9

PEACE and quiet reigned over Vyborg, its unpaved streets, wooden pavements, meagre gardens, and ditches overgrown with nettles, where a goat with a frayed rope round its neck was busily grazing or drowsing dully beside a fence; at midday a clerk’s elegant high heels clattered along the pavement, a muslin curtain in some window moved aside, and the wife of some civil servant peeped out from behind the geraniums; or a girl’s fresh face suddenly appeared above the fence in some garden and at once disappeared again, followed by another girl’s face, which also disappeared, then again the first appeared, and was followed by the second; then the shrieks and laughter of the girls on the swings could be heard.

All was quiet in Mrs Pshenitzyn’s house. You walked into the small courtyard and you were in the midst of a living idyll: cocks and hens were thrown into a commotion and ran off to hide in the corners; the dog began jumping on its chain and barking at the top of its voice; Akulina stopped milking the cow, and the caretaker left off chopping wood, and both eyed the visitor with interest. «Who do you want?» the caretaker asked, and on being given the name of Oblomov or the landlady, he pointed silently to the front steps and started chopping wood again. The visitor walked down a clean, sand-strewn path to the front steps, covered with a plain, clean carpet, pulled the brightly polished brass handle of the bell, and the door was opened by Anisya, the children, and sometimes by the landlady herself or Zakhar – Zakhar being always the last.

Everything in Mrs Pshenitzyn’s house bore the stamp of such abundance and prosperity as was not to be seen there even when Marfa Matveyevna kept house for herself and her brother. The kitchen, the pantries, the sideboard were full of crockery, large and small, round and oval dishes, sauce-boats, cups, piles of plates, and iron, copper, and earthenware saucepans and pots. In the cupboards was kept Agafya Matveyevna’s silver, redeemed long ago and never pawned since, side by side with Oblomov’s silver. There were whole rows of enormous, tiny and paunchy teapots and several rows of china cups, plain and gilt, painted with mottoes, flaming hearts, and Chinamen; there were huge glass jars of coffee, cinnamon, and vanilla, crystal tea- caddies, cruets of oil and vinegar. Whole shelves were loaded with packets, bottles, boxes of household remedies, herbs, lotions, plasters, spirits, camphor, simple and fumigatory powders; there was also soap, material for cleaning lace, taking out stains, etc., etc. – everything, in fact, that a good housewife in the provinces keeps in her house. When Agafya Matveyevna suddenly opened the door of a cupboard full of all these articles, she was herself overcome by the bouquet of all these narcotic smells and had to turn her face away for a moment.

In the larder hams were suspended from the ceiling, so that mice could not get at them, as well as cheeses, sugar-loaves, cured fish, bags of dried mushrooms, and nuts bought from Finnish pedlars. On the floor stood cases of butter, huge, covered earthenware jugs of sour cream, baskets of eggs, and lots of other things. One would need the pen of a second Homer to describe fully and in detail all that had been accumulated in all the corners and on all the shelves of this small shrine of domestic life. The kitchen was the true scene of action of the great housewife and her worthy assistant, Anisya. Everything they need was in the house, and everything was handy and in its proper place; indeed, everywhere there was order and cleanliness – at least one might have said so had it not been for one corner in the house where no ray of light, nor breath of fresh air, nor Agafya Matveyevna’s eye, nor Anisya’s quick, all-sweeping hand, had ever penetrated. That was Zakhar’s room or den. His room had no window, and the perpetual darkness helped to turn a human habitation into a dark hole. If Zakhar sometimes found there Agafya Matveyevna with all sorts of plans for improving and cleaning the place, he firmly declared that it was not a woman’s business to decide when and how his brushes, blacking, and boots ought to be kept, that it was nobody’s business why his clothes lay in a heap on the floor and his bed in the corner behind the stove was covered in dust, and that it was he and not she who wore the clothes and slept on the bed. As for the besom, some planks, two bricks, the bottom of a barrel, and two logs of wood which he kept in his room, he could not do without them in his work – though he did not explain why; furthermore, dust and spiders did not disturb him, and, in a word, since he never poked his nose into their kitchen, there was no reason why they should interfere with him. When he found Anisya there one day, he treated her with such scorn and threatened her with his elbow so seriously that she was afraid to look in any more. When the case was taken to a higher court and submitted to his master’s decision, Oblomov went to have a look at Zakhar’s room with the intention of taking all the necessary measures and seeing them strictly carried out, but thrusting his head through Zakhar’s door and gazing for a moment at all that was there, he just spat and did not utter a word. «Well, have you got what you wanted?» Zakhar said to Agafya Matveyevna and Anisya, who had come with Oblomov in the hope that his interest might lead to some change. Then he smiled in his own manner across his whole face so that his eyebrows and whiskers moved apart.

All the other rooms were bright, clean, and airy. The old faded curtains had gone and the windows and doors of the drawing-room and study were hung with green and blue draperies and muslin curtains with red festoons – all of it the work of Agafya Matveyevna’s hands. The pillows were white as snow and rose mountainously almost to the ceiling; the blankets were quilted and of silk. For weeks on end the landlady’s room was crowded with several card-tables, opened up and placed end to end, on which Oblomov’s quilts and dressing-gown were spread out. Agafya Matveyevna did the cutting out and quilting herself, pressing her firm bosom to the work, fastening her eyes and even her teeth upon it when she had to bite the thread off; she laboured with love, with indefatigable industry, comforting herself modestly with the thought that the dressing-gown and the quilted blankets would clothe, warm, caress, and delight the magnificent Oblomov. For days, as he lay on the sofa in his room, he admired the way her bare elbows moved to and fro in the wake of the needle and the cotton. As in the old days at Oblomovka, he more than once dozed off to the regular sound of the needle going in and out of the material and the snapping of the thread when bitten off.

«Do stop working, please; you’ll be tired», he besought her.

«The Lord loves work», she answered, never taking her hands and eyes off her work.

His coffee was as carefully and nicely served and as well made as at the beginning, when he had moved into the house several years before. Giblet soup, macaroni and parmesan cheese, meat or fish pie, cold fish and vegetable soup, home-grown chicken – all this followed each other in strict rotation and introduced pleasant variety into the monotonous life of the little house. From morning till evening bright sunshine filled the house, streaming in at the windows on one side and then on the other, there being nothing to impede it, thanks to the kitchen gardens all round. The canaries trilled gaily; the geraniums and the hyacinths the children occasionally brought from the count’s garden exuded a strong scent in the small room, blending pleasantly with the smoke of a pure Havana cigar and the cinnamon or vanilla which the landlady pounded, energetically moving her elbows. Oblomov lived, as it were, within a golden framework of life, in which, as in a diorama, the only things that changed were the usual phases of day and night and the seasons; there were no other changes, no serious accidents to convulse one’s whole life, often stirring up a muddy and bitter sediment. Ever since Stolz had saved Oblomovka from the fraudulent debts of the landlady’s brother, and Ivan Matveyevich and Tarantyev had completely disappeared, everything of a hostile nature had disappeared from Oblomov’s life, too. He was now surrounded by simple, kind, and loving people who all conspired to do their best to make his life as comfortable as possible, to help him not to notice it, not to feel. Agafya Matveyevna was in the prime of her life. She lived feeling that her life was full as it had never been before; but, as before, she would never be able to express it in words or, rather, it never occurred to her to do so. She merely prayed that God would prolong Oblomov’s life and save him from «sorrow, wrath, and want’, committing herself, her children, and her entire household to God’s will. But, as though to make up for it, her face always wore the same expression of complete and perfect happiness, without desires and therefore rare, and, indeed, impossible for a person of a different temperament. She had put on weight; there was a feeling of contentment about her ample bosom and shoulders, her eyes glowed with gentleness, and if there was an expression of solicitude in them, it concerned merely her household duties. She regained the calm and dignity with which she had ruled her house in the old days with obedient Anisya, Akulina, and the caretaker ready to take her orders. As before, she seemed to sail along rather than walk from the cupboard to the kitchen, and from the kitchen to the pantry, giving her orders in an unhurried, measured tone of voice, fully conscious of what she was doing.

Anisya had grown livelier than before because there was more work for her to do; she was always on the run, moving and bustling about, working, carrying out Agafya Matveyevna’s orders. Her eyes had grown even brighter, and her nose, that speaking nose of hers, was thrust forward, glowing with cares, thoughts, and intentions, seeming to speak though her tongue was silent.

Both women were dressed in accordance with the dignity of their several positions and their duties. Agafya Matveyevna had now a big wardrobe with a row of silk dresses, cloaks, and fur coats; she ordered her bonnets on the other side of the river, almost in Liteyny Avenue; she bought her shoes not in the market but in one of the fashionable shopping arcades, and her hat – just think of it! – in Morskaya Street. Anisya, too, having finished her work in the kitchen, put on a woollen dress, especially on Sundays. Akulina alone still walked about with her skirt tucked up at the waist, and the caretaker could not bring himself to do without his sheepskin even in the summer holidays. Zakhar, too, was of course as bad as ever: he had made himself a jacket out of his grey frock-coat, and it was impossible to say what colour his trousers were or of what material his tie was made. He cleaned boots, then went to sleep, or sat at the gates, gazing dully at the few passers-by, or, finally, spent his time sitting at the nearest grocery shop, where he did the same things and in the same way as he had done before, first at Oblomovka and then in Gorokhovaya Street.

And Oblomov himself? Oblomov was the complete and natural reflection and expression of that repose, contentment, and serene calm that reigned all around him. Thinking about his way of living, subjecting it to a close scrutiny, and getting more and more used to it, he decided at last that he had nothing more to strive for, nothing more to seek, that he had attained the ideal of his life, though it were shorn of poetry and bereft of the brilliance with which his imagination had once endowed the plentiful and care-free life of a country squire on his own estate, among his peasants and house-serfs. He looked upon his present way of life as a continuation of the same Oblomov-like existence, except that he lived in a different place, and the times, too, were to a certain extent different. Here, too, as at Oblomovka, he managed to strike a good bargain with life, having obtained from it a guarantee of undisturbed peace. He triumphed inwardly at having escaped its annoying and agonizing demands and storms, which break from that part of the horizon where the lightnings of great joys flash and the sudden thunderclaps of great sorrows resound; where false hopes and magnificent phantoms of happiness are at play; where a man’s own thought gnaws at his vitals and finally consumes him and passion kills; where man is engaged in a never-ceasing battle and leaves the battlefield shattered but still insatiate and discontented. Not having experienced the joys obtained by struggle, he mentally renounced them, and felt at peace with himself only in his forgotten corner of the world, where there was no struggle, no movement, and no life. And if his imagination caught fire again, if forgotten memories and unfulfilled dreams rose up before him, if his conscience began to prick him for having spent his life in one way and not in another – he slept badly, woke up, jumped out of bed, and sometimes wept disconsolate tears for his bright ideal of life that had now vanished for good, as one weeps for the dear departed with the bitter consciousness that one had not done enough for them while they were alive. Then he looked at his surroundings, tasted the ephemeral good things of life, and calmed down, gazing dreamily at the evening sun going down slowly and quietly in the fiery conflagration of the sunset; at last he decided that his life had not just turned out to be so simple and uncomplicated, but had been created and meant be so in order to show that the ideally reposeful aspect of human existence was possible. It fell to the lot of other people, he reflected, to express its troubled aspects and set in motion the creative and destructive forces: everyone had his own fixed purpose in life! Such was the philosophy that the Plato of Oblomovka had worked out and that lulled him to sleep amidst the stern demands of duty and the problems of human existence! He was not born and educated to be a gladiator for the arena, but a peaceful spectator of the battle; his timid and indolent spirit could not have endured either the anxieties of happiness or the blows inflicted by life – therefore he merely gave expression to one particular aspect of it, and it was no use being sorry or trying to change it or to get more out of it. As years passed, he was less and less disturbed by remorse and agitation, and settled quietly and gradually into the plain and spacious coffin he had made for his remaining span of life, like old hermits who, turning away from life, dig their own graves in the desert. He gave up dreaming about the arrangement of his estate and moving there with all his household. The manager engaged by Stolz sent him regularly every Christmas a very considerable income, the peasants brought corn and poultry, and the house flourished in abundance and gaiety. Oblomov even acquired a carriage and pair, but, with his habitual caution, the horses he bought were so quiet that they only started at the third blow of the whip, while at the first and second blow one horse staggered and stepped aside, then the other horse staggered and stepped aside, and only then, stretching out their necks, backs, and tails, did they move together and trot off, nodding their heads. They took Vanya to school on the other side of the Neva and Agafya Matveyevna to do her shopping. At Shrovetide and Easter the whole family and Oblomov went for a ride and to the fair; occasionally they took a box at the theatre and went there, also all together. In summer they went for a drive in the country, and on St Elijah’s Day they drove to the Powder Works, and life went on peacefully, one ordinary event following upon another, bringing no destructive changes with it, if, that is, its blows had never reached such peaceful comers. Unfortunately, however, the thunderclap that shakes the foundations of mountains and vast aerial spaces reaches also the mousehole, less loudly and strongly, perhaps, but still quite perceptibly. Oblomov ate heartily and with an appetite, as at Oblomovka, walked and worked little and lazily, also as at Oblomovka. In spite of his advancing years he drank wine and currant vodka with complete unconcern, and he slept for hours after dinner with even greater unconcern.

Suddenly all this was changed.

One day, when he had had his after-dinner nap, he wanted to get up from the sofa and could not; he wanted to say something, but his tongue would not obey him. Terrified, he just waved his hand, calling for help. Had he been living with Zakhar alone, he could have gone on telegraphing with his hand till the morning and in the end died, and have been discovered only on the following day; but the landlady’s eye watched over him like Providence: it was her intuition rather than her intelligence that told her that there was something seriously wrong with Oblomov. And as soon as it had dawned on her, Anisya was sent off posthaste in a cab for a doctor, and Agafya Matveyevna put ice round his head and emptied her medicine cupboard of all its lotions and decoctions – of everything, in fact, that habit and hearsay prompted her to use in the emergency. Even Zakhar managed to put on one of his boots during that time and, forgetting all about his other boot, helped the doctor, Agafya Matveyevna, and Anisya to attend on his master.

Oblomov was brought round, bled, and then told that he had had a stroke and that he would have to lead quite a different kind of life in future. Vodka, beer, wine, and coffee were forbidden him, except on a few rare occasions, as well as meat and all rich and spicy food; instead he was ordered to take exercise every day and sleep in moderation only at night.

Without Agafya Matveyevna’s constant supervision, nothing of this would ever have been carried out, but she knew how to introduce this regime by making the whole household submit to it, and by cunning and affection distracted Oblomov from being tempted by wine, rich fish pies, and after-dinner naps. The moment he dropped off, a chair fell in the room, without apparently any reason whatever, or some old and useless crockery was smashed noisily in the next room, or the children would raise a clamour enough to drive one out of the house. If that did not help, her gentle voice was heard calling him and asking him some question. The garden path was extended into the kitchen garden, and Oblomov walked on it for two hours every morning and evening. Agafya Matveyevna walked with him, or, if she could not, Vanya or Masha, or his old friend Alexeyev, meek, submissive, and always ready to comply with any request.

Here Oblomov was slowly walking down the path, leaning on Vanya’s shoulder. Vanya, almost a youth by now, wearing school uniform, could hardly control his quick brisk steps and was trying hard to keep pace with Oblomov, who found it rather difficult to move one of his legs – an after-effect of the stroke.

„Let’s go back to my room, Vanya, old man“, Oblomov said;

They set off towards the front door. Agafya Matveyevna met them on the doorstep.

„Where are you going so soon?“ she asked, not letting them in.

’It isn’t soon at all! We’ve walked twenty times up and down the path, and there’s about one hundred and thirty yards from here to the fence, so we must have done well over a mile».

«How many times have you walked?» she asked Vanya, who seemed to hesitate with his reply. «Don’t you dare lie to me!» she cried menacingly, looking into his eyes. «I can tell at once. Remember Sunday; I won’t let you go out».

«Really, Mummy, we did walk – about twelve times!»

«Oh, you rascal», said Oblomov; «you kept tearing off the acacia leaves, but I counted every time…»

«No, you’d better walk a little longer», Agafya Matveyevna decided. «The fish soup isn’t ready yet, anyway», and she slammed the door in their faces.

Oblomov had willy-nilly to count another eight times, and only then went in.

There he found the fish soup steaming on the big round table. Oblomov sat down in his usual place, alone on the sofa; to the right of him sat Agafya Matveyevna on a chair, to the left a child of about three on a small baby chair with a safety-catch. Masha, a girl of about thirteen by now, sat next to the child, then Vanya, and, finally, on that particular day, Alexeyev, who sat facing Oblomov.

«Let me give you another helping of fish: I’ve found such a fat one!» said Agafya Matveyevna, putting the fish on Oblomov’s plate.

«A bit of pie would go down well with this», said Oblomov.

«Dear me, I forgot all about it! I thought of it last night, but it went clean out of my mind!» Agafya Matveyevna said craftily. «And I’m afraid I forgot to cook some cabbage for your cutlets, Ivan Alexeyevich», she added, turning to Alexeyev. «I hope you don’t mind».

That, too, was just a trick.

«It doesn’t matter», said Alexeyev; «I can eat anything».

«Why don’t you have some ham with green peas or a beefsteak cooked for him?» asked Oblomov. «He likes it».

«I went to the shops myself, Ilya Ilyich, but I couldn’t find any good beef. I had some cherry-juice jelly made for you, though», she said, turning to Alexeyev; «I know you like it».

Fruit jelly could do no harm to Oblomov, and that was why Alexeyev, who was always ready to oblige, had to eat it and like it.

After dinner nothing and no one could prevent Oblomov from lying down. He usually lay down on the sofa in the dining-room, but only to rest for an hour. To make sure that he did not fall asleep, Agafya Matveyevna poured out coffee sitting on the sofa beside him, the children played on the carpet, and Oblomov had willy-nilly to take part in it.

«Don’t tease Andrey», he scolded Vanya, who had been teasing the little boy. «He’s going to cry any minute».

«Masha, my dear, mind Andrey doesn’t knock himself against the chair», he warned solicitously, when the child crawled under a chair.

And Masha rushed to rescue her «little brother», as she called him.

All was quiet for a moment while Agafya Matveyevna went to the kitchen to see if the coffee was ready. The children grew quiet. A sound of snoring was heard in the room, first gentle and as though on the sly, then louder, and when Agafya Matveyevna appeared with a steaming coffee-pot, she was met by a snoring as loud as in a coachman’s shelter. She shook her head reproachfully at Alexeyev.

«I tried to wake him, but he paid no attention», Alexeyev said in self-defence.

She quickly put the coffee-pot on the table, seized Andrey from the floor, and put him quietly on the sofa beside Oblomov. The child crawled up to him, reached his face, and grabbed him by the nose.

«What is it? Who’s this? Eh?» Oblomov cried in alarm, waking up.

«You dozed off and little Andrey climbed on the sofa and wakened you», Agafya Matveyevna said affectionately.

«I never dozed off», Oblomov protested, taking the little boy in his arms. «Do you think I did not hear him crawling up to me on his little arms? I hear everything. Oh, you naughty boy! So you’ve caught me by the nose, have you? I’ll give you such a hiding! You just wait!» he said, fondling and caressing the child. He then put him down on the floor and heaved a loud sigh. «Tell me something, Alexeyev», he said.

«We’ve discussed everything, Ilya Ilyich. I’ve nothing more to tell you», Alexeyev replied.

«Nothing more? Why, you always go about and meet people. Are you sure there isn’t any news? You read the papers, don’t you?»

«Yes, sir, I do sometimes – or other people read and talk and I listen. Yesterday at Alexey Spiridonovich’s his son, a university student, read aloud».

«What did he read?»

«About the English, who seem to have sent rifles and gunpowder somewhere. Alexey Spiridonovich said there was going to be a war».

«Where did they send it to?»

«Oh, to Spain or India – I don’t remember, but the ambassador was very much displeased».

«What ambassador?» asked Oblomov.

«Sorry, I’ve clean forgotten!» said Alexeyev, raising his nose to the ceiling in an effort to remember.

«With whom is the war going to be?»

«With a Turkish pasha, I believe».

«Well», Oblomov said after a pause, «what other news is there in politics?»

«They write that the earth is cooling down: one day it will be all frozen».

«Will it indeed? But that is not politics, is it?» said Oblomov.

Alexeyev was completely put out.

«Dmitry Alexeyich», he said apologetically, «first mentioned politics and then went on reading without saying when he had come to an end with them. I know that after that he went on reading about literature».

«What did he read about literature?» asked Oblomov.

«Well, he read that the best authors were Dmitriyev, Karamzin, Batyushkov, and Zhukovsky».

«What about Pushkin?»

«Never mentioned him. I, too, wondered why he wasn’t mentioned. Why, he was a genius!» said Alexeyev, pronouncing the g in genius hard.

There was a silence. Agafya Matveyevna brought her sewing and began plying her needle busily, glancing now and then at Oblomov and Alexeyev, and listening with her sharp ears for any commotion or noise in the house, to make sure Zakhar was not quarrelling with Anisya in the kitchen, that Akulina was washing up, that the gate in the yard had not creaked – that is, that the porter had not gone out to the «tavern» for a drink.

Oblomov slowly sank into silence and a reverie: he was neither asleep nor awake, but let his thoughts roam at will light-heartedly, without concentrating them on anything, listening quietly to the regular beating of his heart and blinking from time to time like a man who was not looking at anything in particular. He fell into a vague, mysterious state, a sort of hallucination. There are rare and brief and dream-like moments when a man seems to be living over again something he has been through before at a different time and place. Whether he dreams of what is going on before him now, or has lived through it before and forgotten it, the fact remains that he sees the same people sitting beside him again as before and hears words that have already been uttered once: imagination is powerless to transport him there again and memory does not revive the past, and merely brings on a thoughtful mood. The same thing happened to Oblomov now. A stillness he had experienced somewhere before descended upon him; he heard the ticking of a familiar clock, the snapping of a bitten-off thread; the familiar words were repeated once more, and the whisper: «Dear me, I simply can’t thread the needle: you try it, Masha, your eves are sharper!» Lazily, mechanically, almost unconsciously he looked into Agafya Matveyevna’s eyes, and out of the depths of his memory there arose a familiar image he had seen somewhere before. He tried to think hard where and when he had heard it all… and he saw before him the big, dark drawing-room in his parents’ house, lighted by a tallow candle, and his mother and her visitors sitting at a round table; they were sewing in silence; his father was walking up and down the room in silence. The present and the past had merged and intermingled. He dreamt that he had reached the promised land flowing with milk and honey, where people ate bread they had not earned and wore gold and silver garments… He heard the stories of dreams and signs, the clatter of knives, and the rattle of crockery. He clung to his nurse and listened to her old shaky voice: «Militrissa Кirbityevna!» she said, pointing to Agafya Matveyevna. It seemed to him that the same cloud was sailing in the blue sky as then, the same breeze was blowing in at the window and playing with his hair; the Oblomovka turkey cock was strutting about and raising a great clamour under the window. Now a dog was barking: a visitor must have arrived. Was it Andrey and his father who had come from Verkhlyovo? It was a great day for him. It really must be he: his footsteps were coming nearer and nearer the door opened… «Andrey!» he cried. Andrey was, indeed standing before him, but no longer a boy – he was a middle-aged man.

Oblomov came to: before him stood the real Stolz, not a hallucination, but large as life.

Agafya Matveyevna quickly seized the baby, grabbed her sewing from the table, and took the children away; Alexeyev, too, disappeared, Stolz and Oblomov were left alone, looking silently and motionlessly at each other. Stolz seemed to pierce him with his gaze.

«Is it you, Andrey?» asked Oblomov in a voice that was almost inaudible with emotion, as a lover might ask his sweetheart after a long separation.

«It’s me», Andrey said softly. «Are you all right?»

Oblomov embraced him and clung closely to him.

«Ah!» he said in reply in a drawn-out voice, putting into that Ah all the intensity of the sorrow and gladness that had lain hidden in his heart for a great many years and that had never, not perhaps since their parting, been released by anyone or anything.

They sat down and again looked intently at each other.

«Are you well?» asked Andrey.

«Yes, I’m all right now, thank God».

«But you’ve been ill, have you?»

«Yes, Andrey; I had a stroke».

«Really? Good Lord!» Andrey cried with alarm and sympathy. «No after effects?»

«No, except that I can’t use my left leg freely», replied Oblomov.

«Oh, Ilya, Ilya! What is the matter with you? You’ve gone to seed completely. What have you been doing all this time? Do you realize we haven’t seen each other for almost five years?» Oblomov fetched a sigh.

«Why didn’t you come to Oblomovka? Why didn’t you write?»

«What shall I say to you, Andrey? You know me, so don’t, please, ask me any more», Oblomov said sadly.

«And all the time here in this flat?» Stolz said, looking round the room. «You never moved?»

«No, I’ve lived here all the time. I’ll never move now».

«Do you really mean it? Never?»

«I really do mean it, Andrey».

Stolz looked at him intently, fell into thought, and began pacing the room.

«And Olga Sergeyevna? Is she all right? Where is she? Does she still remember me?»

He broke off.

«She’s all right, and she remembers you just as though you had parted only yesterday. I’ll tell you presently where she is…»

«And your children?»

«They are well too. But tell me, Ilya, are you serious about staying here? You see, I’ve come for you, to take you to us, to the country…»

«No, no!» Oblomov cried, lowering his voice and glancing apprehensively at the door, as though he were alarmed. «No, please don’t mention it – don’t talk of it».

«Why not? What is the matter with you?» Stolz began. «You know me: I’ve set myself this task long ago, and I’m not going to give it up. Till now I’ve been prevented by all sorts of business, but now I am free. You must live with us, near us. That is what Olga and I have decided and that is what it is going to be. Thank God I have found you as you are and not worse. I hadn’t hoped… Come along, then! I’m quite ready to take you away by force! You must live differently – you know how…»

Oblomov listened to this tirade with impatience.

«Please don’t shout», he begged. «Speak softly.. there…»

«What do you mean, „there“?»

«I mean, they may hear there and – and my landlady may think that I really want to go away».

«What does it matter? Let her!»

«Oh, I can’t possibly do that!» Oblomov interrupted. «Listen, Andrey», he added suddenly in a determined tone Stolz had never heard him use before; «don’t waste your time trying to persuade me: I shall stay here!»

Stolz looked at his friend in surprise. Oblomov met his look calmly and resolutely.

«You’re done for, Ilya!» he said. «This house, this woman – the whole of this way of living… It’s impossible! Come on, let’s go!»

He seized him by the sleeve and was dragging him towards the door.

«Why do you want to take me away? Where to?» said Oblomov, resisting him.

«Out of this pit, this bog, into the light, into the open, to a normal life!» Stolz insisted sternly, almost imperiously. «Where are you? What has become of you? Come to your senses! Is this the sort of life you have been preparing yourself for – to sleep like a mole in its burrow? You’d better cast your mind back!.».

«Don’t remind me, don’t disturb the past, for you will never bring it back», Oblomov said, looking fully aware of what he was saying and determined to do as he thought fit. «What do you want to do with me? I’ve broken completely with the world into which you are dragging me: you cannot weld together two halves that have come apart. I am attached to this hole with the most vulnerable part of my body – if you try to drag me away, I shall die!»

«But for goodness’ sake, man, have a good look round where you are and in what company!»

«I know, I am aware of it… Oh, Andrey, I am aware of everything and I understand everything: I have for a long time been ashamed to live in the world! But I can’t go on the same road as you even if I wanted to. Last time you were here it might perhaps have been possible, but now’ – he dropped his eyes and paused for a moment – „now it is too late. You go and don’t wait for me. I am worthy of your friendship, God knows, but I’m not worth your trouble“.

„No, Ilya, you’re hiding something from me. I tell you I’m determined to take you away just because I suspect you. Listen“, he said; „put on some clothes and let’s go to my place. Spend an evening with me. I’ve got lots to tell you: you don’t know the exciting things that are happening in our part of the country now. You have not heard, have you?“

Oblomov looked questioningly at him.

„I forgot, you never see people: come along, I’ll tell you everything. Do you know who is waiting for me in the carriage at the gate? I’ll call her!“

„Olga!“ Oblomov suddenly cried in alarm, and he even turned pale. „For God’s sake, don’t let her come in here. Please, go away. Good-bye, good-bye, for God’s sake!“

He was almost pushing Stolz out of the room; but Stolz did not move from his place.

’I can’t go to her without you. I gave her my word – do you hear, Ilya? If not to-day, then to-morrow – you will only put it off, you won’t drive me away… To-morrow or the day after – but we shall meet again!»

Oblomov was silent, bowing his head and not daring to look at Stolz.

«When is it to be? Olga is sure to ask me».

«Oh, Andrey», he said in a tender, beseeching voice, embracing him and putting his head on Stolz’s shoulder, «please leave me altogether – forget me…»

«What, for ever?» Stolz asked in amazement, freeing himself from Oblomov’s embrace and looking into his face.

«Yes», whispered Oblomov.

Stolz stepped back from him.

«Is it you, Ilya?» he said reproachfully. «You are pushing me away, and for her – for that woman! Good Lord», he almost cried out, as though with sudden pain; «this child I saw here just now – Ilya, Ilya! Run – run from here! Let’s go this minute! How you have fallen! That woman – what is she to you?»

«She’s my wife», Oblomov said calmly.

Stolz was dumbfounded.

«And that child is my son! His name is Andrey, I called him after you!» Oblomov concluded his confession and breathed freely, having thrown off the burden of his secret.

It was now Stolz’s turn to change colour. He looked round with bewildered almost senseless eyes. The «gulf» suddenly «opened up» before him and the «stone wall» rose up and Oblomov did not seem to be there any longer, just as though he had vanished from his sight or sunk through the floor; he only felt that burning anguish a man feels when he hastens in excitement to meet a friend after a long separation and learns that the friend had long been dead.

«Done for!» he whispered mechanically. «What am I going to tell Olga?»

Oblomov heard the last words and was going to say something, but could not. He held out both his arms to Andrey, they embraced firmly and in silence, as people embrace before a battle, before death. This embrace stifled their words, their tears, their feelings.

«Don’t forget my Andrey!» were Oblomov’s last words, which he uttered in a faint voice.

Andrey walked out of the house slowly and in silence, walked slowly and thoughtfully across the courtyard, and stepped into the carriage, while Oblomov sat down on the sofa and, leaning his elbows on the table, buried his face in his hands.

«No, I shall not forget your Andrey», Stolz thought sadly as he walked across the yard. «You’re done for, Ilya: it is useless to tell you that your Oblomovka is no longer in the wilds, that its turn has come, and that the rays of sunshine have at last fallen upon it! I shall not tell you that in another four years there will be a railway station there, that your peasants will be working on the line, and that later on your corn will be carried by train to the quayside. And then – schools, education, and after that – but no! You will be frightened of the dawn of new happiness; it will hurt your eyes that are unaccustomed to the bright light. But I shall lead your Andrey to where you would not go, and I will carry out your youthful dreams together with him. Goodbye, old Oblomovka!» he said, looking back for the last time at the windows of the little house. «You’ve had your day!»

«What’s happening there?» Olga asked with a fast-beating heart.

«Nothing!» Andrey replied dryly and curtly.

«Is he alive and well?»

«Yes», Andrey replied reluctantly.

«Why have you come back so soon? Why didn’t you call me there or bring him here? Let me go to him!»

«You can’t go to him!»

«What is happening there?» Olga asked in alarm. «Has „the gulf opened up“? Are you going to tell me?»

He was silent.

«But what on earth is going on there?»

«Oblomovitis!» Andrey replied gloomily, and in spite of Olga’s questions preserved a sullen silence till they got home.