d have gone to Siberia, to Sitkha».

«Well», Oblomov observed dejectedly, «the remedies you prescribe are rather drastic, aren’t they? Besides, I’m not the only one. There’s Mikhailov, Petrov, Semyonov, Alexeyev, Stepanov… too many to count: our name is legion!»

Stolz was still under the influence of Oblomov’s confession and said nothing. Then he sighed.

«Yes, much water has flowed past», he said. «I shan’t leave you like that. I’ll take you away from here, first abroad, then to the country. You will grow slimmer, you will recover from your depression, and then, we will find something for you to do».

«Yes, let’s go away somewhere!» Oblomov cried.

«To-morrow we will apply for a passport and then we’ll start packing. I won’t leave you alone – do you hear, Ilya?»

«It’s always to-morrow with you!» Oblomov replied, as though coming down from the clouds.

«And you would like „not to put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day“, would you? What energy! It is too late to-day», Stolz added, «but in a fortnight’s time we shall be far from here».

«Good Lord, man, what’s your hurry?» Oblomov said. «In a fortnight’s time! A bit sudden, isn’t it? Let me think it over carefully and get everything ready. We shall have to get a carriage of some sort – in three months perhaps».

«A carriage! What will you be thinking of next! As far as the frontier we shall travel in a post-chaise or by steamer to Lubeck, whichever is more convenient; and abroad there are railways in many places».

«And my flat, and Zakhar, and Oblomovka?» Oblomov defended himself. «I must see to it all».

«Oblomovitis! Oblomovitis!» said Stolz, laughing, and he took his candle and, bidding Oblomov good night, went to his room. «Now or never, remember!» he added, turning to Oblomov before shutting the door behind him.