Not so that peaceful corner of the earth upon which our hero, in his

slumber, opened his eyes. There, on the contrary, the heavens seemed

to hug the earth--not in order that they might the better aim their

thunderbolts, but in order that they might the closer enfold it in

a loving embrace. In fact, they hovered low in order that, like a

sheltering, paternal roof, they might guard this chosen corner of the

earth from every adversity. Meanwhile the sun shone warm and bright

during half the year, and, withdrawing, did so so slowly and reluctantly

that it seemed ever to be turning back for one more look at the beloved

spot, as though wishing to give it one more bright, warm day before the

approaching weather of autumn. Also the hills of that spot were no

more than reduced models of the terrible mountains which, in other

localities, rear themselves to affright the imagination. Rather, they

resembled the gentle slopes down which one may roll in sport, or where

one may sit and gaze dreamily at the declining sun. Below them, toying

and frisking, ran a stream. In one place it discharged itself into a

broad pool, in another it hurried along in a narrow thread, in a third

it slackened its pace to a sudden mood of reverie, and, barely gliding

over the stones, threw out on either side small rivulets whereof the

gentle burbling seemed to invite sleep. Everywhere the vicinity of

this corner of the earth presented a series of landscape studies and

cheerful, smiling vistas. The sandy, shelving bank of the stream, a

small copse which descended from the summit of that bank to the water,

a winding ravine of which the depths were penetrated by a rill, a

plantation of birch-trees--all these things seemed purposely to be

fitted into one another, and to have been drawn by the hand of a master.

Both the troubled heart and the heart which has never known care might

have yearned to hide themselves in this forgotten corner of the world,

and to live its life of ineffable happiness. Everything promised a

quiet existence which should last until the grey hairs were come, and

thereafter a death so gradual as almost to resemble the approach of

sleep.

There the yearly round fulfils itself in a regular, serene order. As the

calendar ordains, spring comes in in March, when turbid rivulets begin

to run from the hills, and the earth, thawing, steams with tepid vapour.

Then the peasant, doffing his sheepskin, goes out in shirtsleeves alone,

and shades his eyes with’ his hand as gladly he shrugs his shoulders and

drinks his fill of the gleaming sunlight. Then, with a shaft in either

hand, he draws forth the cart which has been lying bottom upwards,

under the tiltshed, or examines and sounds with his foot the plough

which has been reposing in the penthouse. All this is in preparation for

the usual routine of toil, since in that region spring sees no return

of sudden snowstorms to heap the fields and crack the branches. On the

other hand, Winter, like a cold, unapproachable beauty, retains her

character until the lawful season of thaw has arrived. Never does

she mock one with unexpected softenings of the air; never does she

triple-harness the earth with unheard-of degrees of frost. Everything

proceeds according to rote--according to a generally prescribed order of

nature. Although, in November, there begin snow and frost which, towards

the festival of Epiphany, increase to the point of freezing to an icicle

the beard of the peasant who has stepped out of his hut for a breath of

fresh air, the sensitive nose can, by February, detect the kindly odour

of approaching spring.

Next, the summer is peculiarly ravishing. Only in that particular spot

can one find that fresh, dry perfume which is the scent neither of

laurel nor of lemon, but of mingled wormwood, pine, and cherry-blossom.

Only there, also, can one find those bright days when the sun’s rays

are warm, but never scorching, and the sky remains cloudless for three

mouths on end. As the bright days draw on they lengthen, week by week;

and during that period the evenings are hot and the nights stifling,

while the stars twinkle in the heavens with the welcoming mien of

friends. And when rain at length arrives, how beneficent is its coming!

Boisterously, richly, merrily it spates forth, like the large, hot

tears of a man unexpectedly relieved of care; and as soon as ever it has

passed the sun appears with a new smile of love, to dry the fields and

the hillocks, and to cause all the countryside to assume an answering

smile of delight. How gladly, too, the peasant greets the rain! “The

good rain washes us, and the sun will dry us again,” is his saying as

he exposes his face to the tepid downpour and lets it play upon his

shoulders and back. Moreover, in that region thunder is never terrible,

but, rather, benevolent, and always occurs at one particular season

(generally on Saint Elias’ Day, in order that the people’s established

tradition may be fulfilled * ). Also it would appear that, every year,

both the number and the intensity of the peals remain the same--as

though for each year the heavenly treasury had allotted a given measure

of electricity. But of terrible and destructive storms that country can

shew no record.

* Namely, that, should thunder occur on that day, the whole

of the ensuing year will be prosperous, since the peals

represent the saint’s passage to heaven.

Nor has the country whereof I am speaking ever been visited with the

Egyptian or other plagues. Never has any member of its population beheld

a dire manifestation of Heaven, nor a thunderbolt, nor an unlooked-for

darkness; nor do venomous vermin abide there, and the locust comes not

thither, and lions, tigers, bears, and wolves are unknown ( owing to the

fact that the country contains no fastnesses for them to dwell in). In

short, over the fields and around the village wander only lowing cattle,

bleating sheep, and cackling poultry.

Yet none but God knows whether a poet or a visionary would find

himself satisfied with the natural features of this peaceful spot.

Such gentlemen, we know, love to gaze upon the moon, and to listen to

the strains of nightingales; they love to see Luna clothe herself in

coquettish, aureate cloud, and then glide mysteriously through the

boughs of trees, and send forth clusters of silver beams to delight the

eyes of her worshippers’! But in this country of Oblomov’s dream no one

knows such a moon; there Luna’s features, as she looks down upon the

villages and the fields, resembles, rather, a polished, cheery copper

basin, and in vain would the poet fasten ravished eyes upon her, for

she would return his gaze with the same indifference as that with which

a round-faced rustic beauty meets the eloquent, passionate glances of a

town gallant.

Nor has a nightingale ever been heard in that country--perchance for the

reason that the region contains no shaded arbours or gardens of roses.

But what an abundance of quails it can show!--so much so that in summer,

when the harvest is in course of being gathered, urchins can catch them

even in their hands! Yet it must not be supposed that thereafter the

quails furnish a gastronomic dainty. Such an outrage would be repugnant

to the moral sense of the inhabitants, since the quail is a bird, and

therefore legally prohibited from being used for food. Consequently it

lives but to delight the popular ear with its song, and in almost every

house there hangs beneath the eaves a wicker cage wherein a member of

that feathered species sits penned.

Even the general aspect of this modest, unaffected spot would fail to

please the poet or the visionary. Never would it be theirs to behold

a scene in which all nature--woodland, lake, cotter’s hut, and sandy

hillside--is burning with a purplish glow, while sharply defined against

a purple background may be seen moving along a sandy, winding road,

a cavalcade of countrymen in attendance upon some great lady who is

journeying towards a ruined castle--a castle where they will find

awaiting them the telling of legends concerning the Wars of the Roses,

the eating of wild goats for supper, and the singing of ballads to the

lute by a young English damsel--a scene of Scottish or Swiss flavour of

the kind which has been made familiar to our imagination by the pen of

Sir Waiter Scott.

Of this there is nothing in our country.

How quiet and dreamy are the three or four villages which constitute

that restful region! They lie not far from one another, and seem to have

been thrown into their respective positions by some giant hand, and ever

since to have maintained those positions. In particular, one hut stands

on the edge of a ravine, with one-half its bulk projecting over the

declivity, but supported on three props. Within it some three or four

generations have spent happy, peaceful lives; for though it looks

scarcely large enough to house a chicken, it is none the less tenanted

by a well-to-do peasant and his wife. Onisim Suslov is the peasant’s

name, and he cannot stand upright in his abode. The veranda actually

overhangs the ravine, and to reach it one has with one hand to grasp

the herbage, and, with the other, the gable before setting foot upon the

structure itself. Another of the huts is, as it were, gummed to the side

of a hill, like a swallow’s nest, while three others stand close beside

it, and two are situated at the bottom of the ravine.

In the village all is quiet. The doors of its solitary little dwellings

stand open, but not a soul is to be seen. Only the flies circle and buzz

in clusters. Were you to enter one of the huts, you would call aloud in

vain, for your only answer would be the deathlike silence, except that

here and there you might hear the gasping of an invalid or the deep

cough of some old woman who is living out her days upon the stove.

Also, there might appear from behind the fence a long-haired, barefooted

youngster of three, clad only in a shirt, who would gaze mutely at the

new-comer, and then timidly hide himself again.

The same deep silence, the same deep peace, lies also upon the fields.

Only somewhere over the distant soil there can be seen moving, like

an ant, a sunburnt ploughman. Occasionally he leans upon his plough to

clear his forehead of the sweat. Even the manners of that region are

possessed of a still restfulness which nothing can disturb. Never has a

robbery or a murder or a similar happening been known there; never have

the inhabitants succumbed to strong passions, or experienced hazardous

adventures. Indeed, what passions, what adventures would have the power

to move them? No man has ever strayed beyond his own circle, for the

local inhabitants dwell far from other men, and both the nearest village

and the nearest country town lie distant from twenty-five to thirty

versts.

True, at given seasons the peasants cart their grain to the river wharf

which lies nearest to them, and once a year, also, they attend a

fair; but they maintain no relations beyond these. In fact, all their

interests are centred in themselves. True, they know that eighty versts

away there stands the provincial capital; but few of them have ever

journeyed thither. Also they know that beyond it stand Saratov and

Nizhni Novgorod--likewise they have heard that such places as Moscow and

Petrograd exist, and that on the farther side of them dwell folk who

are known as Germans and French; but beyond that point there begins

for them, as it did for the ancients, a mysterious world of unknown

countries which are peopled with monsters and two-headed giants, and

bounded on the outer side by a void of mist, and, again, by the colossal

fish which bears the world on its bark. Moreover, since this peaceful

corner of the universe is almost inaccessible, there filters thither but

few items of news concerning the great white universe. * Indeed, even

traders in rustic wares who live twenty versts away know no more than

they do. Likewise, it never enters into their heads to compare their lot

with those of other men--to inquire whether other men are rich or poor,

comfortable or in need, for these peasants live in the fortunate belief

that no circumstances could ever be different to their own--that all

other folk must surely be living even as they are, and that to live in

any other fashion would be a sin. Were you to assure them that others

plough, sow, reap, or sell their produce in any way than that which

obtains in this particular spot, the inhabitants would not believe you.

That being so, how could any element of vexation or disturbance ever

come nigh them? True, they resemble the rest of humanity in that they

have their cares and weaknesses and obligations of lax-payment and fits

of laziness and lethargy; but these press upon them but lightly, and

occasion no real stirring of the blood. Indeed, during the past five

years not a single soul of that local population of hundreds has died

either a violent death or a natural. Even should a man or a woman

expire of old age or a senile disease, it is not long before the rest

have got ever their astonishment at the unusual occurrence. In the same

way, after the trader Tarass had come near to steaming himself to death

in his hut, and had had to be revived with cold water, the affair caused

scarcely any stir in the neighbourhood.

* As distinguished from the black universe, the unknown.

Of crimes, one only--that of theft of produce from market gardens--is

at all prevalent. Also, once two pigs and a chicken mysteriously

disappeared. True, the latter event threw the district into something

of a turmoil, but was unanimously ascribed to a pedlar who, the previous

evening, had passed through the district on his way to a fair. In

general, such untoward incidents are of the greatest rarity.

However, in a ditch in a paddock near the bridge once there was found

lying a man--apparently a member of a party which had just traversed the

neighbourhood _en route_ for the country town. Some boys were the first

to notice him, and at once they came running home with a horrifying tale

of a great serpent or werewolf which was crouching in a hole. To this

they added a statement that the said creature had pursued them, and come

near to devouring Kuzka. From far and near the peasants armed themselves

with hatchets and pitchforks, and proceeded to the ditch _en masse_.

“Whither away?” the old men said reprovingly. “Are you mad? What do you

want to do? Leave things alone, and no harm will come of it!”

Nevertheless the peasants set forth, and, when about a hundred paces

from the spot, began to adjure the monster in varying terms. But no

answer was returned. Next, after halting a moment, the party advanced a

little further. The man seemed still to be lying in the ditch, with

his head resting against a fence, while beside him lay a satchel and

a cudgel (on the latter of which was slung a pair of boots). Yet the

peasants could not summon up the necessary courage to approach him or to

touch him.

“Hi, friend!” they shouted--one scratching his head and another the back

of his neck. “What are you doing there? Who are you? What’s the matter?”

The traveller made as though to raise his head a little, but failed.

Evidently he was ill or tired out. Then a peasant ventured to touch him

with a pitchfork.

“Don’t interfere with him, don’t interfere with him!” cried the rest.

“How do we know what he is, seeing that he refuses to speak? Leave him

alone, friends!”

“Yes, we had better go away,” added certain others. “What has _he_ to do

with us? Harm might come of him.”

So all returned to the village, and told the elder men that, lying in a

ditch, there was a strange man who would not speak, and whose identity

was known only to God.

“If he does not belong to these parts, leave him alone,” advised the

elders from the spot where, with hands on knees, they were sitting

resting on a bank. “Yes, leave him to himself. ’Tis no use _your_

going there.”

This, then, was the corner of the world whither Oblomov passed in his

sleep. Of the three or four scattered villages in the region, one was

named Sosnovka, and a second Vavilovka--the two being distant from one

another about a verst. Together they constituted Oblomov’s hereditary

estate, and bore the joint title of Oblomovka. In Sosnovka stood the

manor-house and the farm, while five versts from the village there lay

the hamlet of Verklevo--once the property of the Oblomovs, but long

since passed into other hands. The same hamlet had attached to it

a number of outlying huts. As a whole, Verklevo belonged to a rich

landowner, a constant absentee, and the estate was managed by a German

bailiff. There you have the geography of this remote corner of the

world.

Oblomov dreamed that, aged seven, he awoke in his little cot at home. He

felt merry and full of life. What a goodly, handsome, plump youngster he

was, with cheeks of such rotundity that, however desperately any other

young scamp might have tried to rival them by inflation of his own, no

competitor could possibly have succeeded. Oblomov’s nurse had long

been waiting for him to awake, and now she began to draw on for him his

stockings. This he refused to allow her to do; which end he attained by

frisking and kicking, while she tried to catch hold of his leg, and the

pair laughed joyously together. Finally, she lifted him on to her lap,

and washed him, and combed his hair; after which she conducted him to

his mother. On seeing his long-dead parent, the sleeping Oblomov’s form

trembled with delight and affection, and from under his unconscious

eyelids there stole and remained two burning tears....

Upon him his mother showered affectionate kisses, and gazed at him with

tender solicitude to see whether his eyes were clear and healthy. Did he

in any way ail? she inquired. Had he (tiffs to his nurse) slept quietly,

or had he lain awake all night? Had he had any dreams? Had he been

at all feverish? Lastly, she took him by the hand, and led him to the

sacred _ikon_. Kneeling with one arm around his form, she prompted him

in the words of the prayers, while the boy repeated them with scanty

attention, since he preferred, rather, to turn his eyes to the windows,

whence the freshness and scent of a lilac-tree was flooding the room.

“Shall we go for a walk to-day, mamma?” suddenly he asked.

“Yes, darling,” she replied hastily, but kept her gaze fixed upon the

_ikon_, and hurriedly concluded the sacred formula. Yet into the words

of that formula her very soul was projected, whereas the little one

repeated them only in nonchalant fashion.

The prayer over, they went to greet his father, and then to take morning

tea. Beside the table Oblomov could see seated the aunt of eighty

who had always lived with them. Never did she cease to grumble at the

ancient serving-maid who, her head trembling with senility, stood behind

her chair to wait upon her. Also there were present three old maiden

ladies who were distant relatives of his father’s; a weak-minded

gentleman named Chekmenev, who, the brother-in-law of Oblomov’s mother,

was the owner of seven serfs, and happened to be staying with Oblomov’s

parents; and certain other old men and women. The latter, the domestic

staff and retinue of the Oblomov family, caught hold of the little Ilya

Ilyitch, and started to heap him with caresses and attentions--so

much so that he had much ado to wipe away the traces of these unsought

kisses. Then there began the feeding of the child with rolls, biscuits,

and cream; after which his mother bestowed upon him another embrace,

and sent him out to walk round the garden and the courtyard and the

lake--accompanying her farewell with particular instructions to the

nurse that never must she leave the child alone for a single moment, nor

yet must she allow him to approach the horses, the dogs, or the goat,

nor yet must she take him far from home. Above all things, never must

the nurse suffer him to approach the ravine, which was the most dreaded

spot in the neighbourhood, and bore an evil reputation. Once there had

been found there a dog which confessed itself a mad one, inasmuch as it

had run headlong from folk who chased it with hatchets and pitchforks,

and had disappeared behind a neighbouring hill. Likewise to the ravine

carrion was carted, while robbers and wolves and various other creatures

which never existed in the world at all were supposed to dwell there.

But to these warnings of his mother’s the child paid little heed.

Already he was outside, in the courtyard. With gleeful surprise (as

though for the first time in his life) he went the round of his parents’

establishment, with its gates sagging outwards, its dinted roof

where lichen grew, its tottering veranda, its various annexes and

outbuildings, and its overgrown garden. Also he yearned to ascend to the

hanging gallery which girdled the house, that thence he might see the

river; but the gallery was now in decay, and scarcely able to hold

together, so that none but the servants trod it, and at no time did

the gentry walk there. Heedless of his mother’s warnings, however, the

little Oblomov was on the point of making for its seductive steps when

the nurse showed herself on the veranda, and caught hold of him. Next,

he rushed from her towards the hay-loft, with the intention of scaling

its steep ladder; and just had she time to destroy successive schemes

of ascending to the pigeon-cote, of penetrating to the cattle-yard,

and--Heaven preserve us all!--of making his way to the ravine!

“God bless the child!” exclaimed the nurse. “_Will_ you be quiet, then,

young sir? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Indeed, the whole

day, as well as every day and every night, was spent by her in similar

alarums and excursions, in alternations of torture and relief on the

child’s account, in terror because he had fallen and broken his nose,

in gratification at his warm, childish caresses, and in dim anxiety

concerning his ultimate future. Only these and like emotions made her

old heart beat and her old blood grow warm; only these retained in her

the drowsy life which, but for them, would long ago have flickered out.

Yet the child was not always mischievous. Sometimes he would grow

suddenly quiet as, sitting beside her, he gazed fixedly before him with

his childish intellect taking in the various phenomena which presented

themselves to his vision. Such phenomena were sinking fast into his

mind, to grow and ripen there even as it grew and ripened.

The morning was a splendid one, and the air still fresh, since the sun

had not yet attained much height. From the house, from the trees, from

the dovecote, and from the gallery there streamed long shadows which

formed, in the garden and in the orchard, cool corners which invited

meditation and sleep. Only in the distance a rye-held was glowing with

flame, and the river sparkling and flashing in the rays of the sun until

actually it hurt the eyes to look at it.

“Why is it so dark in one place and bright in another?” asked the child.

“Will it soon be bright everywhere?”

“Yes. That is because the sun has come out to meet the moon, and at

times keeps frowning because he cannot catch sight of her. By and by he

_will_ catch sight of her. Then he will send out his light once more.”

The child pondered, and gazed at the scene around him. Before him he

could see Antip driving the watercart, with another Antip, ten times

as large as the real one, accompanying him, and the barrel of the cart

looking as large as a house, and the horse’s shadow covering the whole

of the pond. Then the shadows seemed to take two strides across the

pond, and then to move behind the hill, though the figure of Antip

had not yet left the courtyard. In his turn the child took a couple of

strides, and then a third, to see if he too would end by disappearing

behind the hill, which he had a great longing to ascend, for the purpose

of ascertaining what had become of the horse. Consequently he set on

towards the gates but only to hear his mother calling from a window--

“Nurse, nurse, do you not see that the boy has just run out into

the sunshine? Pray bring him back into the shade, or he will get a

sunstroke, and be ill, and sick, and unable to eat! Besides, he might

run down into the ravine!”

“Oh, the naughty darling!” the nurse muttered to herself as she dragged

him back on to the veranda. The child looked about him with the keen,

observant glance of a “grown-up” who is debating how best a morning

can be spent. Not a trifle, not a circumstance, escaped the child’s

inquisitive attention, so that insensibly the picture of his home life

engraved itself upon his mind, and his sensitive intellect nourished

itself on living examples, and involuntarily modelled its programme of

life on the life which surrounded it.

Never at any time could it be said that the _morning_ was wasted in the

Oblomovs’ establishment. The sound of knives in the kitchen, as they

minced cutlets and vegetables, reached even to the village; while from

the servants’ quarters came the hum of a spindle, coupled with the thin,

low voice of an old woman--but a voice so low that with difficulty could

one distinguish whether she were weeping, or whether she were merely

improvising to herself a mournful “song without words.” Also, on Antip

returning with the watercart, there would advance to meet it, with

pails, cans, and pitchers, a number of maidservants and grooms, while

from the storehouse an old woman would produce a vessel of meal and a

pile of eggs, and carry them to the kitchen. There, on the cook suddenly

throwing some water out of the window, the cat Arapka--which, with eyes

fixed upon the view, had spent the morning in agitating the tip of her

tail and licking herself--came in for a splashing.

The head of the family, too, was not idle, for he spent the morning in

sitting by the window and following with his eyes everything which took

place in the courtyard.

“Hi, Ignashka, what have you there, you rascal?” he cried to a man who

happened to cross the open space.

“Some knives to be sharpened in the scullery,” the man replied, without

looking at his master.

“Very well, then. Mind you sharpen them properly.”

Next, the master stopped one of the maidservants.

“Where are _you_ going?” he inquired.

“To the cellar to get some milk for the table,” she replied, shading her

eyes with her hand.

“Good!” he pronounced. “And see that you don’t spill any. You,

Zakharka--where are _you_ off to once more? This is the third time

I have seen you gadding about. Go back to your place in the hall.”

Whereupon Zakharka returned to her day-dreams at the post mentioned.

Again, as soon as the cows returned from pasture, old Oblomov was always

there to see that they were properly watered. Also, when, from his post

at the window, he chanced to observe the yard-dog chasing one of the

hens he hastened to take the necessary measures against a recurrence of

such conduct. In the same way, his wife was fully employed. For three

hours she discussed with Averka, the tailor, the best ways and means

of converting a waistcoat of her husband’s into a jacket for her

son--herself drawing the requisite lines in chalk, and seeing to it that

Averka should pilfer not a morsel of the cloth. Thereafter she passed

to the maids’ room, where she parcelled cut to each damsel the day’s

portion of lacemaking; whence she departed to summon one of her personal

maids to attend her in the garden, for the purpose of seeing how the

apples were swelling, which of them had fallen or were turning ripe,

which trees wanted grafting or pruning, and so forth. But her chief care

was the kitchen and the dinner. Concerning the latter she consulted the

entire household, including the aged aunt. Each member of the family

proposed a special dish, and the sum of these proposals was taken into

consideration, adjudicated upon in detail, and adopted or rejected

according to the final decision of the mistress. From time to time,

also, a maid was dispatched to the culinary regions to remind the cook

of this, or to tell her to add that, or to instruct her to change the

other, while conveying to her sugar, honey, and wine for flavouring, and

also seeing to it that the said cook was using everything which had been

measured out. In fact, the supervision of food was the first and the

principal domestic preoccupation of Oblomovka.

What calves were not fattened for the year’s festivals! What poultry was

not reared! What forethought and care and skill were not devoted to the

consumption of comestibles! Game fowls and pullets were set apart solely

for birthdays and other solemn occasions; wherefore they were

stuffed with nuts. For the same reason geese were caught several days

beforehand, and hung up in bags until wanted, in order that, being

restrained from exercise, they might put on the more fat. And what a

roasting and a pickling and a baking would sometimes take place, and

what mead and _kvass_ * were there not brewed, and what pies were there

not compounded!

* A liquor made from fermented bread crusts or fruit.

Until noon, therefore, everything at Oblomovka was in a state of bustle

and commotion. Life was indeed full and antlike and in evidence! Even on

Sundays and holidays these labour-loving ants did not desist from their

toil, for on such days the clatter of knives in the kitchen sounded

louder and more rapid than ever, a maid made several journeys from the

storeroom to the kitchen with double quantities of meal and eggs, and in

the poultry-run an added amount of cackling and of bloodshed took place.

Likewise, on such days there was baked a gigantic pie, which was eaten

by the gentry on the same and the following days, and by the maids on

the third and fourth; after which, should it survive to the fifth day,

the last stale remnants, devoid of stuffing, were given, as a special

favour, to Antip, who, crossing himself, undauntedly attacked the

rock-hard fragments--though it was in the thought that it had recently

been the gentry’s pie rather than in the pie itself that he took most

delight; even as an archaeologist rejoices to drink even the poorest

wine from the shell of a thousand-year-old vessel.

All this the boy noted with his childish, ever-watchful mind. He

perceived that, after mornings thus usefully and busily spent, there

ensued noon and dinner. On the present occasion noontide was sultry, and

not a cloud was in the sky. Indeed, the sun seemed to be standing still

to scorch the grass, and the air to have ceased to circulate--to be

hanging without the slightest movement. Neither from tree nor lake could

the faintest rustle be heard, and over the village and the countryside

there hung an unbroken stillness, as though everything in them were

dead. Only from afar could a human voice be distinguished, while, some

twenty _sazhens_ * away, the drone of a flying beetle, with the snoring

of some one who had sunk into the thick herbage to enjoy a refreshing

sleep, came gently to the ear. Even the house was possessed by a silence

as of death, for the hour of post-prandial slumber had arrived. The

boy’s father, mother, and aged grandaunt, with their attendants, could

be seen disposed in various corners; and, should any one not possess a

particular corner, he or she repaired either to the hay-loft or to the

garden or to a cool resting-place among the growing hay or, with face

protected from the flies with a handkerchief, to a spot where the

scorching heat would assist digestion after the enormous dinner. Even

the gardener stretched himself out beneath a bush by the side of his

plot, and the coachman in the stable.

* The zazhen = six English feet.

Little Oblomov proceeded to peep into the servants’ hall, where the

inmates were sleeping as though slumber had become an epidemic. On the

benches, on the floor, and on the threshold they slept, while their

children crawled about the courtyard and fashioned mud pies. Indeed, the

very dogs had crawled into their kennels, since there was no longer

any one to bark at. In short, one might have traversed the entire

establishment without meeting a single soul; and everything in it could

with ease have been stolen, and removed in carts from the courtyard,

since no one would have been there to prevent the deed. The prevailing

lethargy was all-consuming, all-conquering--a true image of death;

seeing that, but for the fact that from various corners there came

snores in different notes and keys, every one seemed wholly to have

departed this life. Only at rare intervals would some one raise his head

with a start, gaze around him with vacant eyes, and then turn over to

the other side.

After dinner the child accompanied his nurse for a second airing out of

doors. Yet, despite her mistress’s injunctions and her own resolves,

the old woman could not altogether resist the general call of sleep,

and began to fall a victim to the all-prevalent malady of Oblomovka. At

first she kept a vigilant eye upon her little charge, and, chiding him

for his waywardness, never let him stray from her side; but presently,

after giving him strict instructions not to go beyond the gates, nor

to interfere with the goat, nor to climb either the dovecote or the

gallery, she settled herself in a shady spot, with the ostensible

intention of at once knitting a stocking and of watching over young

Oblomov. Next she took to checking him only in lazy fashion, as her head

nodded and she said to herself: “Look you, he will certainly climb those

stairs to the gallery, or else”--her eyes had almost closed--“he will

run down into the ravine.” With that her head sank forward, and the

stocking slipped from her hands. In a second her open mouth had emitted

a gentle snore, and the boy had disappeared from her vision.

Needless to say, this was the moment which the youngster had been

impatiently awaiting, for it marked the beginning of an independent

existence, and he was now alone in the wide, wide world. On tiptoe he

left the nurse’s side, and, peeping cautiously at the other slumberers,

kept stopping to throw a second glance at any one who chanced to stir,

or to spit, or to snuffle in his sleep. At last, with a tremor of joy

in his heart, he made for the gallery, ascended the creaking stairs at

a run, scaled also the dovecote, explored the recesses of the garden,

listened to the buzzing of beetles, and followed with his eyes their

flight through the air. Next, on hearing a chirping sound in the grass,

he sought and captured the disturber of the public peace, in the shape

of a dragon-fly, whose wings he proceeded to tear off, and whose body to

impale upon a straw, in order that he might see how, thus hampered, the

creature would contrive to fly. Afterwards, fearing almost to breathe,

he watched a spider suck blood from a captured fly, while the wretched

victim struggled and buzzed in the spider’s claws. Finally the tragedy

was brought to an end by the boy slaying both torturer and tortured.

Next, he repaired to the moat to search for sundry small roots which he

knew of; which found, he peeled them, and then devoured the same with

relish, in the make-believe that they were the apples and preserves

which his mamma was accustomed to give him. This item exhausted, he hied

him through the entrance gates--his object in so doing being to reach

a birch copse which looked to him so close at hand that, should he take

the direct route, and not the circuitous high-road (that is to

say, should he walk straight across the moat, and through the osier

plantation), he would be able to attain his goal in five minutes.

But, alas! he felt afraid, for he had heard tales of wood goblins, of

brigands, and of fearsome wild beasts. Next, the spirit moved him to

make for the ravine, which lay a hundred paces from the garden; so,

running to the edge of the declivity, and puckering his eyes, he gazed

into its depths as into Vulcan’s crater. Suddenly to his mind recurred

all the tales and traditions concerning the spot; and terror seized him.

and, half-dead, half-alive, he rushed back and threw himself into his

nurse’s arms. Awakened, she sprang up, straightened the cap on her head,

arranged her grey curls with one finger, and pretended never to have

been to sleep at all. Glancing suspiciously at the little Ilya, and

then at the gentry’s windows, she began with tremulous hands to work the

knitting needles of the stocking which had been lying in her lap.

Meanwhile the heat had decreased, and everything in nature had revived

a little since the sun was fast declining towards the forest. Gradually

the stillness indoors also began to be broken. Here and there a door

creaked, footsteps could be heard crossing the yard, and some one

sneezed in the hay-loft. Soon from the kitchen a man came hurrying under

the weight of a huge _samovar_, and the entire household then assembled

for tea--one man with his face flushed and his eyes still dim, another

man with red marks on his cheek and temple, a third speaking in a

voice not his own for drowsiness, and all of them snuffling, wheezing,

yawning, scratching their heads, and stretching themselves in a

semiwaking condition. It seemed that dinner and sleep had combined to

arouse an unquenchable thirst which parched the throat, for even dozens

of cupfuls of tea could not assuage it, and, amid a chorus of sighs and

grunts, resort had to be made to bilberry wine, to perry, to _kvass_,

and even to more medicinal methods of moistening this avidity of gullet.

The company sought relief from thirst as from a Heaven-sent plague,

and all felt as exhausted as though they were travelling in the Arabian

desert, and could nowhere find a spring.

By his mother’s side the child gazed at the strange faces around him,

and listened to the drowsy, drawling talk. Yet the spectacle delighted

him, and he found each stray word interesting.

After tea every one took up some minor occupation or another. One man

repaired to the riverside, and strolled along the brink--kicking pebbles

into the water as he did so. Another took a seat in a window, and

followed with his eyes each passing occurrence. Should a cat cross the

courtyard, or a jackdaw fly by, the watcher scanned both the one and the

other, and turned his head to right and to left in order to do so. In

the same way will dogs spend whole days at a window--their heads thrust

into the sunlight, and their gaze taking stock of every passer-by.

The mother took little Ilya’s head in her hands, drew it down into her

lap, and combed his hair with a gentle caress as, inviting her maids to

admire him, she talked concerning his future, and preordained for

him the hero’s part in some splendid epic. For their part, the maids

foretold for him mountains of gold.

At length dusk began to draw in. Once more the fire crackled in the

kitchen, and the clatter of knives became audible. Supper was being

prepared. Meanwhile the rest of the servants gathered at the entrance

gates, and thence came sounds of laughter, and of music, and of the

playing of _gorielki_. The sun had sunk behind the forest, yet still was

sending forth rays in a fiery, faintly warm streak which, as it passed

over the surface of the treetops, touched to gold the tips of the pines.

Finally these rays successively expired, until only a solitary beam

could be seen fixed, needle-like, in a cluster of boughs before going

to join its comrades. Objects then began to lose their outline, and the

scene to become blurred in, first greyness, then a blank almost of total

obscurity. The songs of birds grew fainter, then ceased altogether, save

for one persistent singer which, as though disagreeing with its fellows,

continued to break the silence with intermittent warbling. Presently it

too took to uttering its song at rarer intervals, and to whistling with’

more feeble insistence; until finally it breathed a last soft-drawn

note, gave a flutter or two which gently stirred the foliage around it,

and--fell asleep.

After that all was silent, save that some crickets were chirping in

chorus and against one another. A mist was rising from the earth, and

spreading over lake and river. Like everything else, the latter had sunk

to rest; and though something caused it to splash for a last time, the

water instantly resumed its absolute immobility. In the air a dampness

could be detected, and the air itself could be felt growing warmer and

warmer. Amid it the trees looked like groups of monsters; and when,

suddenly, something cracked in the weird depths of the forest, it might

have been thought that one of those monsters had been shifting its

position, and with its foot had snapped a dry bough in doing so.

Overhead, the first star could be seen glowing like a living eye, while

in the windows of the house were a few twinkling lights. The hour of

nature’s most solemn, all-embracing silence had arrived--the hour when

the creative brain can work at its best, and when poetic thought seethes

most ardently, and when the heart flames with the greatest heat of

passion or with the greatest poignancy of grief--the hour when the

cruel soul ripens to a maximum of strength and composure as it meditates

evil--the hour when, at Oblomovka, every one settled down to a night of

profound, calm restfulness.

“Let us go for a walk,” said little Ilya to his mother.

“God bless the child!” she cried. “_How_ could we go for a walk? It is

now damp, and you would get your little feet wet. Besides, we should

find it dreadful out of doors, for at this hour the wood goblin is

abroad, and he carries off little boys.”

“To what place does he carry them, and what is he like, and where does

he live?” asked the child; whereupon the mother gave full rein to her

unbridled fancy. As she did so the child listened with blinking

eyes; until at length, on sleep completely overcoming him, the nurse

approached, took him from his mother’s lap, and bore him to bed, with

his head hanging over her shoulder.

“Another day is over, praise be to God!” said the inmates of Oblomovka

as, yawning, they made the sign of the cross and then retired to rest.

“Well spent it has been, and God send that to-morrow be like it. Glory,

O Lord, to Thee this night! Glory, O Lord, to Thee!”

Oblomov dreamed a second dream. On a long winter’s evening he was

pressing close to his nurse, and she was whispering of some unknown

country where neither cold nor darkness were known, and where miracles

took place, and where rivers ran honey and milk, and where no one did

anything the year round, and where only good boys like Ilya Ilyitch

himself walked day by day in company with maidens such as neither tongue

nor pen could hope to describe. Also (the nurse said) there dwelt there

a kind witch who sometimes revealed herself to mortals in the shape of a

pikefish; and this witch singled out as her especial favourite a quiet,

inoffensive boor who formerly had been the butt of his fellows, and,

for some unknown reason, heaped him with her bounty, so that always he

possessed plenty to eat, and clothes ever ready to wear, and ended by

marrying a marvellous beauty whose name was Militrissa Kirbitievna.

The nurse related the story, and the child, with alert eyes and ears,

hung upon her words. So artfully did the nurse or tradition eliminate

from the story all resemblance to everyday life that the boy’s keen

intellect and imagination, fired by the device, remained enthralled

until, in later years, he had come even to man’s estate. As a matter of

fact, the tale which the nurse thus lovingly related was the legend of

the fool Emel--that clever, biting satire upon our forefathers and, it

may be, also upon ourselves. True, in proportion as he grew up, little

Oblomov came to learn that no such things as rivers of honey and milk,

or even such persons as kind witches, really existed; yet, though

he came to smile at his nurse’s stories, that smile was never wholly

sincere, since always it would be accompanied by a sigh. For him the

legend confounded itself with life, and, unconsciously, he found himself

regretting that the legend differed from life, and that life differed

from the legend. Involuntarily he would dream of Militrissa Kirbitievna,

and feel attracted towards the country whereof nothing was known except

that folk there went for walks, and were free from sorrow and care.

Never could he rid himself of a longing to spend his days in lying upon

the stove (even as the favourite of the legend had done), and to be

dressed in ready-made, unearned clothes, and to eat at the expense of a

benevolent witch. To the same story had his father and his grandfather

listened as, shaped according to the stereotyped version current

throughout antiquity, it had issued from the mouths of male and female

nurses through the long course of ages and of generations.

Then Oblomov’s nurse proceeded to draw another picture for the

imagination of her charge. That is to say, she told him of the exploits

of the Russian Achilleses and Ulysseses, and of the manner in which

those heroes had been used to wander about Russia, and to kill and slay;

and of how once they had disputed as to which of them could best drain a

beaker of wine at a draught. Also, she told the boy of cruel robbers,

of sleeping princesses, and of cities and peoples which had been turned

into stone. Lastly, she passed to Russian demonology, to dead folk, to

monsters, and to werewolves. With a simplicity, yet a sincerity, worthy

of Homer, with a lifelike similitude of detail and a power of clear-cut

relief that might have vied with the great Greek poet’s, she fired

the boy’s intellect and imagination to a love for that Iliad which our

heroes founded during the dim ages when man had not yet become adapted

to the sundry perils and mysteries of nature and of life--when still

he trembled before werewolves and wood demons, and sought refuge with

protectors like Alesha Popovitch from the calamities which surrounded

him--when air and water and forest and held alike were under the

continued sway of the supernatural. Truly, the life of a mortal of those

days must have been full of fear and trembling, seeing that, should he

but cross his threshold, he stood in danger of being devoured by a wild

beast, or of having his throat cut by a brigand, or of being despoiled

of his all by a Tartar, or of disappearing from human ken without trace

left! Again, celestial portents would be seen in the shape cf pillars

and balls of fire, while over a freshly made grave a light would glow,

and some one would seem to be walking through the forest with a lantern,

and laughing horribly, and flashing bright eyes amid the gloom: And in

man’s own personality much that passed his understanding would also take

shape and materialize. No matter how long or how righteously a man might

have lived, he would suddenly start babbling, or shout aloud in a voice

not his own, or go wandering o’ nights in a trance, or involuntarily

begin beating and assaulting his fellows. And just at the moment when

such things happened a hen would crow like a cock, and a raven would

croak from the gable! Consequently feeble mankind, peering tremblingly

at life, sought in its own imagination, its own nature, a key to the

mysteries which surrounded it: and it may be that the immobility, the

inertia, the absence of all active passion or incident or peril which

such a retired existence imposed upon man led him to create, in the

midst of the world of nature, another and an impossible world, in which

he found comfort and relief for his idle intellect, explanations of

the more ordinary’ sequences of events, and extraneous solutions

of extraordinary phenomena. In fact, our poor forefathers lived by

instinct. Neither wholly giving rein to nor wholly restraining their

volition, they found themselves either naïvely surprised at or overcome

with terror by the evils and the misfortunes which befell them, and

resorted for the causes of these things to the dim, dumb hieroglyphics

of nature. In their opinion, death might come of carrying a corpse

from a house head foremost instead of with feet in front, and a fire be

caused by the fact of a dog having howled, three nights running, beneath

a window. Hence always they were at pains to remove a dead person feet

foremost--though continuing to eat the same quantity of food as before,

and to sleep on the bare ground; while, with regard to a howling dog,

always they drove away the animal with blows--though continuing to

scatter sparks broadcast over tinder-dry floors.

To this day the Russian, though surrounded by a stern, unimaginative

world of reality, loves to believe the seductive talcs of antiquity. And

long will it be before he will have been weaned from that belief.

In the same way, as little Oblomov listened to his nurse’s legends

concerning the Golden Fleece, the great Cassowary Bird, and the cells

and secret dungeons of the Enchanted Castle, he became more and more

fired to the idea that he too was destined to become the hero of doughty

deeds. Tale succeeded to tale, and the nurse pursued her narrative with

such ardour and vividness and attractiveness of description that at

times her breath choked in her throat. For she too half-believed the

legends which she related; so that, during the telling of them, her eyes

would shoot fire, her head shake with excitement, and her voice attain

an unwonted pitch, while the child, overcome with mysterious horror,

would press closer and closer to her side, and have tears in his eyes.

Whether the narrative treated of dead men rising from the tomb at

midnight, or of victims languishing in slavery to a monster, or of a

bear with a wooden leg which went roaming the villages and farms in

search of the natural limb which had been chopped from its body, the

boy’s hair bristled with fear, his childish imagination alternately

seethed and froze, and he experienced the harassing, the sickly

sweet, process of having his nerves played upon like the strings of

an instrument. When his nurse repeated the words of the bear, “Creak,

creak, wooden leg! I have visited every village and farm, and have

found all the women asleep save one, who is now sitting on my back, and

searing my flesh, and weaving my coat into cloth;” when, also, the bear

entered the right hut, and was just getting ready to pounce upon the

true ravisher of his natural leg--why, then the boy could stand it no

longer, but, trembling and whimpering, flung himself into his nurse’s

arms with tears of terror--yet also with a laugh of joy to think that

_he_ was not in the clutches of the bear, but sitting on the stove couch

beside his old guardian. Full of strange phantoms was his mind, and

fear and grief had sunk deep (and, possibly, for ever) into his soul.

Mournfully he gazed about him, and saw that everything in life was

charged with evil and misfortune. And as he did so he would keep

thinking of the magic country where neither cruelty nor noise nor grief

existed, and where Militrissa Kirbitievna lived, and where folk were fed

and clothed for nothing....

Not only over the Oblomovkan children, but also over the Oblomovkan

adults, did this legend exercise a lifelong sway. Every one in the

house and the village alike--from the _barin_ and his wife down to the

blacksmith Tarass--became a trifle nervous as evening drew on, seeing

that at that hour every tree became transformed into a giant, and every

bush into a robbers’ den. The rattle of a shutter, the howl of the wind

in the chimney, caused these folk to turn pale. At Epiphany-tide not a

man or a woman of them would go out of doors after ten o’clock at night;

and never during the season of Easter would any one venture o’ nights

into the stable, lest there he should be confronted by the _domovoi_, by

the horse demon.

At Oblomovka _everything_ was believed in--including even ghosts and

werewolves. Had you informed an inmate of the place that a haycock was

walking about in the fields, he would have believed it. Had you spread

abroad a rumour that (say) a certain sheep was not a sheep at all, but

something else, or that Martha or Stepanida had become turned into a

witch, the company would thenceforth have walked in terror both of the

sheep and of the maidservant. Never would their heads have thought it

necessary to inquire _why_ the sheep had ceased to be a sheep, or

_why_ Martha or Stepanida had become turned into a witch. Rather these

credulous folk would have thrown themselves upon any doubter--so strong

was Oblomovka’s belief in supernatural phenomena.

Later, little Oblomov came to see that the world is ordered on a simple

plan, and that dead folk never rise from the tomb, and that no sooner

do giants appear than they are clapped into booths, as robbers are cast

into prison: yet, though his actual belief in such marvels vanished,

there remained behind a sediment of terror and of unaccountable sadness.

Nothing was to be apprehended from monsters--that he knew full well; but

always he stood in awe of something which seemed to be awaiting him

at every step; and, if left alone in a dark room, or if fated to catch

sight of a corpse, he would tremble with that sense of oppressive

foreboding which his infancy had instilled into his very being.

Inclined, of a morning, to laugh at his fears, of an evening Lis

countenance paled again.

In the next dream Oblomov saw himself a boy of thirteen or fourteen. By

this time he was going to school at the village of Verkievo, five

versts from Oblomovka, where an old German named Schtoltz kept a small

educational establishment for the sons of neighbouring gentry. Schtoltz

had a son of his own--one Andrei, a boy almost of the same age as

Oblomov; while likewise he had been given charge of a boy who did

few lessons, for the reason that he suffered from scrofula and was

accustomed to spend most of his days with his eyes and ears bandaged,

and weeping quietly because he was not living with his grandmother, but,

rather, in a strange house and amid hardhearted folk who never petted

him or baked him his favourite pies. These three boys constituted

the only pupils. As for the tutor himself, he was both capable and

strict--like most Germans; wherefore Oblomov might have received a good

education had Oblomovka stood _five hundred_ versts from Verklevo. As

it was, the atmosphere, the mode of life, and the customs of Oblomovka

extended also to Verklevo, and the one place represented a sort of

replica of the other, until only old Schtoltz’s establishment stood

clear of the primordial mist of laziness, of simplicity of morals, of

inertia, and of immobility for which Oblomovka was distinguished. With

the scenes, the incidents, and the morals of that mode of life young

Oblomov’s mind and heart had become saturated before even he had seen

his first book. Who knows how early the growth of the intellectual germ

in the youthful brain begins? Can we, in that youthful consciousness,

follow the growth of first impressions and ideas? Possibly, even before

a child has learnt to speak, or even to walk, or even to do more than to

look at things with the dumb, fixed gaze which his elders call

“dull,” it has already discerned and envisaged the meaning, the

inter-connection, of such phenomena as encompass its sphere--and that

though the child is still powerless to communicate the fact, whether to

itself or to others.

Thus for a long time past young Oblomov may have remarked and understood

what was being said and done in his presence; for a long time past he

may have understood why his father, in plush breeches and a wadded,

cinnamon-coloured coat, walked to and fro with his hands behind his

back, and took snuff, and sneezed, while his mother passed from coffee

to tea, and from tea to dinner, in the daily round, and his father

always refused to believe how many sheaves had been cut and reaped, but

was for ever looking out for derelictions of duty, and, a handkerchief

in his hand, holding forth on the subject of irregularities, and turning

the whole place upside down. Briefly, for a long time past the boy may

have decided in his mind that that, and no other, order of life was the

right one. For how else could he have decided? In what manner did the

“grown-ups” of Oblomovka live? God only knows whether they ever asked

themselves for what purpose life had been given them. Did they, at all

events, return themselves any answer to that question? No, no answer at

all, since the whole thing seemed to them at once simple and clear. Had

they, then, never heard of a hard life wherein people walk with anxious

hearts, and roam the face of the earth, and devote their existence

to everlasting toil? No, the good folk of Oblomovka had no belief in

disturbing the mind; they never adopted as their mode of life a round

of ceaseless aspirations somewhither, and towards an indefinite end. In

fact, they feared the distraction of passion as they did fire; and

as, in other spheres, men’s and women’s bodies burn with the volcanic

violence of inward and spiritual flame, so the souls of the denizens of

Oblomovka lay plunged in an undisturbed inertia which possessed their

ease-loving organisms to the core. Consequently, life did not stamp

them, as it stamped others, with premature wrinkles; nor did it deal

out to them any morally destructive blows or misfortunes. These

good-humoured folk looked upon life as, rather, an idyll of peace

and inactivity--though an idyll occasionally broken by such untoward

incidents as sicknesses, losses, quarrels, and rare bouts of labour.

That labour they endured as a punishment formerly imposed upon their

forefathers also; yet they never loved it, and invariably escaped its

incidence whenever they found it possible so to do. Such an avoidance

they considered permissible, for never did they worry themselves with

vague moral or intellectual questions. In this manner they flourished in

constant health and cheerfulness: for which reason most of them lived

to a green old age. Men of forty would look like youths, and old men,

instead of battling with the approach of a hard and painful end, lived

to the utmost possible limit, and then died, as it were, unawares, and

with a gentle chilling of the frame, and an imperceptible drawing of the

closing breath. No wonder that in these days folk say that the people

used to be more robust!

Yes, it _was_ more robust, for the reason that in those days parents did

not hurry to explain to a boy the meaning of life, and to prepare him

for life as for something at once difficult and solemn. No, they did

not weary a child with books which would cloud his head with questions

likely to devour the heart and the intellect, and to shorten existence.

Rather, the standard of life was furnished him and taught him by parents

who had received it ready-made from _their_ parents, together with a

testamentary injunction to preserve the integrity, the inviolability

of that standard as they would have done that of the Vestal flame. As

things were done in the time of Oblomovkan fathers and grandfathers,

so were they done in the time of the present Oblomov’s tenure of the

estate. Of what needed he to think? Concerning what needed he to trouble

his head? What needed he to learn? What ends needed he to compass? The

Oblomovs required nothing--their life flowed like a peaceful river, and

all that they had to do was to sit on the bank of that river, and to

observe the inevitable phenomena which, successively, and unsought,

presented themselves to the eyes of each observer.

Before the vision of the steeping Oblomov there next uprose a series of

living pictures of the three chief acts of Oblomovkan life, as played

in the presence of his family, of his relatives, and of his

friends--namely, the three acts of birth, of marriage, and of death.

This was succeeded by a varied procession of minor incidents of

life, whether grave or gay--of baptisms, birthdays, family festivals,

Shrovetides, Easters, Convivial feasts, family gatherings, welcomes,

farewells, and occasions of official congratulation or condolence.

These passed before Oblomov’s vision with solemn exactitude, and also he

beheld the bearing of familiar faces at these ceremonies, according as

they were affected by vanity or by care. No matter what the festival

might be--whether a betrothal or a solemn wedding or a name-day--every

possible social rule had to be consulted, and no mistake made as to

where each person was to sit, what presents, and to what value, ought

to be given, who was to walk with whom at the ceremony, and what signals

had best be made during its course.

Do you think, then, that goodly children would not result from such

formal unitings? For answer you would need but to look at the rosy,

heavy little cupids which the mothers of the place carried or led by

the hand. Every one of those mothers would have insisted that their

little ones were the plumpest, the whitest, and the healthiest children

possible. Another local custom was to make a lark-pie as soon as spring

came in. Without it spring would not have been spring at all, for

observances of this kind comprised the whole life, the whole scientific

knowledge, of the inhabitants, all of whose joys and sorrows were bound

up with Oblomovka, and whose hearts beat high at the anticipation

of such local rites and feasts and ceremonies. Yet no sooner had they

christened, married, or buried an individual than they forgot both the

latter and his (or her) fate, and relapsed into their usual apathy until

aroused by a new occasion--by a baptism, a wedding, or other happening

of the kind. Directly a child was born the parents made it their

first care to perform over the little one every ceremony prescribed

by decorum, and then to follow up the christening with a banquet.

Thereafter the child’s bringing up began according to a system dictated

by the mother and the nurse for his healthy development, and for his

protection from cold, from the evil eye, and from sundry other inimical

influences. Indeed, no pains were spared to keep the youngster in good

appetite and spirits. Also as soon as he was able to fend for himself,

and a nurse had become a superfluity, his mother would be seized with a

desire to procure for him a helpmeet as strong and as ruddy as himself;

whereupon there would ensue a further epoch of rites and feastings,

until eventually a marriage had been arranged. Always this consummation

represented the epitome of life’s incidents, and as soon as it was

reached there began a repetition of births, rites, and banquets, until,

finally, a funeral ceremony interrupted the festivities--though not

for long, since other faces would appear to succeed the old ones, and

children would become youths and maidens, and plight their troth to

one another, and marry one another, and produce individuals similar to

themselves. Thus life stretched out in a continuous, uniform chain which

broke off imperceptibly only when the tomb had been reached.

Time, the rare times when other cares overtook the good folk of

Oblomovka, but always they faced the situation with stoical immobility,

and the said cares, after circling over their heads, flew away like

birds which, having sought to cling to a smooth, perpendicular wall,

find that they are fluttering their wings in vain against the stubborn

stone, and therefore spread those pinions and depart. For instance, on

one occasion a portion of the gallery around the house fell upon, and

buried under its ruins, a hencoop full of poultry, as well as, in doing

so, narrowly missed a serving-woman who happened to be sitting near the

spot with her husband. At once the establishment was in an uproar. Every

one came running to the scene, under the impression that not only the

hencoop, but also the _barinia_ and little Ilya, were lying under the

_debris_. Every one held up his or her hands in horror, and fell to

blaming every one else for not having foreseen the catastrophe. Every

one expressed surprise that the gallery had fallen, and also surprise

that it had not fallen long ago. Upon that there ensued a clamour and a

discussion as to how things could best be put right; after which, with

sighs of regret for the poultry, the company slowly dispersed, while

strictly forbidding little Ilya to approach the rums. Three weeks later

Andrushka, Petrushka, and Vassika were ordered to chop the planks

and the remainder of the balustrade in pieces, and then to remove the

fragments to the outbuildings, lest the road should become obstructed;

and in the outbuildings those fragments tossed about until the following

spring. Every time that the elder Oblomov saw them from the window

he fell to thinking, what had best be done with them. Summoning the

carpenter, he took counsel with the man as to whether he had better

build a new gallery or pull down what was left of the old one; until

finally he dismissed his subordinate with the words, “Do you wait a

little until I have considered the matter further.” The same thing went

on until, one day, either Vassika or Motika reported to the _barin_ that

that morning, while he (Vassika or Motika) had been climbing over the

remains of the old gallery, the corners of it had come away from the

walls, and more of the structure had fallen; whereupon the carpenter was

summoned to a final consultation, and the upshot was that some of the

old fragments were used to prop the remaining portions of the gallery.

Sure enough, by the close of the month this had been done.

“Aye, that gallery looks as good as new,” the old man said to his wife.

“See how splendidly Thedot has re-erected the beams! They resemble the

pillars which the Governor has just had fitted to his house. The job has

been well done, and will last for a long time.”

Here some one reminded him that it would be as well also to have the

gates rehung and the veranda repaired, since the holes in the steps to

the latter were affording access, not only to the cats, but also to the

pigs.

“Yes, yes, it _ought_ to be done,” said the _barin_ thoughtfully.

Then he went out to look at the veranda. “Yes, certainly the thing is

breaking up,” he continued as he see-sawed one of the planks like a

cradle.

“They have been loose ever since the veranda was made,” some one

remarked.

“How so?” asked the _barin_. “They are loose only because the floor has

not been mended for sixteen years. It was done then by Luka. He _was_ a

carpenter, if you like! Now he is dead, may God rest his soul! Workmen

are not as clever as they used to be--they merely spoil things.”

From that old Oblomov turned his attention to something else; and to

this day--so report has it--the veranda is rickety, though not actually

fallen to pieces. Certainly Luka _must_ have been a good workman!

However, to do the master and the mistress justice, they were capable of

being shaken out of their apathy, even to the point of growing angry and

heated, should any failure or misfortune occur. How, they would inquire,

could such and such a matter have come to be overlooked or neglected? At

once due measures must be taken. Perhaps this would be relative to

the fact that the footbridge over the moat needed mending, or that the

garden fence called for repairs at a spot where the planking was lying

flat upon the ground and allowing the cattle to enter and spoil the

shrubs. Indeed, so solicitous was the _barin_ for his property that

once, when walking in the garden, he, with his own hands, and with

many grunts and groans, lifted up a length of fencing, and ordered the

gardener to fix a couple of props to the same; and to this activity on

the part of the proprietor was due the fact that the said fence remained

upright during the whole of the remainder of the summer--until once more

a winter snowstorm laid it low. Also, when Antip, with his horse and

water-cart, fell through the bridge into the moat three new planks were

inserted into the structure! Indeed, Antip had not recovered from his

bruising before the bridge was looking almost as good as new! And even

when the garden fence collapsed a second time the cows and the goats

did not reap very much advantage from the event. True, they managed to

devour a few currant-bushes, and also to strip a dozen lime-trees; but

before they could begin also upon the apple-trees an order was issued

that the fence should be properly dug in and reditched. But this was

only after two cows and a goat had been caught redhanded. You should

have seen the distension of their stomachs with the generous fare!...

Once more Oblomov dreamed that he was in the great, dark drawing-room at

home. The long winter’s evening was closing in, and his mother, seated

on the sofa and engaged in quietly knitting a boy’s stocking, was

yawning occasionally, and scratching her head with a knitting-needle.

Beside her were two maids--their heads bent over their work as

industriously they fashioned a holiday garment either for young Ilya

or for his father or for themselves. Meanwhile the _barin_, with hands

clasped behind his back, was pacing cheerfully to and fro, or seating

himself on a chair for a moment or two before resuming his walk. Ever

and anon, too, he would take a pinch of snuff, sneeze, and then take

another pinch. As for light, it came from a single tallow candle, and

even the said candle was a luxury permitted only on autumn and winter

evenings; for in summer every one contrived to rise and to go to bed by

daylight, so that candles might be saved altogether. This was a practice

which had arisen partly from custom and partly from economy. Of every

commodity not produced at home, but requiring, rather, to be bought, the

good folk of Oblomovka were extremely parsimonious; so that, although

they would willingly slaughter a fine gamefowl or a dozen young pullets

for a guest’s entertainment, not a raisin too much would be put into

a pudding, and every face would whiten if the said guest should pour

himself out a second glassful of wine. Very seldom, however, did such

_contretemps_ occur: only the most abandoned of wretches would have

done things like those--and guests of that kidney never obtained even

admittance to Oblomovka. Local manners required that, what though twice

or thrice invited to partake of a given dish or a given bottle of wine,

the guest should _not_ do so, since he was supposed to be aware that

even the first invitation had conveyed a secret prayer that he would

kindly abstain from the dish or bottle of wine after merely tasting

of the same. Nor were two candles lit for every guest, since candles

required to be bought in the town, and therefore, like all other

purchased articles, were kept under lock and key by the lady of the

house, and, with the candle-ends, were counted before being stored away.

In short, Oblomovka disliked disbursing hard cash; so much so that,

however much a given article might be required, the money for it would

be handed out with reluctance, however insignificant the sum. As for any

_considerable_ outlay, it was accompanied with groans, lamentations, and

high words, since the Oblomovkans would suffer any kind of misfortune

rather than part with their coin. For this reason the sofa in the

drawing-room had long been in rags, and the leather on the _barin’s_

arm-chair leather only by courtesy, since most of its cord and rope

stuffing was now exposed, and only a single strip of the original

covering clung to the back of the chair--the rest having, during the

past five years, become split into strips, and fallen away. For the same

reason the entrance gates had sagged, and the veranda become rickety.

Nevertheless, to pay out, say, from two to five hundred roubles for a

given purpose, however necessary that purpose might be, seemed to the

inhabitants of the establishment something almost approaching suicide.

In fact, on hearing that a young landowner of the neighbourhood had

gone to Moscow and there paid three hundred roubles for a dozen shirts,

twenty-five for a pair of boots, and forty for a waistcoat (it was on

the occasion of the landowner’s marriage), old Oblomov crossed himself,

and exclaimed with an expression of horror:

“That young man ought to be clapped into prison!” In general, the

Oblomovkans paid no heed to politico-economic axioms concerning the

necessity of swift, brisk circulation of capital, or concerning the

active production and exchange of commodities. In the simplicity of

their souls they considered that the best theory, as well as the best

practice, with regard to capital was to hoard it.

On chairs in the drawing-room there would be seated snoring, in

different attitudes, the gentry and customary intimates of the house.

For the most part a profound silence would reign among them, for they

saw one another every day, and their respective stores of intellectual

wealth had long been tapped and explored, while news from without

arrived but scantily. Indeed, amid the stillness the only sound to be

heard would be that of old Oblomov’s heavy, workaday slippers, the dull

beat of the clock in its case, and the snapping of thread as one or

another of the sewing party bit or broke off a piece. Perhaps after half

an hour of this one of those present would yawn--then make the sign of

the cross over the lips, and murmur: “Lord, pardon me!” Next, some one

would follow suit, and then a third, until the infectious desire to

ventilate the lungs had gone the round of the company. Next, old Oblomov

would approach the window, look through it, and say with a touch of

surprise: “Only five o’clock, yet already it is dark in the courtyard!”

“Yes,” some one would answer, “’tis always dark by this time. The

long evenings are beginning to draw in.”

In spring, contrariwise, the company would fall to expressing surprise

and gratification at the thought that the long _days_ were approaching.

Yet, had you inquired what the long days meant to them, they could not

possibly have told you! After this episode silence would resume its

sway, until, perhaps, in snuffing the candle, some one would chance to

extinguish it. Upon that every one would give a start, and one of the

company would be sure to ejaculate:

“An unexpected guest is making his way in our direction.” In fact,

it was not an uncommon phenomenon for the incident to give rise to a

lengthy conversation.

Time, at Oblomovka, was reckoned mostly by festivals, by the seasons

of the year, and by various family and domestic events--no reference

whatsoever being made, to months or to the days of a month. This may

have partly arisen from the fact that none but old Oblomov were capable

of distinguishing between the names of the months and the dates in a

given month.

Presently the head of the family would relapse into meditation, while

little Ilya, lolling behind his mother’s back, would also be sunk in

dreams, and at times actually dozing. Suddenly old Oblomov would (to

take a typical incident) halt in the middle of his pacing, and clap his

hand anxiously to the tip of his nose; whereupon there would ensue some

such dialogue as the following:

_The master of the house:_ What on earth is the matter with me? See!

Some one must have passed away, for the tip of my nose is itching!

_His wife:_ Good Lord! Why should any one have passed away because

the _tip_ of your nose is sore? Some one has passed away only when the

_bridge_ of one’s nose is hurting one. What a forgetful man you are, to

be sure! Were you to say a thing like that before strangers, you would

make us blush for you.

_The master of the house:_ But _every_ part of my nose is hurting me?

_His wife:_ Pain at the side of it means news to come; in the eyebrows,

sorrow; in the forehead, a greeting; on the right side, a man; on the

left side, a woman; in the ears, rain; in the lips, a kiss; in the

whiskers, a present of something to eat; in the elbow, a new place to

sleep in; and in the sole of the foot, a journey.

And so forth, and so forth.

Lastly, when nine o’clock had struck there would follow supper; after

which the company would disperse to rest, and sleep would once more

reign over the care-free heads of the Oblomovkans.

In his dream Oblomov saw not only an evening spent in this manner, but

whole weeks and months and years of such evening’s. Never did anything

occur to interrupt the uniformity of that life, nor were the Oblomovkans

in any way wearied by it, since they could conceive no other existence,

and would have turned from any other with distaste. Had there been

imported into that existence any change due to circumstances, they would

have regretted the fact, and felt troubled by the thought that to-morrow

was not going to be precisely as to-day. What wanted _they_ with the

diversity, the changes, the incidents, for which others yearned? “Let

others drink of that cup,” said they; “but for us Oblomovkans--no

such thing. Let others live as they please.” Incident--even pleasing

incident--they considered to bring disturbance and fuss and worry and

commotion in its train, so that one could not sit quietly in one’s

seat and just talk and eat one’s meals. Therefore, as decade succeeded

decade, the Oblomovkans dozed and yawned, and indulged in good-humoured

laughter at rustic jests, and assembled in corners to relate of what

they had dreamed during the previous night. Had their dreams been

unpleasant, the company at once became thoughtful and nervous, and

refrained from jesting. On the other hand, had their dreams been of

a prophetic nature, at once the company grew cheerful or despondent,

according as the visions had promised sorrow or joy. Lastly, had

their dreams called for the consideration of some portent, the company

proceeded to take such active measures as might be necessary to deal

with the situation. Also, every one indulged in card-playing, games of

“fools,” and so forth; while, as for the womenfolk, they would discuss

the neighbourhood, and pry not only into its family life and social

gaiety, but also into its secret ends and desires. About these they

would dispute, and then pass censure upon various persons (more

particularly upon unfaithful husbands), and relate details of birthdays,

christenings, namedays, and dinner parties, with the lists of the

invited and non-invited guests. Likewise they would show one another

various articles of their wardrobes, and the hostess would proudly vaunt

the merits of her sheets, her knitted garments, and her lace of home

manufacture. Yet at length even these things would begin to pall;

whereupon coffee, tea, and cakes would be served, and a silence, broken

only by desultory remarks, ensue.

Of course, also, there were certain rare occasions when these methods

of spending the time were interrupted by such happenings as the entire

household falling ill of a fever, or some member of it either tripping

over a stake in the dark or falling out of the hayloft or being struck

on the head by a beam which had slipped from the roof. Yet, as I say,

such events were rare, and when they occurred, every known and tried

domestic remedy was brought into play. The injured spot was rubbed

with ointment, a dose of holy water was administered, a prayer was

muttered--and all was well. On the other hand, a winter headache * was

quite a common phenomenon and in that case the household would retire

to bed, groans and sighs would resound. One person would wrap a cucumber

poultice and insert cranberries in his ears. A third walk about with

nothing on but his shirt conscious, roll about the room at regular

periods of once or twice a month. This happened, for the reason that the

Oblomovkans did not like to allow any superfluous heat to escape by

the chimney, but covered the stoves when the flames were rising high.

Consequently upon no single stove-couch or stove could a hand be laid

without danger of that hand being blistered.

* Due to the fumes of the charcoal used for heating

purposes.

Only once was the monotony of Oblomovkan life broken by a wholly

unexpected circumstance. The household, exhausted by the labours of

dinner, had assembled for tea, when there entered a local peasant who

had just been making an expedition to the town. Thrusting his hand into

his bosom, he with difficulty produced a much-creased letter, addressed

to the master of the house. Every one sat thunderstruck, and even the

master himself changed countenance. Not an eye was there which did not

dart glances at the missive. Not a nose was there which was not strained

in its direction.

“How unlooked for!” at length said the mistress of the household as she

recovered herself. “From whom can the letter have come?”

Old Oblomov took it, and turned it over in his hands, as though at a

loss what to do with the epistle.

“Where did you get it from?” he inquired of the peasant. “And who gave

it you?”

“I got it at the inn where I put up,” replied the man. “Twice did folk

come from the post-office to inquire if any peasantry from Oblomovka

were there, since a letter was awaiting the _barin_. The first time they

came, I kept quiet, and the postman took the letter away; but afterwards

the deacon of Verklevo saw me, and they came and gave me the letter, and

made me pay five kopecks for it. I asked them what I was to do with the

letter, and they said that I was to hand it to your Honour.”

“Then at first you refused it?’ the mistress remarked sharply.

“Yes, I refused it. What should _we_ want with letters? _We_ have no

need for them, nor had I any orders to take charge of such things. So I

was afraid to touch it. ‘Don’t you go too fast with that thing,’ I said

to myself. Yet how the postman abused me! He would have complained to

the authorities had I left the letter where it was.”

“Fool!” exclaimed the lady of the house.

“And from whom can it be?” said old Oblomov meditatively as he studied

the address. “Somehow I seem to know the handwriting.”

Upon that the missive fell to being passed from one person to another;

and much guessing and discussion began. Finally the company had to own

itself nonplussed. The master of the house ordered his spectacles to be

fetched, and quite an hour and a half were consumed in searching for the

same; but at length be put them on, and then bethought him of opening

the letter.

“Wait a moment,” said his wife, hastily, arresting his hand. “Do not

break the seal. Who knows what the letter may contain? It may portend

something dreadful, some misfortune. To what have we not come nowadays?

To-morrow, or the day after, will be soon enough. The letter will not

walk away of itself.”

So the letter was placed under lock and key, and tea passed round.

In fact, the document would have lain there for a year, had it not

constituted a phenomenon so unusual as to continue to excite the

Oblomovkans’ curiosity. Both after tea and on the following day the talk

was of nothing else. At length things could no longer be borne, and on

the fourth day, the company being assembled, the seal was diffidently

broken, and old Oblomov glanced at the signature.

“Radistchev!” he exclaimed. “So the message is from Philip Matveitch!”

“Oh! Ah! From _him_, indeed?” resounded on all sides. “To think that he

is actually alive! Glory be to God! And what does he say?”

Upon that old Oblomov started to read the letter aloud. It seemed that

Philip Matveitch desired him to forward the recipe for a certain beer

which was brewed at Oblomovka.

“Then send it, send it,” exclaimed the chorus. “Yes, and also write him

an answer.”

Two weeks elapsed.

“Really we _must_ write that note,” old Oblomov kept repeating. “Where

is the recipe?”

“Where is it?” retorted his wife. “Why, it still has to be looked for.

Wait a little. Why need we hurry? Should God be good, we shall soon be

having another festival, and eating flesh again. Let us write _then_. I

tell you, the recipe won’t run away.”

“Yes, I daresay it would be better to write when we have reached the

festival.”

Sure enough, the said festival arrived, and again there was talk of the

letter. In fact, old Oblomov did in truth get himself ready to write it.

He shut himself up in his study, he put on his spectacles, and he sat

down to the table. Everything in the house was profoundly quiet, since

orders had been issued that the establishment was not to stamp upon

the floor, nor, indeed, to make a noise of any kind. “The _barin_ is

writing,” was said in much the same tone of respectful awe that might

have been used had a dead person been lying in the house.

Hardly had old Oblomov inscribed the words “Dear Sir”--slowly and

crookedly, and with a shaking hand, and as cautiously, as though he had

been engaged in a dangerous task--when there entered to him his wife.

“I have searched and searched,” she said, “but can find no recipe.

Nevertheless the bedroom wardrobe still remains to be ransacked, so

_how_ can you write the letter now?”

“It ought to go by the next post,” her husband remarked.

“And what will it cost to go?”

Old Oblomov produced an ancient calendar. “Forty kopecks,” he said.

“What? You are going to throw away _forty kopecks_ on such a trifle?”

she exclaimed. “We had far better wait until we are sending other things

also to the town. Let the peasants know about it.”

“That _might_ be better,” agreed old Oblomov, tapping his pen against

the table. With that he replaced the pen in the inkstand, and took off

his spectacles.

“Yes, it _might_ be better,” he concluded.

And to this day no one knows how long Philip Matveitch had to wait for

that recipe.

Also, there were times when old Oblomov actually took a book in his

hands. What book it might be he did not care, for he felt no actual

craving to read; he looked upon literature as a mere luxury which could

easily be indulged in, or be done without, even as one might have

a picture on one’s wall, or one might not--one might go out for an

occasional walk, or one might not. Hence, as I say, he was indifferent

to the identity of a book, since he looked upon such articles as mere

instruments of distraction from _ennui_ and lack of employment. Also,

he always adopted towards authors that half-contemptuous attitude which

used to be maintained by gentry of the _ancien régime_; for, like

many of his day, he considered a writer of books to be a roisterer, a

ne’er-do-well, a drunkard, a sort of merry-andrew. Also, he would read

aloud items of intelligence from journals three years old--such items

as, “It is reported from The Hague that, on returning to the Palace from

a short drive, the King gazed at the assembled onlookers through

his spectacles,” or “At Vienna such and such an Ambassador has just

presented his Letter of Credentials.”

Again, there was a day when he read aloud the intelligence that a

certain work by a foreign writer had just been translated into Russian.

“The only reason why they go in for translating such things,” remarked

a small landowner who happened to be present, “is that they may wheedle

more money out of us _dvoriané_.” *

* Squires, or gentry

Meanwhile the little Ilya was engaged in journeying backwards and

forwards to Schtoltz’s school every Monday, when he awoke, he felt

overcome with depression, should he happen to hear Vassika’s rapping

voice shout aloud from the veranda: “Antipka, harness the piebald, as

the young _barin_ has to drive over to the German’s!” Yes, then Ilya’s

heart would tremble, and he would repair sadly to his mother, who would

know why he did so, and begin to gild the pill, while secretly sighing

to herself at the thought that she was to be parted from the lad for a

whole week. Indeed, on such mornings he could scarcely be given enough

to eat, and scarcely could a sufficiency of buns and cakes and pies and

sweetmeats be made to take with him (the said sufficiency being based

upon an assumption that at the German’s the pupils fared far from

richly).

“One couldn’t overeat oneself there,” said the Oblomovkans. “For dinner

one gets nothing but soup, roast, and cabbage, for tea only cold meat,

and for supper _morgen fri_.” *

* German black pudding.

However, there were Mondays when he did _not_ hear Vassika’s voice

ordering the piebald to be harnessed, and when his mother met him with

a smile and the pleasant tidings, that he was not to go to school that

day, since the following Thursday would be a holiday, and it was not

worth while for him to make the journey to and fro for a stay only of

three days. At other times he would be informed that that week was

the Week of Kindred, * and that therefore cake-baking, and not

book-learning, would be the order of the day. Or on a Monday morning his

mother would glance at him, and say: “Your eyes look dull to-day. Are

you _sure_ that you are well?” Then she would shake her head dubiously,

and though the crafty youngster would be in perfect health, he would

hold his tongue on the subject. Thereafter she would continue: “You must

stay at home this week, for God knows what might happen to you at that

other place.” And in her decision she would be confirmed by the whole

of the rest of the household. True, these fond parents were not blind

to the value of education; it was that they realized only its _external_

value. That is to say, they could not look beyond the fact that

education enabled folk to get on in the world so far as the acquisition

of rank, crosses, and money was concerned. Certain evil rumours had

arisen regarding the necessity, of learning not only one’s letters, but

also various branches of science which until now had remained unknown to

the world of Oblomovka; but, as I say, the good folk of that place had

only the dimmest, the remotest, comprehension of any _internal_ demand

for education, and therefore desired to secure for their little Ilya

only certain showy advantages, and no more--to wit, a fine uniform, and

the getting of him into the Civil Service (his mother even foresaw him

become a provincial governor!). Yet this, they thought, ought to be

attained at as little cost as possible, and by means of a covert evasion

of the various rocks and barriers which lay strewn about the path of

enlightenment. Yes, those rocks and barriers, they said, must be walked

around, not scaled; learning must be assimilated lightly, and not at the

cost of exhaustion both of body and mind. In their view the process

need be continued only until the little Ilya had obtained some sort of a

certificate to the effect that he had been through “a course of the arts

and sciences.”

* Week of the Dead.

But to this Oblomovkan system old Schtoltz was wholly opposed; and

probably his German persistency would have carried the day, had he not

had to contend with difficulties even in his own camp. That is to say,

his son was accustomed to spoil young Oblomov by doing his exercises for

him, and prompting him in his translations. Also, young Oblomov could

clearly discern the differences between his home life and life at

school. At home, no sooner would he have awakened than he would find

Zakhar standing by his bed. Even as the nurse had done, Zakhar would

draw on for the lad his stockings, and put on his boots; and if Master

Ilya--now become a boy of fourteen--did not altogether approve of

Zakhar’s performances he would nudge the valet on the nose with his toe.

Moreover, should the boy at any time want anything, he had three or

four servants to hasten to do his bidding; and in this fashion he never

learnt what it was to do a single thing for himself. Yet in the end his

parents’ fond solicitude wearied him for at no time could he even

cross the courtyard, or descend the staircase, without hearing himself

followed by shouts of “Where are you going to, Ilya?” or “How can you

do that?” or “You will fall and hurt yourself!” Thus, pampered like an

exotic plant in a greenhouse, he grew up slowly and drowsily, and in

a way which turned his energies inwards, and gradually caused them to

wither.

Yet on rare occasions he would still awake as fresh and vigorous and

cheerful as ever; he would awake feeling that an imp of mischief was

egging him on to climb the roof, or to go and roll in a field, or to

rush round the meadow where the hay was being cut, or to perch himself

on the top of a fence, or to start teasing the farm dogs--in short, to

take to running hither and thither and everywhere.

At length the thing was no longer to be borne; no longer could he resist

the imp’s prompting. One winter’s morning, capless, he leaped from

the veranda into the courtyard, and thence through the entrance gates.

Thereafter, rolling a snowball hastily in his hands, he darted towards

a crowd of boys. The fresh air cut his face, the frost nipped his ears,

his mouth and throat felt choked with cold, but in his breast there was

a great joy. He rushed forward as fast as his legs could carry him, he

shouted and he laughed. In two seconds he was in the thick of the

boys. One snowball he threw--it achieved a miss; a second snowball he

threw--it achieved the same; and just as he was seizing a third his face

became converted into one large clot of snow. He fell, and, being unused

to falling, hurt himself; yet still he laughed merrily, though the tears

had sprung to his eyes. Behind the knot of youngsters ran two dogs,

pulling at their clothes; for, as every one knows, dogs cannot with

equanimity see a human being running. Thus the whole gang sped through

the village--a noisy, shouting, barking crew. At length the lads were

caught, and justice was meted out--to one on the head, to a second on

the ears, to a third on the rump. Also, the fathers of the culprits were

threatened with retribution. As for the young _barin_, he was hastily

thrust into a snatched-up greatcoat, then into his father’s sheepskin,

and, lastly, into a couple of quilts; after which he was borne homeward

in triumph. The entire household had expected to behold him arrive in a

moribund condition; and indescribable was his parents’ delight on seeing

him carried in both alive and unharmed..Yes, they gave thanks to God,

they dosed the boy with mint and elderberry wine and raspberry syrup,

and they kept him three days in bed--although the one thing that would

have done him any good would have been to have let him go out again and

play in the snow!

*****

Entering quietly, Zakhar tried to arouse the sleeper, but failed.

Suddenly a loud laugh proceeded from the neighbourhood of the door.

Oblomov started up.

“Schtoltz! Schtoltz!” he cried rapturously as he threw himself upon the

newcomer.