I
One morning, in a flat in one of the great buildings in Gorokliovaia
Street, * the population of which was sufficient to constitute that of
a provincial town, there was lying in bed a gentleman named Ilya Ilyitch
Oblomov. He was a fellow of a little over thirty, of medium height, and
of pleasant exterior. Unfortunately, in his dark-grey eyes there was an
absence of any definite idea, and in his other features a total lack of
concentration. Suddenly a thought would wander across his face with
the freedom of a bird, flutter for a moment in his eyes, settle on his
half-opened lips, and remain momentarily lurking in the lines of his
forehead. Then it would disappear, and once more his face would glow
with a radiant _insouciance_ which extended even to his attitude and the
folds of his night-robe. At other times his glance would darken as with
weariness or _ennui_. Yet neither the one nor the other expression could
altogether banish from his countenance that gentleness which was the
ruling, the fundamental, characteristic, not only of his features, but
also of the spirit which lay beneath them. That spirit shone in
his eyes, in his smile, and in his every movement of hand and head. On
glancing casually at Oblomov a cold, a superficially observant person
would have said, “Evidently he is good-natured, but a simpleton;”
whereas a person of greater penetration and sympathy than the first
would have prolonged his glance, and then gone on his way thoughtfully,
and with a smile as though he were pleased with something.
* One of the principal streets of Petrograd.
Oblomov’s face was neither reddy nor dull nor pale, but of an indefinite
hue. At all events, that was the impression which it gave--possibly
because, through insufficiency of exercise, or through want of fresh
air, or through a lack of both, he was wrinkled beyond his years. In
general, to judge from the extreme whiteness of his bare neck, his
small, puffy hands, and his soft shoulders, one would conclude that
he possessed an effeminate body. Even when excited, his actions were
governed by an unvarying gentleness, added to a lassitude that was not
devoid of a certain peculiar grace. On the other hand, should depression
of spirits show itself in his face, His glance would grow dull, and
his brow furrowed, as doubt, despondency, and apprehension fell
to contending with one another. Yet this crisis of emotion seldom
crystallized into the form of a definite idea--still less into that of
a fixed resolve. Almost always such emotion evaporated in a sigh, and
shaded off into a sort of apathetic lethargy.
Oblomov’s indoor costume corresponded exactly with the quiet outlines
of his face and the effeminacy of his form. The costume in question
consisted of a dressing-gown of some Persian material--a real Eastern
dressing-gown--a garment that was devoid both of tassels and velvet
facings and a waist, yet so roomy that Oblomov might have wrapped
himself in it once or twice over. Also, in accordance with the immutable
custom of Asia, its sleeves widened steadily from knuckles to shoulder.
True, it was a dressing-gown which had lost its pristine freshness, and
had, in places, exchanged its natural, original sheen for one acquired
by hard wear; yet still it retained both the clarity of its Oriental
colouring and the soundness of its texture. In Oblomov’s eyes It was a
garment possessed of a myriad invaluable qualities, for it was so soft
and pliable that, when wearing it, the body was unaware of its presence,
and, like an obedient slave, it answered even to the slightest movement.
Neither waistcoat nor cravat did Oblomov wear when indoors, since he
loved freedom and space. For the same reason his slippers were long,
soft, and broad, to the end that, whenever he lowered his legs from the
bed to the floor without looking at what he was doing, his feet might
fit into the slippers at once.
With Oblomov, lying in bed was neither a necessity (as in the case of an
invalid or of a man who stands badly in need of sleep ) nor an accident
(as in the case of a man who is feeling worn out) nor a gratification
(as in the case of a man who is purely lazy). Rather, it represented his
normal condition. Whenever he was at home--and almost always he was at
home--he would spend his time in lying on his back. Likewise he used but
the one room--which was combined to serve both as bedroom, as study, and
as reception-room--in which we have just discovered him. True, two other
rooms lay at his disposal, but seldom did he look into them save on
mornings (which did not comprise by any means every morning) when his
old valet happened to be sweeping out the study. The furniture in them
stood perennially covered over, and never were the blinds drawn up.
At first sight the room in which Oblomov was lying was a well-fitted
one. In it there stood a writing-table of redwood, a couple of sofas,
upholstered in some silken material, and a handsome screen that was
embroidered with birds and fruits unknown to Nature.
Also the room contained silken curtains, a few mats, some pictures,
bronzes, and pieces of china, and a multitude of other pretty trifles.
Yet even the most cursory glance from the experienced eye of a man
of taste would have detected no more than a tendency to observe _les
convenances_ while escaping their actual observance. Without doubt that
was all that Oblomov had thought of when furnishing his study. Taste of
a really refined nature would never have remained satisfied with
such ponderous, ungainly redwood chairs, with such rickety whatnots.
Moreover, the back of one of the sofas had sagged, and, here and there,
the wood had come away from the glue. Much the same thing was to be seen
in the case of the pictures, the vases, and certain other trifles of
the apartment. Nevertheless, its master was accustomed to regard its
appurtenances with the cold, detached eye of one who would ask, “Who
has dared to bring this stuff here?” The same indifference on his part,
added to, perhaps, an even greater indifference on the part of his
servant, Zakhar, caused the study, when contemplated with attention, to
strike the beholder with an impression of all-prevailing carelessness
and neglect. On the walls and around the pictures there hung cobwebs
coated with dust; the mirrors, instead of reflecting, would more
usefully have served as tablets for recording memoranda; every mat was
freely spotted with stains; on the sofa there lay a forgotten towel, and
on the table (as on most mornings) a plate, a salt-cellar, a half-eaten
crust of bread, and some scattered crumbs--all of which had failed to
be cleared away after last night’s supper. Indeed, were it not for the
plate, for a recently smoked pipe that was propped against the bed, and
for the recumbent form of Oblomov himself, one might have imagined that
the place contained not a single living soul, so dusty and discoloured
did everything look, and so lacking were any active traces of the
presence of a human being. True, on the whatnots there were two or three
open books, while a newspaper was tossing about, and the bureau bore
on its top an inkstand and a few pens; but the pages at which the books
were lying open were covered with dust and beginning to turn yellow
(thus proving that they had long been tossed aside), the date of the
newspaper belonged to the previous year, and from the inkstand, whenever
a pen happened to be dipped therein, there arose, with a frightened
buzz, only a derelict fly.
On this particular morning Oblomov had (contrary to his usual custom)
awakened at the early hour of eight. Somehow he looked perturbed;
anxiety, regret, and vexation kept chasing one another across his
features. Evidently he had fallen a prey to some inward struggle, and
had not yet been able to summon his wits to the rescue. The fact of the
matter was that, overnight, he had received from the _starosta_ * of
his country estate an exceedingly unpleasant letter. We all know what
disagreeable things a _starosta_ can say in his letters--how he can
tell of bad harvests, of arrears of debt, of diminished incomes, and so
forth; and though this particular official had been inditing precisely
similar epistles during the past three years, his latest communication
had affected its recipient as powerfully as though Oblomov had received
an unlooked-for blow. Yet, to do Oblomov justice, he had always bestowed
a certain care upon his affairs. Indeed, no sooner had he received the
_starosta’s_ first disturbing letter (he had done so three years ago)
than he had set about devising a plan for changing and improving the
administration of his property. Yet to this day the plan in question
remained not fully thought out, although long ago he had recognized the
necessity of doing something actually decisive.
* Overseer or steward.
Consequently, on awakening, he resolved to rise, to perform his
ablutions, and his tea consumed, to consider matters, to jot down a few
notes, and, in general, to tackle the affair properly. Yet for
another halfhour he lay prone under the torture of this resolve; until
eventually he decided that such tackling could best be done after tea,
and that, as usual, he would drink that tea in bed--the more so since a
recumbent position could not prove a hindrance to thought.
Therefore he did as he had decided; and when the tea had been consumed
he raised himself upon his elbow and arrived within an ace of getting
out of bed. In fact, glancing at his slippers, he even began to extend a
foot in their direction, but presently withdrew it.
Half-past ten struck, and Oblomov gave himself a shake. “What is the
matter?” he said vexedly. “In all conscience ’tis time that I were
doing something! Would I could make up my mind to--to------” He broke
off with a shout of “Zakhar!” whereupon there entered an elderly man
in a grey suit and brass buttons--a man who sported beneath a perfectly
bald pate a pair of long, bushy, grizzled whiskers that would have
sufficed to fit out three ordinary men with beards. His clothes, it is
true, were cut according to a country pattern, but he cherished them as
a faint reminder of his former livery, as the one surviving token of the
dignity of the house of Oblomov. The house of Oblomov was one which
had once been wealthy and distinguished, but which, of late years, had
undergone impoverishment and diminution, until finally it had become
lost among a crowd of noble houses of more recent creation.
For a few moments Oblomov remained too plunged in thought to notice
Zakhar’s presence; but at length the valet coughed.
“What do you want?” Oblomov inquired.
“You called me just now, _barin_?” *
* “Master” or “sir”
“I called you, you say? Well, I cannot remember why I did so. Return to
your room until I _have_ remembered.”
Zakliar retired, and Oblomov spent another quarter of an hour in
thinking over the accursed letter.
“I have lain here long enough,” at last he said to himself. “Really, I
_must_ rise.... But suppose I were to read the letter through carefully
and _then_ to rise? Zakhar!”
Zakhar re-entered, and Oblomov straightway sank into a reverie. For a
minute or two the valet stood eyeing his master with covert resentment.
Then he moved towards the door.
“Why are you going away?” Oblomov asked suddenly.
“Because, _barin_, you have nothing to say to me. Why should I stand
here for nothing?”
“What? Have your legs become so shrunken that you cannot stand for a
moment or two? I am worried about something, so you _must_ wait. You
have just been lying down in your room, haven’t you? Please search for
the letter which arrived from the _starosta_ last night. What have you
done with it?”
“What letter? _I_ have seen no letter,” asserted Zakhar.
“But you took it from the postman yourself?”
“Maybe I did, but how am I to know where you have since placed it?” The
valet fussed about among the papers and other things on the table.
“You never know anything,” remarked his master. “Look in that basket
there. Or possibly the letter has fallen behind the sofa? By the way,
the back of that sofa has not yet been mended. Tell the joiner to
come at once. It was you that broke the thing, yet you never give it a
thought!”
“I did _not_ break it,” retorted Zakhar. “It broke of itself. It
couldn’t have lasted for ever. It was bound to crack some day.” This
was a point which Oblomov did not care to contest. “Have you found the
letter yet?” he asked.
“Yes--several letters.”
“But they are not what I want.”
“I can see no others,” asserted Zakhar.
“Very well,” was Oblomov’s impatient reply. “I will get up and search
for the letter myself.”
Zakhar retired to his room again, but had scarcely rested his hands
against his pallet before stretching himself out, when once more there
came a peremptory shout of “Zakhar! Zakhar!”
“Good Lord!” grumbled the valet as a third time he made for the study.
“Why should I be tormented in this fashion? I would rather be dead!”
“My handkerchief!” cried Oblomov. “Yes, and very quickly, too! You
_might_ have guessed that that is what I am wanting.”
Zakhar displayed no particular surprise or offence at this reproachful
command. Probably he thought both the command and the reproach natural.
“Who knows where the handkerchief is?” he muttered as he made a tour of
the room and felt each chair (although he could not but have perceived
that on them there was nothing whatsoever lying). “You lose everything,”
he added, opening the door into the parlour in order to see whether the
handkerchief might not be lurking _there_.
“Where are you going?” exclaimed Oblomov. “’Tis _here_ you must
search. I have not been into those other rooms since the year before
last. Be quick, will you?”
“I see no handkerchief,” said Zakhar, spreading out his hands and
peering into every corner. “_There_ it is!” suddenly he croaked.
“’Tis just underneath you. I can see its end sticking out. You have
been lying on it all the time, yet you actually ask me to find it!” He
hobbled away without waiting for an answer. For a moment or two Oblomov
was taken aback, but soon found another means of putting his valet in
the wrong.
“A nice way to do your cleaning!” he said. “What a lot of dust and dirt,
to be sure! Look at those corners! You never bestir yourself at all.”
“If I never bestir myself,” retorted Zakhar offendedly, “at least I do
my best, and don’t spare myself, for I dust and sweep almost every day.
Everything looks clean and bright enough for a wedding.”
“What a lie!” cried Oblomov. “Be off to your room again!”
That he had provoked Zakhar to engage in this conversation was a fact
which gave him small pleasure. The truth was he had forgotten that, once
a delicate subject is touched upon, one cannot well avoid a fuss. Though
he wished his rooms to be kept clean, he wished this task to be carried
out invisibly, and apart from himself; whereas, whenever Zakhar
was called upon to do even the least sweeping or dusting, he made a
grievance of it.
After Zakhar had retired to his den Oblomov relapsed into thought,
until, a few minutes later, the clock sounded a halfhour of some sort.
“What is that?” cried Oblomov in horror. “Soon the time will be eleven,
yet I am not yet up and washed! Zakhar! Zakhar!”
Zakhar reappeared.
“Are my washing things ready?” his master inquired.
“Yes, they have been ready a long time. Why do you not get up?”
“And why didn’t _you_ tell _me_ that the things are ready? Had you done
that, I should have risen long ago. Go along, and I will follow you;
but at the moment I must sit down and write a letter.”
Zakhar left the room. Presently he reappeared with a much-bescribbled,
greasy account-book and a bundle of papers.
“If you are going to write anything,” he said, “perhaps you would like
to check these accounts at the same time? Some money is due to be paid
out.”
“What accounts? What money?” inquired Oblomov petulantly.
“The accounts sent in by the butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress,
and the baker. All are wanting their money.”
“Always money and worry!” grumbled Oblomov. “Why do you not give me the
accounts at intervals instead of in a batch like this?”
“Because each time you have sent me away, and then put matters off until
the morrow.”
“Well, _these_ accounts can wait until the morrow.”
“No, they cannot, for the creditors are pressing, and say they are going
to allow you nothing more on credit. To-day is the first of the month,
you must remember.”
“Ah! Fresh cares, fresh worries!” cried Oblomov gloomily. “Why are you
standing there? Lay the table, and I will rise, wash, and look into the
whole business. Is the water yet ready?”
“Quite.”
Oblomov raised himself and grunted as though he really intended to get
out of bed.
“By the way,” said Zakhar, “whilst you were still asleep the manager
of the building sent the _dvornik_ * to say that soon you must quit the
flat, since he wants it for some one else.”
* Porter or doorkeeper.
“Very well, then. We must go. Why worry me about it? This is the third
time you have done so.”
“But they keep worrying _me_ about it.”
“Then tell them that we intend to go.”
Zakhar departed again, and Oblomov resumed his reverie. How long he
would have remained in this state of indecision it is impossible to say
had not a ring at the doorbell resounded through the hall.
“Some one has called, yet I am not yet up!” exclaimed Oblomov as he
slipped into his dressing-gown. “Who can it be?”
Lying down again, he gazed furiously towards the door.
II
There entered a young fellow of about twenty-five. Beaming with health
and irreproachably dressed to a degree which dazzled the eye with its
immaculateness of linen and gorgeousness of jewellery, he was a figure
calculated to excite envy.
“Good morning, Volkov!” cried Oblomov.
“And good morning to you,” returned the radiant gentleman, approaching
the bed and looking about him for a spot whereon to deposit a hat.
However, perceiving only dust, he retained his headgear in his hand.
Next he drew aside the skirts of his coat (preparatory to sitting down),
but a hasty inspection of the nearest chair convinced him that he had
far better remain standing.
“So you are not yet up?” he went on. “And why on earth are you wearing a
_nightshirt?_ They have quite gone out of fashion.”
“’Tis not a nightshirt, it is a dressinggown,” said Oblomov, nestling
lovingly into the ample folds of the garment. “Where are you from?”
“From the tailor’s. Do you think this frock-coat a nice one?” And he
turned himself round and round for Oblomov’s inspection.
“Splendid! Made with excellent taste!” was the verdict. “Only why is it
so broad behind?”
“The better to ride in it. It is a riding-coat. I ordered it for to-day
for the reason that this is the first of May and I am to go to the
Ekaterinhov * with Gorunov. He has just got his promotion, and we intend
to cut a dash on the strength of it. He has a roan horse--all the horses
in his regiment are roans--and I a black. How are _you_ going-in a
carriage or on foot?”
“By neither method,” replied Oblomov.
“What? To-day is the first of May, and you are not going to the
Ekaterinhov? Why, _every one_ will be there!”
“Not quite every one,” Oblomov lazily remarked.
“You _must_ go, though. Sophia Nikolaevna and Lydia will be occupying
two of the seats in our carriage, but the seat facing them will be
vacant. Come with us, I tell you.”
“No, I do not intend to occupy the vacant seat. What sort of a figure
should _I_ cut on it?”
“Then, if you like, Mischa Gorunov shall lend you a horse.”
“Of what is the fellow thinking?” said Oblomov as though to himself.
“How come you and the Gorunov family to be so friendly with one
another?”
“Give me your word of honour not to repeat what I may tell you, and I
will explain.”
“Herewith I give it.”
“Very well. I am in love with Lydia.”
“Splendid! Have you been in love with her long? She seems a charming
girl.”
“I have been in love with her for three weeks,” said Volkov, with a
sigh. “And Mischa, for his part, is in love with Dashenka.”
“Who is Dashenka?”
“What! You do not know Dashenka? Why, the whole town is raving over
her dancing. To-night I am going to the Opera with Mischa, and he is to
throw her a bouquet. Well, I must be off to buy the necessary camelias
for it.”
“Come back, then, and take lunch with me. I should like to have a talk
with you, for I have just experienced two misfortunes.”
“Impossible, I fear, for I am lunching with Prince Tiumenev. All the
Gorunova--yes, and Lydia, too--are to be there. What a cheerful house
it is! And so is Tiumenev’s country place. I have heard that it is to be
the scene of numberless dances and tableaux this summer. Are you likely
to be one of the guests?”
“No--I think not.”
“What hospitality the Prince dispenses! This winter his guests averaged
fifty, and sometimes a hundred.”
“How wearisome the whole thing must have been!”
“What! Wearisome? Why, the more the merrier. Lydia, too, used to be
there--though in those days I never so much as noticed her. In fact,
never once did I do so until one day I found myself ‘vainly trying
to forget her, vainly pitting reason in the lists with love.’” Volkov
hummed the concluding words, and seated himself carelessly upon a chair.
Almost instantly he leaped to his feet again, and blushed the dust from
his trousers.
“What quantities of dirt you keep everywhere!” he remarked.”’tis
Zakhar’s fault, not mine,” replied Oblomov.
“Well, now I must be off, as it is absolutely necessary that I should
buy those camelias for Mischa’s bouquet. _Au revoir!_”
“Come and have tea after the opera, and tell me all about it.”
“No, that is impossible, for I am promised to supper at the Musinskis’.
It is their reception day, you know. However, meet me there, and I’ll
present you.”
“What is toward at the Musinskis’?”
“What, indeed? Why, entertainment in a house where you hear all the
news.”
“Like everything else, it would bore me.”
“Then go and call upon the Mezdrovs, where the talk centres upon one
topic, and one topic alone--the arts. Of nothing else will you hear but
the Venetian School. Beethoven, Bach, Leonardo da Vinci, and so forth.”
“All of them boring subjects!” said Oblomov with a yawn. “What a lot of
pedants the Mezdrovs must be! Do you never get tired of running about
from house to house?”
“Tired? Why should I? Every morning I like to go out and learn the news,
thank God, my official duties never require my actual presence, save
twice a week, when they consist of lunching with and doing the civil to
the General. * After that I proceed to call upon any people upon whom
I have not called for a long while. Next there will be some new
actress--whether at the Russian theatre or at the French. Besides,
always there is the Opera, to which I am a subscriber. Furthermore, I am
in love, and Mischa is about to enjoy a month’s leave from his regiment,
and the summer is on the point of beginning, and Mischa and I intend to
retire to his country house for a change of air. We shall have plenty of
sport there, since he possesses excellent neighbours and they give _bals
champêtres_. Also I shall be able to escort Lydia for walks through
the woods, and to row her about in a boat, and to pluck flowers for her
benefit. At the present moment I must leave you. Good-bye!”
* In this case the term “General” denotes a civil grade
corresponding to the military rank of the same title.
Rising, he endeavoured to look at himself in a dust-coated mirror; after
which he departed--though returning once more to show his friend the
newest thing in Parisian gloves and an Easter card which Prince Tiumenev
had recently sent him.
“What a life!” thought Oblomov, with a shrug of his shoulders. “What
good can a man get out of it? It is merely a squandering and a wasting
of his all. Of course, an _occasional_ look into a theatre is not a
bad thing, nor is being in love--for Lydia is a delightful girl, and
pursuits like plucking flowers with her and rowing her about in a boat
even I should enjoy; but to have to be in ten different places every
day, as Volkov has----!”
He turned over on his back and congratulated himself that _he_ at least
cherished no vain social aspirations. ’Twas better to lie where he was
and to preserve both his nerves and his human dignity....
Another ring at the doorbell interrupted his reflections. This time the
visitor turned out to be a gentleman in a dark frock-coat with crested
buttons whose most prominent features were a clean-shaven chin, a pair
of black whiskers around a haggard (but quiet and sensible) face, and a
thoughtful smile.
“Good day, Sudbinski!” cried Oblomov cheerfully.
“Good day to _you_,” replied the gentleman. “’Tis a long time since I
last saw you, but you know what this devilish Civil Service means. Look
at that bagful of reports which I have brought with me! And not only
that, but I have had to leave word at the office that a messenger will
find me here should I be wanted. Never do I get a single moment to
myself.”
“So you were on the way to your office? How come you to be going so
late? Your usual hour used to be nine.”
“Yes, it _used_ to be nine, but now I go at twelve.”
“Ah, I see: you have recently been made the head of a department. Since
when?”
“Since Easter,” replied Sudbinski, with a meaning nod. “But what a
lot of work! It is terrible! From eight to twelve in the morning I am
slaving at home; from twelve to five at the Chancellory; and all the
evening at home again. I have quite lost touch with my acquaintances.”
“Come and lunch with me to-day, and we will drink to your promotion,”
said Oblomov.
“No, to-day I am lunching with the Vice-Director, as well as have
a report to prepare by Thursday. You see, one _cannot_ rely upon
provincial advices, but must verify every return personally. Are you
going to the Ekaterinhov to-day?”
“No, for I am not very well,” replied Oblomov, knitting his brows.
“Moreover, like yourself, I have some work to do.”
“I am very sorry,” said Sudbinski; “for it is a fine day, and the only
day on which I myself can hope for a little rest.”
“And what news have you?” asked Oblomov.
“Oh, a good deal-of a sort. We are required no longer to write at the
end of our official letters ‘Your humble servant,’ but merely ‘Accept
the assurance of my profound respect.’ Also we have been told that we
are to cease to make out formal documents in duplicate. Likewise,
our office has just been allotted three new tables and a couple of
confidential clerks. Lastly, the Commission has now concluded its
sittings. _There’s_ a budget of news for you!”
“And what of our old comrades?”
“Nothing at present, except that Svinkin has lost his case.”
“And to think that you work from eight to twelve, and from twelve to
five, and again in the evening! Dear, dear!”
“Well, what should I do if I were _not_ in the Service?” asked
Sudbinski.
“You would just read and write on your own account.”
“But it is not given to every one to be a _littérateur_. For example,
you yourself write nothing.”
“No, for I have some property on my hands,” said Oblomov with a sigh.
“But I am working out a new system for it; I am going to introduce
reforms of various kinds. The affair worries me terribly.”
“Well, for my part, I _must_ work, in order to make a little money.
Besides, I am to be married this coming autumn.”
“Indeed! And to whom?”
“To Mademoiselle Murashina. Do you remember their country villa, next to
mine? I think you came to tea with me and met her there?”
“No, I have no recollection of it. Is she pretty?”
“Yes, charming. Suppose, one day, we go to lunch with her?”
Oblomov hesitated. “Very well,” he said after a pause; “only----”
“What about next week?”
“Certainly. Next week let it be. But at the moment I have no suitable
clothes. Is your _fiancêe_ a financial catch?”
“Yes, for her father is a State councillor, and intends to give her ten
thousand roubles, as well as to let us have half his official house (a
house of twelve rooms--the whole being furnished, heated, and lighted at
the public expense); so we ought to do very well. Herewith I invite you
to be my best man at the wedding.”
Once more the doorbell rang.
“Good-bye,” said Sudbinski. “I am annoyed that, as I surmise, I should
be wanted at the office.”
“Then stay where you are,” urged Oblomov. “I desire your advice, for two
misfortunes have just befallen me.”
“No, no; I had better come and see you another day.” And Sudbinski took
his leave.
“Plunged up to the ears in work, good ‘friend!” thought Oblomov as he
watched him depart. “Yes, and blind and deaf and dumb to everything else
in the world! _Yet by going into society and at the same time,
busying yourself about your affairs you will yet__win distinction, and
promotion. Such is what they call ‘a career’! Yet of how_ little use
is a man like that! His intellect, his will, his feelings--what do they
avail him? So many luxuries is what they are--nothing more. Such an
individual lives out his little span without achieving a single thing
worth mentioning; and meanwhile he works in an office from morning till
night--yes, from morning till night, poor wretch!”
Certainly a modicum of quiet satisfaction was to be derived from the
thought that from nine o’clock until three, and from eight o’clock until
nine on the following day, he, Oblomov, could remain lying prone on
a sofa instead of having to trot about with reports and to inscribe
multitudes of documents. Yes, he preferred, rather, leisure for the
indulgence of his feelings and imagination. Plunged in a philosophical
reverie, he overlooked the fact that by his bedside there was standing a
man whose lean, dark face was almost covered with a pair of whiskers,
a moustache, and an imperial. Also the new-comer’s dress was studied in
its negligence.
“Good morning, Oblomov,” he said.
“Good morning, Penkin,” was the response. “I should like to show you a
letter which I have just received from my _starnsta_. Whence have you
sprung?”
“From the newsagent’s, near by. I went to see if the papers are yet out.
Have you read my latest article?”
“No.”
“Then you ought to do so.”
“What is it about?” Oblomov asked with a faint yawn.
“About trade, about the emancipation of women, about the beautiful
April days with which we have been favoured, and about the newly formed
fire-brigade. How come you not to have read that article? In it you will
see portrayed the whole of our daily life. Over and above anything else,
you will read therein an argument in favour of the present realistic:
tendency in literature.”
“And have you no other work on hand?” inquired Oblomov.
“Yes, a good deal. I write two newspaper articles a week, besides
reviewing a number of books. In addition, I have just finished a tale of
my own.”
“What is _it_ about?”
“It tells how, in a certain town, the governor used to beat the citizens
with his own hand.”
“The realistic tendency, right enough!” commented Oblomov.
“Quite so,” said the delighted _littérateur_. “In my tale (which is
novel and daring in its idea) a traveller witnesses a beating of this
kind, seeks an interview with the governor of the province, and lays
before him a complaint. At once the said governor of the province orders
an official who happens to be proceeding to that town for the purpose of
conducting another investigation to inquire also into the truth of
the complaint just laid, and likewise to collect evidence as to the
character and behaviour of the local administrator. The official in
question calls together the local citizens, on the pretext of a trade
conference, and incidentally sounds them concerning the other matter.
And what do you suppose they do? They merely smile, present their
compliments, and load the governor of the town with praises! Thereafter
the official makes extraneous inquiries, and is informed that the said
citizens are rogues who trade in rotten merchandise, give underweight,
cheat the Treasury, and indulge in wholesale immorality; wherefore the
beatings have been a just retribution.”
“Then you intend the assaults committed by the governor to figure in the
story as the _fatum_ of the old tragedians?”
“Quite so,” said Penkin. “You have great quickness of apprehension, and
ought yourself to tackle the writing of stories. Yes, it has always been
my idea to expose the arbitrariness of our local governors, the decline
of morality among the masses, the faulty organization existing among our
subordinate officials, and the necessity of drastic, but legal, measures
to counterbalance these evils. ’Tis a novel idea for a story, is it
not?”
“Certainly; and to me who read so little a _peculiarly_ novel one.”
“True, I have never once seen you with a book in your hand.
Nevertheless, I beseech you to read a poem which, I may say, is shortly
to appear. It is called ‘The Love of a Blackmailer for a Fallen Woman.’
the identity ol the author I am not at liberty to disclose--at all
events _yet_.”
“Pray give me an idea of this poem.”
“It exposes, as you will see, the whole mechanism of the social
movement--but a mechanism that is painted only in poetic colours. Each
spring of that engine is touched upon, and each degree of the social
scale held up to the light. We see summoned to the bar, as it were, a
weak, but vicious, lord, with a swarm of blackmailers who are engaged
in cheating him. Also various categories of fallen women are
dissected--French women, German women, and others; the whole being done
with vivid and striking verisimilitude. Certain extracts from the poem
have come to my ears, and I may say that the author is a great man--one
hears in him the notes both of Dante and of Shakespeare.”
“And whence has he originated?” asked Oblomov, leaning forward in
astonishment; but Penkin, perceiving that he had now said too much,
merely repeated that Oblomov must read the poem, and judge for himself.
This Oblomov declined to do.
“Why?” asked Penkin. “The thing will make a great stir and be much
talked about.”
“Very well: _let_ people talk. ’Tis all some folks have to do. ’Tis
their _métier_.”
“Nevertheless, read it yourself, for curiosity’s sake.”
“What have I not seen in books!” commented the other. “Surely folk must
write such things merely to amuse themselves?”
“Yes; even as I do. At the same time, what truth, what verisimilitude,
do you not find in books! How powerfully some of them move one through
the vivid portraiture which they contain! Whomsoever these authors
take--a _tchinovnik_, * an officer, or a blackmailer--they paint them as
living creatures.”
* Government official.
“But what have those authors to worry about, seeing that if, as you say,
one chooses to take a given model for amusement’s sake, the picture is
sure to succeed? Yet no: real life is _not_ to be described like that.
In a system of that kind there is no understanding or sympathy, nor a
particle of what we call humanity. ’Tis all self-conceit--no more.
Folk describe thieves and fallen women as though they were apprehending
them in the streets and taking them to prison. Never in the tales of
such writers is the note of ‘hidden tears’ to be detected--only that of
gross, manifest malice and love of ridicule.”
“And what more would you have? You yourself have said (and very aptly
so) that seething venom, a taste for bilious incitement to vice, and a
sneering contempt for the fallen are the only ingredients needed.”
“No, not the only ones,” said Oblomov, firing up. “Picture a thief or a
fallen woman or a cheated fool, if you like, but do not forget the rest
of mankind. What about humanity, pray? Writers like yourself try to
write only with the head. What? Do you suppose the intellect can work
separately from the heart? Why, the intellect needs _love_ to fertilize
it. Rather, stretch out your hand to the fallen and raise him weep over
him if he is lost beyond recall, but in no case make sport of him, for
he is one to whom there should be extended only compassion. See in him
yourself, and act accordingly. That done, I will read you, and bow
my head before you. But in the writings of the school of which I have
spoken, what art, what poetical colouring, are you able to discover?
Should you elect to paint debauchery and the mire, at least do so
without making any claim to poetry.”
“What? You bid me depict nature--roses, nightingales, a winter’s
morning, and all that sort of thing--when things like _these_ are
seething and whirling around us? Nay, we need, rather, the bare
physiology of society. No longer are love songs required.”
“Give me man, and man alone.” said Oblomov. “And, having given me him,
do you try to love him.”
“_What?_ To love the usurer, the hypocrite, the peculating and stupid
official? Why should I do that? ’tis evident you have had little
experience of literature! Such fellows want punishing--want turning out
of the civic circle and the community.”
“Out of the civic circle and the community,’ you say?” ejaculated
Oblomov with a gasp as he rose and stood before Penkin. “That is
tantamount to saying that once in that faulty vessel there dwelt the
supreme element--that, ruined though the man may be, he is still a human
being, as even are you and I. Turn him out, indeed! _How_ are you going
to turn him out of the circle of humanity, out of the bosom of Nature,
out of the mercy of God?” Oblomov came near to shouting as he said this,
and his eyes were blazing.
“How excited you have grown!” said Penkin in astonishment; whereupon
even Oblomov realized that he had gone too far. He pulled himself up,
yawned slightly, and stretched himself out sluggishly upon the sofa. For
a while silence reigned.
“What kind of books do you mostly read?’ inquired Penkin.
“Books of travel,” replied Oblomov.
Again there was a silence.
“And will you read the poem when it has come out?” continued Penkin. “If
so, I will bring you a copy of it.”
Oblomov shook his head.
“Nor my story?”
Oblomov signified assent.
“Very well, then. Now I must be off to press,” continued Penkin. “Do you
know why I came to see you to-day? I came because I wanted to propose
to you a visit to the Ekaterinhov. I have a conveyance of my own and,
inasmuch as, to-morrow, I must write an article on current events, I
thought we might jointly look over my notes on the subject, and you
might advise me as to any point omitted. We should enjoy the expedition,
I think. Let us go.”
“No, I am not well,” said Oblomov with a frown, covering himself with
the bedclothes. “But you might come and lunch with me to-day, and _then_
talk. I have just experienced a couple of misfortunes.”
“Ah! The whole of our staff is to lunch at St. George’s, * I fear,
and then to go on to the festival. Also, at night I have my article to
write, and the printer must receive the manuscript by daylight at the
latest. Good-bye!”
* A smart restaurant in Petrograd.
“‘At night I have my article to write,’” mused Oblomov after his
friend’s departure. “Then when does he sleep? However, he is making some
five thousand roubles a year, so his work is so much bread and butter
to him. Yet to think of being continually engaged in writing, in wasting
one’s intellect upon trifles, in changing one’s opinions, in offering
one’s brain and one’s imagination for sale, in doing violence to one’s
own nature, in giving way to ebullitions of enthusiasm--and the whole
without a single moment’s rest, or the calling of a single halt! Yes,
to think of being forced to go on writing, writing, like the wheel of
a machine--writing to-morrow, writing the day after, writing though the
summer is approaching and holidays keep passing one by! Does he _never_
stop to draw breath, the poor wretch?” Oblomov glanced at the table,
where everything lay undisturbed, and the ink had become dried up, and
not a pen was to be seen; and as he looked he rejoiced to think that
_he_ was lying there as careless as a newborn baby--not worrying at all,
nor seeking to offer anything for sale.
“But what of the _starosta’s_ letter and the notice to quit?” Yes,
suddenly he had remembered these things; and once more he became
absorbed in thought.
Again the doorbell rang.
“Why is every one seeking me out today?” he wondered as he waited to
see who next should enter. This time the new-comer proved to be a man of
uncertain age--of the age when it is difficult to guess the exact number
of years. Also, he was neither handsome nor ugly, neither tall nor
short, neither fair nor dark. In short, he was a man whom Nature had
dowered with no sharp-cut, distinguishing features, whether good or bad,
mental or physical.
“Ha!” said Oblomov as he greeted him. “So it is you, Alexiev? Whence are
you come?”
“To tell the truth. I had not thought to call upon you to-day,” replied
the visitor, “but by chance I met Ovchinin, and he carried me off to his
quarters, whither I, in my turn, have now come to convey _you_.”
“To convey me to, to----?”
“To Ovchinin’s. Already Alianov, Pchailo, and Kolhniagin are there.”
“But why have they collected together? And what do they want with me?”
“Ovchinin desires you to lunch with him, and then to accompany him and
the rest of us to the Ekaterinhov. Likewise he has instructed me to
warn you to hire a conveyance. Come, get up! ’Tis fully time you were
dressed.”
“How am I to dress? I have not yet washed myself.”
“Then do so at once.”
With that Alexiev fell to pacing the room. Presently he halted before a
picture which he had seen a thousand times before; then he glanced once
or twice out of the window, took from a whatnot an article of some sort,
turned it over in his hands, looked at it from every point of view, and
replaced the same. That done, he resumed his pacing and whistling--the
whole being designed to avoid hindering Oblomov from rising and
performing his ablutions. Ten minutes passed.
“What is the matter with you?” asked Alexiev suddenly.
“What is the matter with me?”
“I mean, why are you still in bed?”
“I cannot tell you. Is it _really_ necessary that I should get up?”
“Of course it is necessary, for they are waiting for us. Besides, you
said that you would like to go.”
“To go where? I have no such desire.”
“Only this moment you said we would go and lunch at Ovchinin’s, and then
proceed to the Ekatennhov!”
“No, I cannot. It would mean my going out into the damp. Besides, rain
is coming on. The courtyard looks quite dark.”
“As a matter of fact, not a single cloud is in the sky, and the
courtyard looks dark only because you never have your windows washed.”
“Well, well!” said Oblomov. “By the way, have I yet told you of my
misfortunes--of the letter from my _starosta_, and of the notice given
me to quit this flat?”
“No,” answered Alexiev. “What about the letter?”
The document not being immediately forthcoming, Zakhar was summoned to
search for it; and after it had been discovered beneath the counterpane
Oblomov read it to his friend--though passing over certain greetings,
added to inquiries as to the recipient’s health. The gist of the epistle
was that the bulk of the crops on Oblomov’s estate were likely to fail
for want of rain.
“Never mind,” said Alexiev. “One must never give way to despair.”
“And what would _you_ do in my place?”
“I should first of all consider matters. Never ought one to come to a
hasty decision.”
Crumpling the letter in his hands, Oblomov leaned forward with his elbows
on his knees, and remained in that posture for a considerable time--his
brain flooded with disturbing reflections.
“I wish Schtoltz would come!” at length he remarked. “He has written
that he is about to do so, but God knows what has happened to him! _He_
could solve the situation.”
Suddenly the doorbell rang with such vehemence that both men started,
and Zakhar came hurrying out of his pantry.
III
The next moment there entered the room a tall, loosely built man who
evidently did not believe in refinement of costume, nor was in any way
ashamed of the fact. This was Mikhei Andreievitch Tarantiev, a native
of the same district as Oblomov. Though an individual of rough, sullen
mien, and of rather an overbearing manner, he did not lack a certain
keen ruggedness of wit; nor could any one be a better judge of mundane
questions in general, nor a better resolver of tangled juridical
problems (though usually he behaved rudely to the person who had sought
his advice on these matters). Nevertheless, his abilities stopped short
at a talent for verbal exposition; and no sooner was he called upon to
transmit a theory into action than his whole bearing underwent a change,
and in every case he discovered practical difficulties in the way of
what he conceived to be the best course to take.
“How are you?” he said brusquely as he extended a hairy hand. “What
do you mean by lying in bed like a log? Presently it will be twelve
o’clock, yet you are sprawling about on your back!” The other
forestalled him by hurriedly slipping his feet into his slippers, or the
new-comer would have pulled him out of bed.
“I was just about to rise,” said Oblomov with a yawn.
“Yes; I know how you rise--how you go rolling about until lunch-time!
Zakhar, come and help your master to dress!”
Zakhar entered and glared at Tarantiev. Raising himself on his elbow,
Oblomov stepped from the bed like a man who is thoroughly worn out, and,
dropping into an arm-chair, sat there without moving, Meanwhile Zakhar
pomaded, parted, and combed his master’s hair, and then asked him if he
desired to wash.
“Presently,” said Oblomov. “Do you wait a little.”
“Ah! So _you_ are here?” said Tarantiev suddenly as he turned to
Alexiev. “I had not seen you. By the way, what a swine is that kinsman
of yours!”
“_What_ kinsman?” inquired Alexiev with a stare. “I do not possess a
single relative.”
“I mean Athanasiev. Surely he is a relative of yours? I _know_ he is.”
“My name is Alexiev, not Athanasiev,” said the other. “And I repeat that
I do not possess a single relative.”
“But he is just like you an ugly man, as well as (like yourself, again)
a man of the name of Vassili Nikolaitch?”
“Nevertheless he is no kinsman of mine. Besides, my first names are Ivan
and Alexeitch.”
“Well, he is exactly _like_ you, and a swine besides. You can tell him
that when next you meet him.”
“I neither possess his acquaintance nor have ever set eyes upon him,”
said Alexiev, opening his snuffbox.
“Give me a pinch,” put in Tarantiev. “You use the plain stuff, and not
the French, do you? Why not use the French? Never have I seen a swine
like that relative of yours. On one occasion I borrowed of him fifty
roubles. That was two years ago. And fifty roubles are not a very
large sum, are they? They are a sum which he might well have forgotten,
mightn’t he? Yes, he very well might. But as a matter of fact, he
remembered it. Not a month had passed before he took to saying, whenever
he met me: ‘How about that debt?’ I assure you I found him a perfect
nuisance! And only yesterday he walked into our office, and said to me:
‘I expect you have just received your salary, and are therefore in a
position to repay me?’ Well, I handed him over my salary, even though
he had come there for the express purpose of shaming me in public. I
had much ado not to put him out of the door. ‘Poor fellow, you need the
money, I suppose?’ As though I had _not_ needed it! Am I such a rich man
that I should quietly let him pouch fifty roubles? Oblomov, hand me a
cigar.”
“The cigars are in that box there,” said Oblomov, pointing to a whatnot.
He was still posed in his usual lazy but becoming attitude--he was still
taking no notice whatever of what was being done or said around him, but
contemplating his small white hands.
“What a rubbishy weed!” Tarantiev remarked, after sending out a puff of
tobacco smoke and inhaling another.
“You have come too early in the morning,” suggested Oblomov with a yawn.
“Then I am boring you, am I?”
“No; I was merely making a remark. Usually you arrive at lunch-time, but
to-day you have come an hour beforehand.”
“I have come an hour beforehand because I wish to find out what there
is likely to be to eat at dinner. As a rule you provide such rubbishy
stuff.”
“You had better go into the kitchen and inquire.”
Taramiev departed for the purpose,
“We are to have beef and veal,” he remarked, on returning. “Ah, friend
Oblomov, though a landowner, you haven’t the smallest notion how to
live. Your _ménage_ is the _ménage_ of a tradesman. Have you bought that
Madeira yet?”
“I don’t know,” replied Oblomov, scarcely noticing what had been said.
“You had better inquire of Zakhar. At all events there will be some sort
of wine.”
“What? The rubbishy old stuff which you bought of a German dealer? You
ought to go to the English Store for your wines.”
“Very well. Please send to the Store for some.”
“Money first, please!”
Oblomov fumbled in a cashbox, and produced therefrom a ten-rouble, note.
“Madeira costs seven roubles the bottle,” he said. “Here are ten
roubles. You will be given change at the Store.”
Tarantiev hastened to cram the note into his pocket.
“Likewise, do you feel like hiring a conveyance and going to the
Ekaterinhov today?” he inquired. “If so, you might take me with you.”
Oblomov shook his head.
“I have met with two misfortunes,” he remarked. “In the first place, I
am to be turned out of this fiat.”
“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.”
“Whom am I to appoint in the _starosta’s_ place?” asked Oblomov.
“Another man might prove even worse than he.”
“You yourself had better go to the estate, and stay there for the
summer, and then move into my friend’s house. _I_ will see that her
rooms shall be ready for you--yes, I will see to it at once. Personally,
I should have sold that property of yours, and bought another. Hand it
over to me, and I will very soon make the folk there aware that I am
alive!”
The upshot of it was that Oblomov accorded a half-hearted consent to
Tarantiev’s procuring him a new lodging, and also to his writing to the
governor of the district where his (Oblomov’s) property was situated.
After that Tarantiev departed, stating that he would return to dinner at
five o’clock.
With Tarantiev’s departure a calm of ten minutes reigned in the
apartment. Oblomov was feeling greatly upset, both by the _starostas_
letter and by the prospect of the impending removal. Also, the
tumultuous Tarantiev had thoroughly tired him out.
“Why do you not sit down and write the letter?” asked Alexiev. “If you
wish I will clean the inkstand for you.”
“Clean it, and the Lord bless you!” sighed Oblomov. “Let me write the
letter alone, and then you shall fair-copy it after dinner.”
“Very well,” replied Alexiev. “But now I must be off, or I shall be
delaying the Ekaterinhov party. Good-bye!”
Oblomov did not heed him, but, sinking back into a recumbent position in
the armchair, relapsed into a state of meditative lethargy.
IV
Zakhar, after closing the door successively behind Tarantiev and
Alexiev, stood expecting to receive a summons from his master, inasmuch
as he had overheard the fact that the latter had undertaken to write a
letter. But in Oblomov’s study all remained silent as the tomb. Zakhar
peeped through the chink of the door, and perceived that his master was
lying prone on the sofa, with his head resting on the palm of his hand.
The valet entered the room.
“Why have you lain down again?” he asked.
“Do not disturb me: cannot you see that I am reading?” was Oblomov’s
abrupt reply.
“Nay, but you ought to wash, and then to write that letter,” urged
Zakhar, determined not to be shaken on.
“Yes, I suppose I ought. I will do so presently. Just now I am engaged
in thought.”
As a matter of fact, he _did_ read a page of the book which was lying
open--a page which had turned yellow with a month’s exposure. That done,
he laid it down and yawned.
“How it all wearies me!” he whispered, stretching, and then drawing
up, his legs. Glancing at the ceiling as once more he relapsed into a
voluptuous state of coma, he said to himself with momentary sternness:
“No--business first.” Then he rolled over, and clasped his hands behind
his head.
As he lay there he thought of his plans for improving his property.
Swiftly he passed in review certain grave and fundamental schemes
affecting his plough-land and its taxation; after which he elaborated a
new and stricter course to be taken against laziness and vagrancy on the
part of the peasantry, and then passed to sundry ideas for ordering his
own life in the country.
First of all, he became engrossed in a design for a new house. Eagerly
he lingered over a probable disposition of the rooms, and fixed in
his mind the dimensions of the dining-room and the billiard-room, and
determined which way the windows of his study must face. Indeed, he even
gave a thought to the furniture and to the carpets. Next, he designed
a wing for the building, calculated the number of guests whom that
wing would accommodate, and set aside proper sites for the stables, the
coachhouses, and the servants’ quarters. Finally he turned his attention
to the garden. The old lime and oak-trees should all be left as they
were, but the apple-trees and pear-trees should be done away with, and
succeeded by acacias. Also, he gave a moment’s consideration to the idea
of a park, but, after calculating the cost of its upkeep, came to the
conclusion that such a luxury would prove too expensive--wherefore he
passed to the designing of orangeries and aviaries.
So vividly did these attractive visions of the future development of
his estate flit before his eyes that he came to fancy himself already
settled there, and engaged in witnessing the result of several years’
working of his schemes.
On a fair summer’s evening he seemed to be sitting at a tea-table on the
terrace of Oblomovka--sitting under a canopy of leafy shade which the
sun was powerless to penetrate. From a long pipe in his hand he was
lazily inhaling smoke, and revelling both in the delightful view which
stretched beyond the circle of the trees and in the coolness and the
quiet of his surroundings. In the distance some fields were turning to
gold as the sun, setting behind a familiar birch-grove, tinged to red
the mirror-like surface of the lake. From the fields a mist had risen,
for the chill of evening was falling, and dusk approaching apace. To
his ears, at intervals, came the clatter of peasantry as they returned
homewards, and at the entrance gates the servants of the establishment
were sitting at ease, while from their vicinity came the sound of
echoing voices and laughter, the playing of _balalaiki_, * and the
chattering of girls as they pursued the sport of _goriclki_. ** Around
him, also, his little ones were frisking at times climbing on to his
knee and hanging about his neck; while behind the _samovar_ *** was
seated the real ruler of all that his eyes were beholding his divinity,
a woman, his _wife!_... And in the dining-room--a room at once elegant
and simply appointed--a cheerful fire was glowing, and Zakhar, now
promoted to the dignity of a major-domo, and adorned with whiskers
turned wholly grey, was laying a large, round table to a pleasant
accompanying tinkle of crystal and silver as he arranged, here a
decanter and there a fork.
* Three-stringed, lute-like instruments.
** A sort of catch-as catch-can.
*** Tea-urn.
Presently the dreamer saw his wife and himself sit down to a bountiful
supper. Yes, and with them was Schtoltz, the comrade of his youth, his
unchanging friend, with other well-known faces. Lastly, he could see the
inmates of the house retiring to rest....
Oblomov’s features blushed with delight at the vision. So clear, so
vivid, so poetical was it all that for a moment he lay with his face
buried in the sofa cushions. Suddenly there had come upon him a dim
longing for love and quiet happiness; suddenly he had become athirst for
the fields and the hills of his native place, for his home, for a wife,
for children....
After lying face downwards for a moment or two, he turned upon his back.
His features were alight with generous emotion, and for the time being
he was--_happy_.
Again the charming seductiveness of sleep-waking enfolded him in its
embrace. He pictured to himself a small colony of friends who should
come and settle in the villages and farms within a radius of fifteen
or twenty versts of his country house. Every day they should visit
one another’s houses--whether to dine or to sup or to dance; until
everywhere around him he would be able to see only bright faces framed
in sunny days--faces which should be ever free of care and wrinkles,
and round, and merry, and ruddy, and double-chinned, and of unfailing
appetite. In all his neighbourhood there should be constant
summertide, constant gaiety, unfailing good fare, the joys of perennial
lassitude.... “My God, my God!” he cried in the fullness of his delight:
and with that he awoke. Once more to his ears came the cries of hawkers
in the courtyard as they vended coal, sand, and potatoes; once more he
could hear some one begging for subscriptions to build a church; once
more from a neighbouring building which was in course of erection there
streamed a babel of workmen’s shouts, mingled with the clatter of tools.
“Ah!” he sighed with a sense of pain. “Such is real life! What ugliness
there is in the roar of the capital! When shall I attain the life of
paradise--the life for which I yearn? Shall I ever see my own fields, my
own forests? Would that at this moment I were lying on the grass under
a tree, and gazing upwards at the sun through the boughs, and trying to
count the birds which come and go over my head!”
But what about the plans for improving the estate? And what about the
_starosta_ and the flat? Once again these things knocked at his memory.
“Yes, yes,” he answered them. “_Seichass_--presently.”
With that he rose to a sitting posture on the sofa, lowered his legs to
the level of his slippers, and slipped the latter on to his feet; after
which he sat still for a little while. At length he attained a wholly
erect posture, and remained meditating for a couple of minutes.
“Zakhar! Zakhar!” he shouted as he eyed the table and the inkstand. “I
want you to, to----” Further he failed to get, but mutely pointed to the
inkstand, and then relapsed into thought.
The doorbell rang, and a little man with a bald head entered.
“Hullo, doctor!” Oblomov exclaimed as he extended one hand towards his
guest, and with the other one drew forward a chair. “What chance brings
you here?”
“The chance that, since all of you decline to be ill, and never send for
me, I am forced to come of myself,” replied the doctor jestingly. “But
no,” he added, in a more serious tone. “The truth is, I had to visit a
neighbour of yours on the upper floor, and thought I might as well take
you on the way. How are you?”
Oblomov shook his head despondently. “Poorly, doctor,” he said. “I have
just been thinking of consulting you. My stomach will scarcely digest
anything, there is a pain in the pit of it, and my breath comes with
difficulty.”
“Give me your wrist,” said the doctor. He closed his eyes and felt the
patient’s pulse. “And have you a cough?” he inquired.
“Yes--at night-time, but more especially while I am at supper.”
“Hm! And does your heart throb at all, or your head ache?” He then
added other questions, bowed his bald pate, and subsided into profound
meditation. At length he straightened himself with a jerk, and said with
an air of decision--
“Two or three years more, of this room, of lying about, of eating rich,
heavy foods, and you will have a stroke.”
Oblomov started.
“Then what ought I to do, doctor? Tell me, for Heaven’s sake!”
“Merely what other people do--namely, go abroad.”
“Pardon me, doctor, but how am I to do that?”
“Why should you not? Does money prevent you, or what?”
“Yes, yes; money is the reason,” replied Oblomov, gladly catching at
the excuse, which was the most natural one that could possibly have been
devised. “See here--just read what my _slarosta_ writes.”
“Quite so, but that is no business of mine,” said the doctor. “_My_
business is to inform you that you must change your mode of life, and
also your place of residence. You must have fresh air--you must have
something to do. Go to Kissingen or to Ems, and remain there during June
and July, whilst you drink the waters. Then go on to Switzerland, or to
the Tyrol, and partake of the local grape cure. That you can do during
September and October.”
“Oh the devil take the Tyrol!” murmured Oblomov under his breath.
“Next, transfer yourself to some dry place like Egypt, and put away from
you all cares and worries.”
“Excellent!” said Oblomov. “I only wish that _starostas_’ letters like
this one reached you!”
“Also you must do no thinking whatsoever.”
“No thinking, you say?”
“Yes--you must impose upon the brain no exertion.”
“But what about my plans for my estate? I am not a log, if you will
pardon my saying so.”
“Oh, very well. I have merely been warning you. Likewise, you must
avoid emotion of every kind, for that sort of thing is sure to militate
against a successful cure. Try, rather, to divert yourself with riding,
with dancing, with moderate exercise in the open air, and with pleasant
conversation--more especially conversation with the opposite sex.
These things are designed to make your heart beat more lightly, and to
experience none but agreeable emotions. Again, you must lay aside all
reading and writing. Rent a villa which faces south and lies embowered
in flowers, and surround yourself also with an atmosphere of music and
women.”
“And may I eat at all?”
“Yes, certainly; but avoid all animal and farinaceous food, as well as
anything which may be served cold. Eat only light soups and vegetables.
Even in _this_ great care will need to be exercised, for cholera, I may
tell you, is about. Walk eight hours out of every twenty-four; go in for
shooting.”
“Good Lord!” groaned Oblomov.
“Finally,” concluded the doctor, “go to Paris for the winter, where,
surrounded by a whirlpool of gaiety, you will best be able to distract
your mind from your habitual brooding. Cultivate, theatres, balls,
masquerades, the streets, society friends, noise, and laughter.”
“Anything else?” inquired Oblomov, with ill-concealed impatience. The
doctor reflected a moment.
“Yes; also get the benefit of sea air,” he said. “Cross over to England,
or else go for a voyage to America.”
With chat he rose to take his leave. “Should you carry out these
instructions to the letter----” he began.
“Yes, yes. Of _course_ I shall carry them out!” said Oblomov bitterly as
he accompanied the physician to the door.
The doctor having departed, Oblomov threw himself back into an
arm-chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and remained sitting in
an almost unthinking heap. Roused by Zakhar to consider once more the
question of changing his quarters, he engaged in a long and heated
conversation with the valet. Eventually he dismissed the man to his den,
but could not dismiss from his own mind certain comparisons which Zakhar
had drawn between his master’s life and the life of ordinary people.
How strange that suddenly there should have dawned in him thoughts
concerning human fate and destiny! All at once he found his mind drawing
a parallel between that destiny and his own existence; all at once
questions of life arose before his vision, like owls in an ancient ruin
flushed from sleep by a stray ray of sunlight. Somehow he felt pained
and grieved at his arrested development, at the check which had taken
place in his moral growth, at the weight which appeared to be pressing
upon his every faculty. Also gnawing at his heart there was a sense of
envy that others should be living a life so full and free, while all the
time the narrow, pitiful little pathway of his own existence was being
blocked by a great boulder. And in his hesitating soul there arose a
torturing consciousness that many sides of his nature had never yet been
stirred, that others had never even been touched, and that not one of
them had attained complete formation. Yet with this there went an aching
suspicion that, buried in his being, as in a tomb, there still remained
a moribund element of sweetness and light, and that it was an element
which, though hidden in his personality, as a nugget lies lurking in the
bowels of the earth, might once have become minted into sterling coin.
But the treasure was now overlaid with rubbish--was now thickly littered
over with dust. ’Twas as though some one had stolen from him, and
besmirched, the store of gifts with which life and the world had dowered
him; so that always he would be prevented from entering life’s field
and sailing across it with the aid of intellect and of will. Yes, at the
very start a secret enemy had laid a heavy hand upon him and diverted
him from the road of human destiny. And now he seemed to be powerless to
leave the swamps and wilds in favour of that road. All around him was
a forest, and ever the recesses ox his soul were growing dimmer and
darker, and the path more and more tangled, while the consciousness
of his condition kept awaking within him less and less frequently--to
arouse only for a fleecing moment his slumbering faculties. Brain
and volition alike had become paralysed, and, to all appearances,
irrevocably--the events of his life had become whittled down to
microscopical proportions. Yet even with them he was powerless to
cope--he was powerless to pass from one of them to another. Consequently
they bandied him to and fro like the waves of the ocean. Never was he
able to oppose to any event elasticity of will; never was he able to
conceive, as the result of any event, a reasoned-out impulse. Yet
to confess this, even to himself, always cost him a bitter pang:
his fruitless regrets for lost opportunities, coupled with burning
reproaches of conscience, always pricked him like needles, and led him
to strive to put away such reproaches and to discover a scapegoat....
Once again Oblomov sank asleep; and as he slept he dreamed of a
different period, of different people, of a different place from the
present. Let us follow him thither.
V
We find ourselves transported to a land where neither sea nor mountains
nor crags nor precipices nor lonely forests exist--where, in short,
there exists nothing grand or wild or immense.
Of what advantage, indeed, is the grand, the immense? The ocean
depresses the soul of man, and at the sight of its boundless expanse of
billows--an expanse whereon the weary eye is allowed no resting-place
from the uniformity of the picture--the heart of man grows troubled
within him, and he derives no solace from the roaring and mad rolling
of the waves. Ever since the world began, those waves have sung the same
dim, enigmatical song. Ever since the world began, they have voiced
but the querulous lament of a monster which, everlastingly doomed to
torment, utters a chorus of shrill, malicious cries. On the shores of
the sea no bird warbles; only the silent gulls, like lost spirits, fit
wearily along its margin, or circle over its surface. In the presence of
that turmoil of nature the roar even of the wildest beast sounds weak,
and the voice of man becomes wholly overwhelmed. Yes, beside it man’s
form looks so small and fragile that it is swallowed up amid the myriad
details of the gigantic picture. That alone may be why contemplation
of the ocean depresses man’s soul. During periods, also, of calm and
immobility his spirit derives no comfort from the spectacle; for in the
scarcely perceptible oscillation of the watery mass he sees ever the
slumbering, incomprehensible force, which, until recently, has been
mocking his proud will and, as it were, submerging his boldest schemes,
his most dearly cherished labours and endeavours.
In the same way, mountains and gorges were not created to afford man
encouragement, inasmuch as, with their terrible, menacing aspect, they
seem to him the fangs and talons of some gigantic wild beast--of a beast
which is reaching forth in an effort to devour him. Too vividly they
remind him of his own frail build; too painfully they cause him to go
in fear for his life. And over the summits of those crags and precipices
the heavens look so remote and unattainable that they seem to have
become removed out of the ken of humanity.