Читать книгу Oblomov / Обломов. Книга для чтения на английском языке - Иван Гончаров, Иван Александрович Гончаров - Страница 3

A YOUNG MAN of twenty-five, looking the picture of health, with laughing cheeks, lips, and eyes, entered the room. It made one envious to look at him.

He was irreproachably groomed and dressed, and his countenance, linen, gloves, and frock-coat had a dazzling freshness. An elegant chain with numberless tiny trinkets stretched across his waistcoat. He pulled out a handkerchief of the finest lawn, inhaled the perfumes of the Orient, then, passing it lightly across his face and his shiny hat, flicked his patent leather boots with it.

«Oh, Volkov, how are you?» said Oblomov.

«How are you, Oblomov?» the dazzling gentleman said, walking up to him.

«Don’t come near me», Oblomov cried, «don’t come near me; you’re straight from the cold street!»

«Oh, you spoilt darling, you sybarite!» Volkov said, looking for a place to put down his hat, but, seeing the dust everywhere, he decided to keep it in his hand. He parted the skirts of his frock-coat to sit down, but after a careful glance at the armchair, remained standing.

«You aren’t up yet! What an old-fashioned dressing-gown you’re wearing – I haven’t seen one like it for ages!»

«It’s a perfectly good dressing-gown», said Oblomov, lovingly wrapping the wide folds of the garment round him.

«Are you well?» asked Volkov.

«Well? Good Lord, no!» Oblomov answered, yawning. «Couldn’t feel worse. High blood pressure, you know. And how are you?»

«Me? I’m all right. In perfect health, and having a jolly good time», the young man added with feeling.

«Where do you come from so early?» asked Oblomov.

«From my tailor’s. How do you like my frock-coat? Splendid, isn’t it?» he said, turning round before Oblomov.

«Splendid! In excellent taste», said Oblomov. «But why is it so wide at the back?»

«It’s a riding-coat; for riding on horseback».

«Oh, I see! But do you ride?»

«Of course I do! I had the coat specially made for to-day. It’s the first of May to-day: Goryunov and I are going to Yekaterinhof. Oh, you don’t know, do you? Misha Goryunov has received his commission – so we’re celebrating to-day», Volkov added with enthusiasm.

«Oh, indeed», said Oblomov.

«He has a chestnut horse», Volkov went on. «All the horses in his regiment are chestnut; and mine is a black one. How will you go – will you walk or drive?»

«Oh, I don’t think I’ll go at all», said Oblomov.

«Not go to Yekaterinhof on the first of May? Good Lord, Oblomov!» Volkov cried in surprise. «Why, everyone will be there!»

«Not everyone, surely», Oblomov observed lazily.

«Do come, my dear fellow! Sofya Nikolayevna and Lydia will be alone in the carriage, and the seat opposite is entirely at your disposal».

«No, that seat is too small for me. And, besides, what on earth am I going to do there?»

«Very well, in that case Misha could hire another horse for you».

«The things he thinks of!» Oblomov said, almost to himself. «Why are you so interested in the Goryunovs?»

«Oh!» Volkov said, flushing crimson. «Shall I tell you?»

«Do».

«You won’t tell anyone – on your word of honour?» Volkov went on, sitting down on the sofa beside him.

«I won't».

«I–I’m in love with Lydia», he whispered.

«Bravo! How long? – She’s very charming, I believe».

«For three weeks», Volkov said with a deep sigh. «And Misha is in love with Dashenka».

«Which Dashenka?»

«Where have you been, Oblomov? You don’t know Dashenka? Why, the whole town is crazy about her dancing. To-night I’m going to the ballet with him: he wants to throw a bouquet on to the stage. I must introduce him into society. He’s so shy – a novice. Oh, good Lord, I have got to go and buy some camelias».

«Whatever for? You’d better come and dine with me. We’d have a talk. I’m afraid two awful things have happened to me…»

«Sorry, I can’t. I’m dining at Prince Tyumenev’s. The Goryunovs will be there and she – my darling Lydia», he added in a whisper. «Why have you given up the prince? It’s such a gay house! So wealthy! And their country cottage! Buried in flowers! They’ve added a balcony to it – gothique. I understand they’re going to have dances there in the summer – tableaux vivants! You’ll be coming, won’t you?»

«No, I don’t think I will».

«Oh, what a splendid house! On their Wednesday at homes last winter there were never fewer than fifty people there – sometimes, indeed, there were as many as a hundred!»

«Good heavens, I can imagine how horribly boring it must have been».

«Boring! How can you say that? The more the merrier. Lydia, too, used to come, but I never noticed her there, then suddenly -

he sang, and without thinking sat down in the arm-chair, but jumped up immediately and began dusting his clothes.

«How awfully dusty your room is!» he said.

«It’s all Zakhar’s fault!» Oblomov complained.

«Well, I must be off», said Volkov. «Must get those camelias for Misha’s bouquet. Au revoir».

«Come and have tea with me in the evening, after the ballet, and tell me all about it», Oblomov invited him.

«I’m sorry, I’ve promised to go to the Mussinskys’; it’s their At Home to-day. Won’t you come, too? I’ll introduce you».

«No, thank you. What should I do there?»

«At the Mussinskys’? Why, half the town is there! What should you do there? It’s a house where they talk about everything».

«That’s what I find so boring – talking about everything», said Oblomov.

«Well, why don’t you go to the Mezdrovs’?» Volkov interrupted him. «There they talk about one thing only – art. All you hear there is – the Venetian school, Bach and Beethoven, Leonardo da Vinci…»

«Always the same thing – how boring!» said Oblomov with a yawn. «Pedants, I suppose».

«There’s no pleasing you. Why, there are hundreds of houses you can go to. Everyone has definite visiting days now: the Savinovs have dinners on Thursdays, the Maklashins on Fridays, the Vyaznikovs on Sundays, Prince Tyumenev on Wednesdays. I’m engaged every day of the week», Volkov concluded with shining eyes.

«And don’t you find it exhausting to go rushing about day after day?»

«Exhausting? Good Lord, no! It’s great fun!» Volkov said happily. «In the morning I read the papers – one must be au courant with everything, know the news. Thank heavens my job in the Civil Service doesn’t require my presence at the office.

All I’m supposed to do is to have dinner twice a week with the head of my department. Then I go visiting people I haven’t seen some time – well, then – er – there’s always a new actress in the Russian or in the French theatre. The opera season will be opening soon and I shall book seats for it. And now I’m in love – summer is coming – Misha has been promised leave – we’ll go for a month to their estate for a change. We can do some shooting there. They have splendid neighbours who give bals champêtres. Lydia and I will go for walks in the woods, go boating, pick flowers – Oh!» and he spun round and round with delight. «However, I must be off. Good-bye», he said, trying in vain to have a good look at himself in the dusty mirror.

«Wait a moment», Oblomov tried to stop him. «I wanted to talk business with you».

«Sorry – I’m in a hurry», Volkov replied. «Another time! But won’t you come with me and have some oysters? You’ll be able to tell me all about it then. Come, Misha is treating us».

«No, thank you», said Oblomov.

«Good-bye, then».

He walked to the door and came back.

«Have you seen this?» he asked, showing him a hand in a marvellously fitting glove.

«What is it?» asked Oblomov, looking perplexed.

«The new lacets. You see how wonderfully they fit. You haven’t got to wrestle for two hours trying to button your glove. You just pull the lace and it’s done. It’s just arrived from Paris. Would you like me to bring you a pair to try?»

«All right, bring me a pair», said Oblomov.

«And have a look at this. Very charming, isn’t it?» he asked, picking out one of his trinkets. «A visiting-card with a corner turned down».

«Can’t make out the inscription».

«Pr. Prince M. Michel», Volkov said. «There was no room for the surname Tyumenev. He gave this to me instead of an Easter egg. – But good-bye – au revoir. I’ve another ten calls to make. Oh, how gay life is!»

And he vanished.

«Ten visits in one day – the poor wretch!» thought Oblomov. «And this is life!» he shrugged his shoulders. «What’s there left of the man? What is he wasting and frittering himself away for? No doubt it’s nice to look in at the theatre, and fall in love with some Lydia – she’s very charming! Pick flowers with her in the country, go shooting – there’s nothing wrong with that. But make ten calls in one day – poor wretch!» he concluded, turning over on his back, glad that he had no such empty thoughts and desires, that he did not rush about, but lay in bed, preserving his peace and his human dignity.

Another ring at the door interrupted his thoughts. A new visitor came in.

It was a man in a dark green frock-coat, with brass embossed buttons, his cleanly-shaven, worn-out face framed evenly by a pair of dark side-whiskers; he had tired, but calm and thoughtful, eyes, and a pensive smile.

«Good morning, Sudbinsky», Oblomov greeted him gaily. «So you’ve come at last to see your old colleague! Don’t come near – don’t come near – you’re straight from the cold street!»

«How are you, Oblomov? I’ve long been meaning to call on you», said the visitor, «but you know how devilishly busy I am. Look – I’m taking a caseful of official papers to the office to report on. And I’ve told the courier to come straight here if I should be asked for. I haven’t a moment to myself».

«You’re going to your office at this hour? Why so late?» asked Oblomov. «You used to be there at ten o’clock».

«I used to – yes. But now it’s different: I drive there at twelve». He emphasized the word «drive’.

„Oh, I see“, said Oblomov. „You’re head of a department! Since when?“

Sudbinsky nodded significantly.

„Since Easter“, he said. „But the amount of work – it’s dreadful! From eight to twelve at home, from twelve to five at the office, and more work in the evening. Never see anyone!“

„Well, well! Head of a department – so that’s it!“ said Oblomov. „Congratulations! What a fellow! And we used to be office clerks together. I shouldn’t be surprised if you were made a State Counsellor next year“.

„Good heavens, no. I should have been given the order of the Crown this year. I thought I’d receive an order for distinguished services – but now that I’ve been given my new post – you can’t be promoted twice in two years“.

„Come and have dinner with me; we’ll drink to your promotion“, said Oblomov.

„I’m sorry, but I’m dining with the vice-director to-day. I have to get my report ready for Thursday – hellish work! You can’t rely on the provincial reports. You have to check the lists yourself. Our vice-director is so particular, he insists on doing everything himself. So we shall sit down to it together after dinner“.

„Not after dinner, surely?“ asked Oblomov, incredulously.

„Why, what do you think? I’ll be lucky to get off early – I’ll have time to drive to Yekaterinhof. As a matter of fact, I came to ask if you wouldn’t go with me. I’d call for you“.

„I’m afraid I’m not feeling very well“, said Oblomov, frowning. „Besides, I’ve a lot to do – No, sorry, I can’t!“

„A pity“, said Sudbinsky. „It’s a lovely day. To-day is my only chance of getting some fresh air“.

„Well, any news at the office?“ asked Oblomov.

„Yes, all sorts of things. We don’t sign letters now, „Your humble servant“, but: „Accept our assurance of“. We’re no longer required to send in service lists in duplicate. Our department is to get three more sections and two more officials for special duties. Our committee has been closed. Lots of things!“

„Well, and what about our former colleagues?“

„Nothing special so far. Svinkin has lost a file of official documents“.

„No? What did the director do?“ Oblomov asked in a trembling voice. In spite of himself, he felt frightened from force of habit.

„He ordered to withhold his promotion till the file turns up. It’s an important case, concerning penalties. The director believes“, Sudbinsky added almost in a whisper, „that he has lost it on purpose“.

„I don’t believe it!“

„You’re quite right“, Sudbinsky affirmed importantly, with an air of condescension. „Svinkin is such a feather-brained fellow. He sometimes makes a mess of his figures and gets all his references muddled up. I’ve had such awful trouble with him, but I haven’t noticed anything of that kind – I mean, he wouldn’t do such a thing. He just wouldn’t. He must have mislaid the documents. They’ll turn up one day“.

„So that’s how you spend your time“, said Oblomov. „Always busy – working“.

„Oh, it’s dreadful, dreadful! But of course with a man like the vice-director of our department it’s a pleasure. He never fails to reward a good and conscientious official for faithful service, and he doesn’t forget those who don’t do any work, either. Those who have done their term of service he recommends for promotion; and for those who aren’t due for promotion or the conferment of an order he’ll try to get a bonus“.

„What salary do you get?“

„Oh, nothing much. One thousand two hundred salary, seven hundred and fifty for board, six hundred for lodgings, five hundred for travelling expenses, and up to a thousand in bonuses“.

„Good God!“ Oblomov exclaimed, jumping off the bed. „It isn’t singing you’re doing, is it? Why, you earn as much as an Italian opera singer!“

„Oh, that’s nothing! Peresvetov receives additional remuneration, and he does less work than I – and he can’t make head or tail of anything. But then of course he hasn’t the same reputation. They think very highly of me“, he added modestly, lowering his eyes. „The minister said the other day that I was a credit to the ministry“.

„Stout fellow!“ said Oblomov. „But working from eight to twelve, from twelve to five, and at home, too – well!“ He shook his head.

„But what should I do if I were not in the service?“ asked Sudbinsky.

„Lots of things! You could read, write..“. said Oblomov.

„But I do nothing but read and write now“.

„I don’t mean that. You could publish your writings“.

„Not everyone can be a writer. Look at you. You don’t write, do you?“ replied Sudbinsky.

„Ah, but I have an estate on my hands“, said Oblomov with a sigh. „I’m devising a new scheme, introducing all sorts of improvements. Worrying myself to death. But you’re doing other people’s work – not your own“.

„Well, that can’t be helped. One has to work, if one is paid. I’ll have a rest in the summer. My chief has promised to get me some special work which will take me out into the country. I’ll get travelling expenses to hire five horses, three roubles a day for my other expenses, and then promotion…“

„They have money to burn!“ Oblomov said enviously; then he sighed and fell into thought.

„I need money“, added Sudbinsky. „I’m getting married in the autumn“.

„Good Lord! Really? To whom?“ Oblomov cried sympathetically.

„Yes, indeed, to Miss Murashin.You remember they were staying next to me in the country during my summer holidays and had tea at my place? I believe you met her“.

„No, I don’t remember. Is she pretty?“ asked Oblomov.

„Yes, she’s a charming girl. If you like, we can go and have dinner with them“.

Oblomov looked embarrassed. „All right – only“ -

„Next week“, said Sudbinsky.

„Yes, yes, next week“, Oblomov agreed, feeling relieved. „My new suit isn’t ready yet. Tell me, is it a good match?“

„Oh yes, her father is a high-grade civil servant. He’s giving her ten thousand, and he has free Government quarters. He’s letting us have twelve rooms; furniture, heating, and lighting provided free. Not so bad“.

„Not so bad, indeed! You’re a lucky chap, Sudbinsky“, Oblomov added, not without envy.

„You must be my best man, Oblomov! Don’t forget“.

„Why, of course“, said Oblomov. „Well, and what about Kuznetzov, Vassilyev, Makhov?“

„Kuznetzov has been married for years, Makhov is now in my place, and Vassilyev has been transferred to Poland. Ivan Petrovich has received the Order of St Vladimir, and Oleshkin is „His Excellency“ now“.

„He’s a nice fellow“, said Oblomov.

„Yes, yes. He deserves it“.

„A very nice fellow indeed. Good-natured and even-tempered“.

„So obliging“, Sudbinsky added. „And, you know, never tries to curry favour, to make mischief, trip one up, get ahead of anyone – he does all he can for people“.

„An excellent fellow! I remember if I made a mess of some official report, left something out, expressed a wrong opinion, or quoted the wrong law in a memorandum, he didn’t mind; he’d merely tell someone else to put it right. An excellent fellow!“ Oblomov concluded.

„But our Semyon Semyonovich is incorrigible“, said Sudbinsky. „All he’s good for is to throw dust in people’s eyes. What do you think he did the other day? We received a demand from the provinces for putting up dog kennels near the buildings of our ministry, to guard against the depredation of Government property; our architect, a capable, experienced, and honest man, drew up a very moderate estimate; but Semyon Semyonovich thought it was too high and began making inquiries to find out how much the kennels would cost to build. He discovered someone who agreed to do it at thirty copecks less and at once sent in a memorandum about it…“

There was another ring at the front door.

„Good-bye“, said the civil servant. „I’m afraid I’ve been chatting too long to you. I may be wanted at the office…“

„Do stay a little longer“, Oblomov said, trying to detain him. „Besides, I’d like to ask your advice – two awful things have happened to me“.

„No, no, I’m sorry, old man, I’d better look you up again in a couple of days“, Sudbinsky said, leaving the room.

„My dear fellow, you’re up to your neck in it“, thought Oblomov, as he watched him go. „Blind, deaf, and dumb to everything else in the world. But he’ll be a big man one day, be put in charge of all sorts of important things, and reach a high rank in the service. This is what they call making a career, I suppose! But how little of the real man is wanted for such a career – intelligence, will, feelings are not wanted. What for? They’re a luxury! And so he’ll go on till he dies, and he’ll go through life without being aware of lots of things. And there he goes on working from twelve till five at his office and from eight till twelve at home – poor fellow!“

He felt a quiet satisfaction at the thought that he could stay in bed from nine till three and from eight till nine, and was proud that he had no reports to make nor papers to write and that there was ample scope both for his feelings and his imagination.

Oblomov was absorbed in his thoughts and did not notice a very thin dark man standing by his bed, a man whose face was practically invisible behind his whiskers, moustache, and imperial. He was dressed with studied negligence.

„Good morning, Oblomov!“

„Good morning, Penkin“, said Oblomov. „Don’t come near, don’t come near, you’re straight from the cold!“

„Oh, you funny fellow“, Penkin said. „Still the same incorrigible, care-free idler!“

„Yes, care-free!“ said Oblomov. „Let me show you the letter I received from my bailiff last night: I am racking my brains and you say: care-free! Where do you come from?“

„From a bookshop: I went to find out if the magazines were out. Have you read my article?“

„No“.

„I’ll send it to you. Read it“.

„What is it about?“ asked Oblomov, yawning heartily.

„About trade, the emancipation of women, the beautiful April weather we’ve been having, and about a newly invented fire extinguisher. How is it you don’t read the papers? Why, you find all about our daily life there. But most of all I’m agitating for the realistic movement in literature“.

„Have you plenty of work?“ asked Oblomov.

„Oh, quite a lot. Two articles a week for my paper, reviewing novels, and I’ve just written a short story“.

„What about?“

„About the mayor of a provincial town who boxes the ears of the local tradespeople“.

„Yes, that’s realism all right“, said Oblomov.

„Isn’t it?“ the literary gentleman said, looking pleased. „This is the main idea of my story and, mind you, I know7 it is new and daring. A traveller happened to sec the beating and he went and complained to the Governor about it. The Governor ordered a civil servant, who was going to the town on official business, to look into the matter and, generally, find out all he could about the mayor’s conduct and personality. The official called a meeting of the local tradespeople on the pretext of discussing their trade with them, and began questioning them about that, too. Well, what do you think those shopkeepers did? Why, they bowed and scraped and praised the mayor up to the skies. The official made some private inquiries and found that the trades“ men were awful rogues, sold rotten goods, gave short measure, cheated the Government, were utterly immoral, so that the beating was a well-deserved punishment!»

«So the mayor’s blows play the part of Fate in the ancient tragedies?» said Oblomov.

«Yes, indeed», Penkin was quick to agree. «You have a fine appreciation of literature, Oblomov. You ought to be a writer. You see, I’ve succeeded in showing up the mayor’s arbitrary disregard of the laws and the common people’s corrupt morals, the bad methods adopted by the subordinate officials, and the need for stern but legal measures. Don’t you think this idea of mine is – er – rather new?»

«Yes, especially to me», said Oblomov. «I read so little, you see».

«As a matter of fact», said Penkin, «one doesn’t see many books in your room, does one? But you must read one thing, a most excellent poem will be published shortly – A Corrupt Official’s Love for a Fallen Woman – I can’t tell you who the author is. It is still a secret».

«What is it about?»

«The whole mechanism of our social life is shown up, and all in a highly poetic vein. All the hidden wires are exposed, all the rungs of the social ladder are carefully examined. The author summons, as though for trial, the weak but vicious statesman and а whole swarm of corrupt officials who deceive him; and every type of fallen woman is closely scrutinized – Frenchwomen, German, Finnish – and everything, everything is so remarkably, so thrillingly true to life… I’ve heard extracts from it – the author is a great man! He reminds one of Dante and Shakespeare…»

«Good Lord!» cried Oblomov in surprise, sitting up. «Going a bit too far, aren’t you?»

Penkin suddenly fell silent, realizing that he had really gone too far.

«Read it and judge for yourself», he said, but with no enthusiasm this time.

«No, Penkin, I won’t read it».

«Why not? It’s creating a sensation, people are talking about it».

«Let them! Some people have nothing to do but talk. It is their vocation in life, you know».

«But why not read it, just out of curiosity?»

«Oh, what is there to be curious about?» said Oblomov. «I don’t know why they keep on writing – just to amuse themselves, I suppose».

«To amuse themselves! Why, it’s all so true to life! So laughably true! Just like living portraits. Whoever it is – a merchant, a civil servant, an army officer, a policeman – it’s as if the writers caught them alive!»

«But in that case why all this bother? Just for the fun of picking up some man and presenting him as true to life? As a matter of fact, there is no life in anything they do – no true understanding of it, no true sympathy, nothing of what one can call real humanity. Mere vanity – that’s what it is. They describe thieves and fallen women just as though they had caught them in the street and taken them to prison. What you feel in their stories is not „invisible tears“, but visible, coarse laughter and spitefulness».

«What more do you want? That’s excellent. You’ve said it yourself. Burning spite, bitter war on vice, contemptuous laughter at fallen human beings – everything’s there!»

«No, no, not everything», Oblomov cried, suddenly working himself up into a passion. «Depict a thief, a prostitute, a defrauded fool, but don’t forget that they, too, are human beings. Where’s your feeling of humanity? You want to write with your head only!» Oblomov almost hissed. «Do you think that to express ideas one doesn’t need a heart? One does need it – they are rendered fruitful by love; stretch out a helping hand to the fallen man to raise him, or shed bitter tears over him, if he faces ruin, but do not jeer at him. Love him, remember that he is a man like you, and deal with him as if he were yourself, then I shall read you and acknowledge you», he said, lying down again comfortably on the couch. «They describe a thief or a prostitute», he went on, «but forget the human being or are incapable of depicting him – what art and what poetic vein do you find in that? Expose vice and filth, but please don’t pretend that your exposures have anything to do with poetry».

«According to you, then, all we have to do is to describe nature – roses, nightingales, frosty mornings – while everything around us is in a continuous state of turmoil and movement? All we want is the bare physiology of society – we have no time for songs nowadays».

«Give me man – man!» Oblomov said. «Love him!»

«Love the money-lender, the hypocrite, the thieving or dull-witted official? Surely you can’t mean that? One can see at once that you’re not a literary person!» Penkin said heatedly. «No, sir, they must be punished, cast out from civil life, from society».

«Cast out from society?» Oblomov suddenly cried, as though inspired, jumping to his feet and facing Penkin. «That means forgetting that there was a living spirit in this unworthy vessel; that he is a depraved man, but a man none the less like yourself. Cast him out! And how do you propose to cast him out from human society, from nature, from the mercy of God!» he almost shouted, his eyes blazing.

«Going a bit too far, aren’t you?» Penkin said in his turn with surprise.

Oblomov realized, too, that he had overstepped the mark. He fell silent suddenly, stood still for a moment, yawned, and slowly lay down on the couch.

Both lapsed into silence.

«What do you read then?» asked Penkin.

«Me? Oh, books of travel mostly».

Again silence.

«But you will read the poem when it comes out, won’t you?» Penkin asked. «I’d bring it to you…»

Oblomov shook his head.

«Well, shall I send you my story?»

Oblomov nodded.

«I’m afraid I must really be off to the printers», said Penkin. «Do you know why I called? I came to ask you to go to Yekaterinhof with me. I have a carriage. I have to write an article to-morrow about the festival, and we could watch it together. You could point out to me what I failed to notice. It would be more jolly. Let’s go!»

«No, thank you, I don’t feel well», said Oblomov, frowning and pulling the blankets over himself. «I’m afraid of the damp. The ground hasn’t dried up yet. But why not come and have dinner with me to-day? We could have a talk. Two awful things have happened to me…"

«I’m sorry but the whole of our editorial staff dine at St George’s to-day. We shall go to the festival from there. And I must get my article ready during the night and send it off to the printers before the morning. Good-bye».

«Good-bye, Penkin».

«Writes articles at night», Oblomov mused. «When does he sleep? And yet he probably earns five thousand a year. It’s his bread and butter. But to keep on writing, wasting his mind and soul on trifles, to change his convictions, sell his intelligence and imagination, do violence to his nature, be in a perpetual state of excitement and turmoil, knowing no rest, always rushing about… And write and write, like a wheel or a machine – write tomorrow, write the day after – the holidays, summer will come – always writing, writing! When is he to stop and have a rest? Poor wretch!»

He turned his head towards the table, where everything was so bare, the ink dried up, and no pen to be seen, and he was glad that he lay as free of care as a new-born babe, without trying to do too many things at once, without selling anything.

«And the bailiff’s letter? And the flat?» he remembered suddenly, and sank into thought again.

But presently there was another ring at the front door.

«I seem to be holding a regular reception to-day», said Oblomov and waited to see who his new visitor was.

A man of indefinite age and of an indefinite appearance came into the room; he had reached the age when it was difficult to say how old he was; he was neither ugly nor handsome, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark; nature had not bestowed on him a single striking or outstanding characteristic, neither good nor bad. Some called him Ivan Ivanich, others Ivan Vassilyevich, and still others Ivan Mikhaylovich. People were also uncertain about his surname: some said it was Ivanov, some called him Vassilyev or Andreyev, and others thought he was Alexeyev. A stranger, meeting him for the first time and being told his name, immediately forgot it, as he forgot his face, and never noticed what he said. His presence added nothing to society and his absence took nothing away from it. His mind possessed no wit or originality or other peculiarities, just as his body possessed no peculiarities. He might have been able to tell everything he had seen or heard, and entertain people at least in that way, but he never went anywhere; he had been born in Petersburg and never left it, so that he merely saw and heard what others knew already. Is such a man attractive? Does he love or hate or suffer? It would seem that he ought to love and hate and suffer, for no one is exempt from that. But somehow or other he managed to love everyone. There are people in whom, however hard you try, you cannot arouse any feeling of hostility, revenge, etc. Whatever you do to them, they go on being nice to you. To do them justice, however, it is only fair to say that if you were to measure their love by degrees, it would never reach boiling point. Although such people are said to love everybody and are therefore supposed to be good-natured, they do not really love anybody and are good-natured simply because they are not ill-natured. If people were to give alms to a beggar in the presence of such a man, he, too, would give him a penny, and if they should scold the beggar or drive him away and laugh at him, he, too, would scold him or laugh at him. He cannot be called wealthy, because he is rather poor than rich; but he cannot be called poor either, if only because there are many people poorer than he. He has a private income of about 300 roubles a year, and, besides, has some unimportant post in the Civil Service, for which he receives a small salary; he is never in need, nor does he ever borrow money, nor, needless to say, would it ever occur to anyone to borrow money from him. He has no special or regular job in the service, because neither his superiors nor his colleagues could ever discover if there were any one thing he did better or worse in order to decide what he was particularly fit for. If he were told to do one thing or another, he did it in such a way that his superior was unable to say whether he had done it badly or well. He would just look at his work, read it through a few times and say: «Leave it, I’ll look it through later, and, anyway, it seems to be perfectly all right». No trace of worry or strong desire could be detected on his face, nor anything that would show that he was at that moment thinking of something; nor would you ever see him examining anything closely to show that he took a particular interest in it. If he happened to meet an acquaintance in the street and was asked where he was going, he would reply that he was going to his office or to a shop or to see some friend. But if his acquaintance asked him to go with him instead to the post office or to his tailor or just for a walk, he would go with him to the post office, the tailor, or for a walk, though it might mean going in the opposite direction.

It is doubtful if anyone except his mother noticed his advent into the world, and indeed very few people are aware of him while he lives, and it is quite certain that no one will miss him when he is gone. No one will inquire after him, no one will pity him, no one rejoice at his death. He has neither friends nor enemies, but lots of acquaintances. Quite likely only his funeral procession will attract the attention of a passer-by, who will for the first time honour this obscure individual by a show of respect, namely a low bow; and perhaps some curious fellow will run in front of the procession to find out the dead man’s name, and immediately forget it.

This Alexeyev, Andreyev, Vassilyev, or whatever his name is, seems to be a sort of incomplete and impersonal reminder of the human crowd, its dull echo, its pale reflection.

Even Zakhar, who in his candid talks with his cronies at the gate or in the shops gave all sorts of characterizations of his master’s visitors, always felt perplexed when they came to talk of this – let us say, Alexeyev. He would reflect a long time, trying to catch some prominent feature in the face, the looks or the manners or the character of this man, to which he might be able to hold on, and at last had to give it up with the words: «Oh, that one is neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring».

«Oh, that’s you, Alexeyev?» Oblomov greeted him. «Good morning. Where do you come from? Don’t come near – don’t come near, I won’t shake hands – you’re straight from the cold street!»

«Good Lord, it isn’t cold at all!» said Alexeyev. «I hadn’t intended to call on you to-day, but I met Ovchinin and he carried me off to his place. I’ve come to fetch you, Oblomov».

«Where to?»

«Why, to Ovchinin’s, of course. Matvey Andreyich Alyanov, Kasimir Albertovich Pkhailo, and Vassily Sevastyanych Kolymyagin are there».

«What are they doing there and what do they want me for?»

«Ovchinin invites you to dinner».

«Oh, to dinner», Oblomov repeated without enthusiasm.

«And then we’re all going to Yekaterinhof; they told me to ask you to hire a carriage».

«And what are we going to do there?»

«What do you mean? There’s a fête there to-day. Don’t you know? It’s the first of May».

«Sit down, please; we’ll think about it», said Oblomov.

«Do get up! It’s time you were dressed».

«Wait a little; we’ve plenty of time».

«Plenty of time! They are expecting us at twelve, we’ll have dinner early, at two o’clock, and go to the festival. Do hurry up! Shall I ask Zakhar to help you to dress?»

«Dress? I haven’t washed yet!»

«Well, wash, then!»

Alexeyev began pacing the room, then he stopped before a picture he had seen a thousand times before, cast a quick glance out of the window, picked up some knick-knack from the bookcase, turned it round in his hand, examined it thoroughly, put it back, and began pacing the room again, whistling to himself – so as not to interfere with Oblomov’s getting up and washing. Ten minutes passed in this way.

«What on earth are you doing?» Alexeyev suddenly asked Oblomov.

«Why?»

«But you’re still lying down!»

«Should I have got up, then?»

«Why, of course! They’re waiting for us. You wanted to go, didn’t you?»

«Go? Where? I didn’t want to go anywhere».

«But, my dear fellow, you’ve just been saying that we were going to dine at Ovchinin’s and then go to the festival».

«Go there in this damp weather?» Oblomov said lazily. «What do you expect to see there? It’s going to rain, too, it’s so dull outside».

«There’s not a cloud in the sky and you talk of rain! It looks so dull because your windows haven’t been cleaned for ages! Look at the dirt on them! You can’t see a thing here, and one curtain is almost closed».

«I daresay, but just try to say a word about it to Zakhar and he’ll at once suggest engaging charwomen and driving me out of the house for a whole day!»

Oblomov sank into thought, and Alexeyev sat at the table drumming on it with his finger-tips and gazing absent-mindedly at the walls and the ceiling.

«So what are we going to do?» he asked a few minutes later. «Are you going to dress or do you stay as you are?»

«Why?»

«What about Yekaterinhof?»

«What on earth are you so anxious about Yekaterinhof for – really!» Oblomov cried vexatiously. «Can’t you stay here? Are you cold here or is there a bad smell in the room that you’re so anxious to get out?»

«Why, no», said Alexeyev; «I’m not complaining. I’m always very happy here».

«Well, if you are, why are you so anxious to be somewhere else? Why not stay here with me for the day? We’ll have dinner and in the evening you may go where you like. Oh dear, I’ve forgotten: I can’t possibly go out! Tarantyev is coming to dinner: it’s Saturday».

«Well, of course, I don’t mind. I’ll do as you wish», said Alexeyev.

«I haven’t told you anything about my affairs, have I?» Oblomov asked quickly.

«What affairs? I don’t know anything», said Alexeyev, staring at him in surprise.

«Why do you think I haven’t got up all this time? You see, I’ve been lying here trying to find some way out of my troubles».

«What’s the matter?» asked Alexeyev, trying to look alarmed.

«Two misfortunes! I don’t know what to do».

«What misfortunes?»

«They’re driving me out of my flat. Just imagine it – I must move: the upset, the breakages-the mere thought of it frightens me – I have lived here for eight years, you know. My landlord has played a dirty trick on me. Hurry up and move, he says».

«Hurry up! That means he wants your flat badly. Moving is a great nuisance – a very troublesome business», said Alexeyev. «They’re sure to lose and break things – such an infernal nuisance! And you have such a nice flat… What rent do you pay?»

«Where am I to find another such flat?» Oblomov went on; «and in a hurry, too? Dry and warm; a nice quiet house; we’ve had only one burglary here. The ceiling, it is true, doesn’t look quite safe – the plaster is bulging – but it hasn’t come down yet».

«Fancy that!» said Alexeyev, shaking his head.

«I wonder if there is anything I could do so that I – needn’t move?» Oblomov remarked pensively, as though speaking to himself.

«Have you got your flat on a lease?» Alexeyev asked, examining the room from floor to ceiling.

«Yes, but the lease has expired: I’ve been paying the rent monthly for some time – don’t remember for how long».

«Well, what do you intend to do?» Alexeyev asked after a short pause. «Are you going to move or not?»

«I don’t intend to do anything», said Oblomov. «I don’t want even to think of it. Let Zakhar think of something».

«But, you know, some people like moving», said Alexeyev. «Changing flats seems to be their only pleasure in life».

«Well, let them move, then», Oblomov retorted. «For my part, I can’t stand any changes! But the flat’s nothing – you’d better have a look at what my bailiff writes to me! Here, I’ll show you his letter – where the devil is it? Zakhar! Zakhar!»

«Mother of God!» Zakhar wheezed to himself, jumping off his stove. «When will the good Lord put an end to my troubles?» He came in and looked dully at his master.

«Why haven’t you found the letter?»

«Where am I to find it, sir? I don’t even know which letter you want. I can’t read, can I?»

«Never mind, look for it», said Oblomov.

«You were reading some letter last night, sir», said Zakhar, «but I haven’t seen it since».

«Where is it then?» Oblomov asked with vexation. «I haven’t swallowed it, have I? I remember very well that you took it from me and put it somewhere. There it is – look!»

He shook the blanket and the letter fell on the floor out of its folds.

«Aye, I’m always the one what gets the blame for everything!»

«All right, all right», Oblomov and Zakhar shouted at each other at the same time. «Go-go!»

Zakhar went out, and Oblomov began reading the letter, which seemed to have been written in kvas on grey paper and sealed with brownish sealing-wax. Enormous pale letters followed in solemn procession, without touching each other, along an oblique line from the top to the bottom corner of the page. The procession was occasionally interrupted by a huge pale blot.

«Dear Sir», Oblomov began, «our father and benefactor» – Here he omitted several greetings and good wishes and went on from the middle: «I am glad to inform you, Sir, that everything on your estate is in good order. There has been no rain for five weeks and I daresay, Sir, the good Lord must be angry with us not to send us rain. The old men don’t remember such a drought, Sir. The spring crops have all been burnt up as if by a devouring fire; the winter crops have been ruined, some by the worm and some by early frost; we have ploughed it over for spring crops, but we can’t be sure if it will be any good. Let us hope, Sir, that merciful heaven will spare you; we do not care what happens to us – let us all starve to death. On St John’s Eve three more peasants ran away: Laptev, Balochov, and Vasska, the blacksmith’s son, who ran off by himself. I sent the women after their husbands, but they never came back, and are living at Cholki, I am told. A relative of mine went to CholkI from Verkhlyovo, the estate manager sent him there to inspect a foreign plough. I told him about the runaway peasants. He said he had been to see the police inspector who told him to send in a written statement, after which everything would be done to send the peasants back to their places of domicile. He said nothing except that, and I fell at his feet and begged him with tears in my eyes, but he bawled at me at the top of his voice: „Be off! Be off with you! I’ve told you it will be done if you send in your signed statement!“ But I never did send in the statement. There is no one I can hire here; all have gone to the Volga, to work on the barges – the people here have all become so stupid, Sir. There will be no linen of ours at the fair this year: I have locked up the drying and the bleaching sheds and put Sychuga to watch them day and night; he never touches a drop, and to make sure he don’t steal any of his master’s goods, I watch over him day and night. The other peasants drink a lot and they are all anxious to pay rent for their land instead of working on your land without any payment. Many of them have not paid up their arrears. This year, Sir, we will send you about two thousand less than last year, unless the drought ruins us completely, otherwise we shall send you the money as promised».

There followed expressions of loyalty and the signature: «Your bailiff and most humble slave, Sir, Prokofy Vytyagushkin, has put his hand to it with his own hand». Being illiterate he put a cross under the letter. «Written from the words of the said bailiff by his brother-in-law, Dyomka the One-Eyed».

Oblomov glanced at the end of the letter. «No month or year», he said. «I suppose the letter must have been lying about at the bailiff’s since last year – St John’s Eve and the drought! Just woken up to it!» He sank into thought. «Well?» he went on. «What do you make of it? He offers to send me about two thousand less – how much will that leave? How much do you think I received last year?» he asked, looking at Alexeyev. «I didn’t mention it to you at the time, did I?»

Alexeyev raised his eyes to the ceiling and pondered.

«I must ask Stolz when he comes», Oblomov continued. «Seven or eight thousand, I believe – I should have made a note of it!

So now he puts me down to six! Why, I shall starve! How can I live on it?»

«Why worry?» said Alexeyev. «A man must never give way to despair. It will all come right in the end».

«But did you hear what he said? He doesn’t send me the money – oh no! He doesn’t say anything to put my mind at rest. All he is thinking of is to cause me unpleasantness, and he does it deliberately! Every year the same story! I simply don’t know what to do! Two thousand less!»

«Yes, it’s a great loss!» said Alexeyev. «Two thousand is no joke! Alexey Login, I understand, also got twelve instead of seventeen thousand this year».

«Twelve thousand isn’t six thousand», Oblomov interrupted him. «The bailiff has thoroughly upset me! If all this is really true – I mean, the bad harvest and the drought, then why has he to worry me before the proper time?»

«Well, of course», Alexeyev began, «he shouldn’t have done that. But you can’t expect a peasant to have nice feelings, can you? That sort of man doesn’t understand anything».

«But what would you do in my place?» asked Oblomov, looking questioningly at Alexeyev in the vain hope that he might think of something to allay his fears.

«This requires careful thought», said Alexeyev. «It’s impossible to decide at once».

«Ought I to write to the Governor, I wonder?» Oblomov said, musingly.

«Who is your Governor?» asked Alexeyev.

Oblomov did not reply and sank into thought. Alexeyev fell silent and also pondered.

Crumpling the letter in his hands, Oblomov propped up his head on them and, resting his elbows on his knees, sat like that for some time, tormented by an onrush of profitless thoughts.

«I wish Stolz would hurry up and come», he said. «He writes to say he’s coming soon, meanwhile he’s rushing about goodness only knows where. He’d settle it all!»

He again stared sadly about him. They were both silent a long time. Oblomov was the first to rouse himself at last.

«That’s what has to be done», he said resolutely and almost got out of bed. «And it must be done as soon as possible. No use wasting any more time. First…»

At that moment there was a desperate ring at the front door, so that Oblomov and Alexeyev both gave a start and Zakhar at once jumped off the stove.