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First published in 1859, Russian Empire

“Otechestvennye Zapiski” magazin

This book is in the public domain

Reprint by Publishing House №10

Publication date July 25, 2025

Translation from Russian

886 Pages, Font 12 pt, Bookman Old Style

Electronic edition, File size 933 KB

Cover design, Translate by Yulia Basharova

Table of Contents

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART ONE

I

On Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the large buildings, whose population would suffice for an entire provincial town, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov lay in bed in his apartment that morning.

He was a man of about thirty-two or three years old, of medium height, with a pleasant appearance, dark gray eyes, but utterly lacking any definite idea or focus in his facial features. Thought wandered freely like a bird across his face, fluttered in his eyes, settled on his half-open lips, hid in the folds of his forehead, then vanished completely, and then a steady light of carefree idleness glowed over his entire face. From his face, this carefree air spread to the poses of his entire body, even to the folds of his dressing gown.

Sometimes his gaze clouded over with an expression of what seemed like fatigue or boredom; but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away the softness from his face, which was the dominant and fundamental expression, not only of his face but of his entire soul; and his soul shone so openly and clearly in his eyes, in his smile, in every movement of his head and hand. And a superficially observant, cold person, glancing casually at Oblomov, would say, “He must be a kind soul, so simple!” A deeper and more sympathetic person, gazing long at his face, would walk away in pleasant contemplation, with a smile.

Ilya Ilyich’s complexion was neither rosy, nor dark, nor distinctly pale, but indifferent, or it seemed so, perhaps because Oblomov had somehow become flabby prematurely: whether from lack of movement or fresh air, or perhaps both. In general, his body, judging by the matte, overly white skin of his neck, his small plump hands, and soft shoulders, seemed too pampered for a man.

His movements, even when he was agitated, were constrained by a softness and a kind of graceful laziness. If a cloud of worry descended from his soul upon his face, his gaze would become hazy, wrinkles would appear on his forehead, and a play of doubt, sorrow, and fear would begin; but rarely did this anxiety solidify into a definite idea, and even more rarely did it turn into an intention. All anxiety would resolve itself in a sigh and die away in apathy or drowsiness.

How well Oblomov’s house attire suited the placid features of his face and his pampered body! He wore a dressing gown of Persian material, a true Oriental dressing gown, without the slightest hint of Europe, no tassels, no velvet, no waistline, and very roomy, so much so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice. The sleeves, in unchanging Asian fashion, widened from his fingers to his shoulder. Although this dressing gown had lost its original freshness and in places its primitive, natural sheen had been replaced by an acquired one, it still retained the brightness of its Oriental color and the strength of its fabric.

In Oblomov’s eyes, the dressing gown possessed a multitude of invaluable merits: it was soft, flexible; his body didn’t feel it; like an obedient slave, it yielded to the slightest movement of his body.

Oblomov always walked around the house without a tie and without a waistcoat because he loved space and freedom. His slippers were long, soft, and wide; when he dropped his feet from the bed to the floor without looking, he invariably landed in them at once.

Lying down was not a necessity for Ilya Ilyich, as it would be for an invalid or someone who wants to sleep, nor an accident, as for someone who is tired, nor a pleasure, as for a sluggard: it was his normal state. When he was at home — and he was almost always at home — he was always lying down, and always in the same room where we found him, which served him as bedroom, study, and reception room. He had three other rooms, but he rarely looked into them, perhaps in the morning, and not even every day, when someone cleaned his study, which wasn’t done daily. In those rooms, the furniture was covered with dust sheets, and the blinds were down.

The room where Ilya Ilyich lay seemed beautifully furnished at first glance. There was a mahogany desk, two sofas upholstered in silk, beautiful screens with birds and fruits embroidered on them, unlike anything found in nature. There were silk curtains, carpets, several paintings, bronze, porcelain, and a multitude of beautiful trinkets.

But the experienced eye of a person with refined taste, with one quick glance at everything there, would only discern a desire to somehow observe decorum (propriety/etiquette), the unavoidable decencies, just to get them over with. Oblomov, of course, only bothered with this when he furnished his study. A refined taste would not have been satisfied with these heavy, ungraceful mahogany chairs, or the shaky shelving units. The back of one sofa had sagged, and the glued veneer had come off in places.

The paintings, vases, and trinkets bore precisely the same character.

The master himself, however, viewed the furnishings of his study so coldly and distractedly, as if asking with his eyes: “Who dragged all this in here and arranged it?” From such a cold view of his own property by Oblomov, and perhaps from an even colder view of the same subject by his servant, Zakhar, the appearance of the study, upon closer inspection, was striking for the prevailing neglect and sloppiness.

On the walls, near the paintings, dust-laden cobwebs clung in festoons; mirrors, instead of reflecting objects, could more readily serve as tablets for scribbling notes in the dust. The carpets were stained. A forgotten towel lay on the sofa; rarely a morning passed without a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone from yesterday’s dinner standing uncleared on the table, or without breadcrumbs scattered about.

If it weren’t for this plate, or the freshly smoked pipe leaning against the bed, or the master himself lying on it, one might have thought that no one lived here — everything was so dusty, faded, and generally devoid of living traces of human presence. On the shelving units, it’s true, lay two or three open books, a newspaper lay scattered, and an inkstand with pens stood on the desk; but the pages on which the books were open were covered with dust and had yellowed; it was clear they had been abandoned long ago; the newspaper was from last year, and from the inkstand, if one dipped a pen into it, only a startled fly would buzz out.

Ilya Ilyich woke up, contrary to his habit, very early, around eight o’clock. He was deeply worried about something. Fear, then melancholy and annoyance, alternately appeared on his face. It was clear that an internal struggle was overcoming him, and his mind had not yet come to his aid.

The fact was that Oblomov had received an unpleasant letter from his bailiff (village elder) the day before. It’s well known what kind of unpleasantries a bailiff might write about: crop failure, arrears, reduced income, etc. Although the bailiff had written similar letters to his master last year and the year before that, this latest letter had the same strong effect as any unpleasant surprise.

Was it easy? He had to think about means to take some measures. However, one must credit Ilya Ilyich’s concern for his affairs. Upon receiving the first unpleasant letter from the bailiff several years ago, he had already begun to devise a mental plan for various changes and improvements in the management of his estate.

This plan intended to introduce various new economic, police, and other measures. But the plan was far from fully thought out, and the unpleasant letters from the bailiff recurred annually, prompting him to action and, consequently, disturbing his peace. Oblomov recognized the necessity of undertaking something decisive before the completion of the plan.

As soon as he woke up, he immediately intended to get up, wash, and, after drinking tea, think things through carefully, consider some points, write them down, and generally attend to this matter properly.

For half an hour, he continued to lie there, tormented by this intention, but then he decided that he would still have time to do it after tea, and tea could be drunk, as usual, in bed, especially since nothing prevented him from thinking while lying down.

And so he did. After tea, he had already raised himself from his bed and was on the verge of getting up; looking at his slippers, he even began to lower one foot from the bed towards them, but immediately pulled it back.

It struck half past nine, and Ilya Ilyich stirred.

“What am I really doing?” he said aloud with annoyance. “I must have some conscience: it’s time to get to work! Just give myself free rein, and then…”

“Zakhar!” he shouted.

In the room, which was separated from Ilya Ilyich’s study only by a small corridor, there was at first a sound like the growling of a chained dog, then the thud of feet jumping down from somewhere. This was Zakhar jumping down from the sleeping bench where he usually spent his time, immersed in drowsiness.

An elderly man entered the room, wearing a gray frock coat with a tear under the armpit from which a scrap of shirt protruded, and a gray waistcoat with copper buttons, a bald head like a knee, and immensely wide and thick blond sideburns streaked with gray, each of which would have been enough for three beards.

Zakhar did not try to change not only the image given to him by God but also his attire, which he wore in the village. His clothes were tailored to a pattern he had brought from the village. He liked the gray frock coat and waistcoat because in this semi-uniform attire he saw a faint reminiscence of the livery he once wore when accompanying his late masters to church or to visit; and in his memories, the livery was the sole representative of the dignity of the Oblomov household.

Nothing else reminded the old man of the broad and comfortable gentry life in the depths of the village. The old masters had died, the family portraits remained at home and were probably lying somewhere in the attic; the traditions of the old way of life and the importance of the family were all dying out or lived only in the memory of a few old people who remained in the village. Therefore, the gray frock coat was precious to Zakhar: in it, and in a few other signs preserved in his master’s face and manners that reminded him of his parents, and in his whims, which he grumbled about, both to himself and aloud, but which he inwardly respected as a manifestation of the master’s will, of the landlord’s right, he saw faint hints of departed grandeur.

Without these whims, he somehow didn’t feel a master over him; without them, nothing resurrected his youth, the village they had left long ago, and the traditions of this old house, the only chronicle kept by old servants, nannies, wet nurses, and passed down from generation to generation.

The Oblomov house had once been rich and famous in its region, but then, God knows why, it grew poorer and smaller and finally imperceptibly got lost among the not-so-old noble houses. Only the gray-haired servants of the house preserved and passed on to each other a faithful memory of the past, cherishing it as a relic.

That’s why Zakhar loved his gray frock coat so much. Perhaps he also treasured his sideburns because he had seen many old servants with this ancient, aristocratic adornment in his childhood.

Ilya Ilyich, immersed in thought, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood silently before him. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“What is it?” Ilya Ilyich asked.

“Didn’t you call?”

“Called? Why did I call — I don’t remember!” he replied, stretching. “Go back for now, and I’ll remember.”

Zakhar left, and Ilya Ilyich continued to lie and think about the cursed letter.

A quarter of an hour passed.

“Well, enough lying around!” he said. “I must get up… But wait, let me read the bailiff’s letter one more time carefully, and then I’ll get up.” — “Zakhar!”

Again the same jump and a stronger growl. Zakhar entered, and Oblomov again fell into thought. Zakhar stood for about two minutes, disapprovingly, looking at his master slightly askance, and finally walked towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Oblomov suddenly asked.

“You’re not saying anything, so why stand here doing nothing?” Zakhar croaked, lacking any other voice, which, according to him, he had lost while hunting with dogs when he was with the old master, and a strong wind supposedly blew into his throat.

He stood half-turned in the middle of the room and kept looking askance at Oblomov.

“Are your legs withered that you can’t stand? You see I’m preoccupied — so wait! Haven’t you been lying around enough there? Find the letter I received from the bailiff yesterday. Where did you put it?”

“What letter? I haven’t seen any letter,” Zakhar said.

“You took it from the postman: the dirty one!”

“Where was it put — how should I know?” Zakhar said, patting papers and various items lying on the table.

“You never know anything. Look in the basket over there! Or has it fallen behind the sofa? The back of the sofa still isn’t fixed; why don’t you call a carpenter and fix it? You broke it, after all. You don’t think of anything!”

“I didn’t break it,” Zakhar replied, “it broke by itself; it couldn’t last forever: it had to break sometime.”

Ilya Ilyich didn’t consider it necessary to argue the point.

“Did you find it?” he merely asked.

“Here are some letters.”

“Not those.”

“Well, then there are no more,” Zakhar said.

“Alright, go!” Ilya Ilyich said impatiently. “I’ll get up and find it myself.”

Zakhar went to his room, but just as he leaned his hands on the sleeping bench to jump onto it, a hasty cry was heard again: “Zakhar, Zakhar!”

“Oh, my God!” Zakhar grumbled, heading back to the study. “What torture is this? I wish death would come sooner!”

“What do you want?” he said, holding onto the study door with one hand and looking at Oblomov, as a sign of displeasure, so askance that he had to see his master with half an eye, and his master could only see one immense sideburn, from which you’d expect two or three birds to fly out.

“A handkerchief, quickly! You could have figured it out yourself: can’t you see!” Ilya Ilyich remarked sternly.

Zakhar showed no particular displeasure or surprise at this command and reproach from his master, probably finding both quite natural from his perspective.

“And who knows where the handkerchief is?” he grumbled, walking around the room and feeling each chair, though it was evident there was nothing on the chairs.

“You lose everything!” he remarked, opening the drawing-room door to see if it was there.

“Where? Look here! I haven’t been there since the day before yesterday. And hurry up!” Ilya Ilyich said.

“Where’s the handkerchief? No handkerchief!” Zakhar said, spreading his hands and looking into all corners. “Oh, there it is,” he suddenly croaked angrily, “under you! There’s an end sticking out. You’re lying on it yourself and asking for a handkerchief!”

And without waiting for an answer, Zakhar started to leave. Oblomov felt a little awkward about his own blunder. He quickly found another reason to blame Zakhar.

“What cleanliness you have everywhere: the dust, the dirt, my God! Look, look, look in the corners — you don’t do anything!”

“If I don’t do anything…” Zakhar began in an offended voice, “I try, I spare no effort! I wipe the dust and sweep almost every day…”

He pointed to the middle of the floor and to the table where Oblomov had dined.

“There, there,” he said, “everything is swept, tidied up, as if for a wedding… What else?”

“And what’s this?” Ilya Ilyich interrupted, pointing to the walls and ceiling. “And this? And this?” He also pointed to the towel left from yesterday and the forgotten plate with a slice of bread on the table.

“Well, I suppose I’ll clear this away,” Zakhar said condescendingly, taking the plate.

“Only this! And the dust on the walls, and the cobwebs?” Oblomov said, pointing to the walls.

“I clean that for Holy Week: that’s when I clean the icons and remove the cobwebs…”

“And sweep the books, the paintings?”

“Books and paintings before Christmas: then Anisya and I will go through all the cupboards. And when will you clean now? You’re always at home.”

“I sometimes go to the theater or visit friends: that would be…”

“What kind of cleaning at night!”

Oblomov looked at him reproachfully, shook his head, and sighed, while Zakhar looked indifferently out the window and also sighed. The master seemed to think: “Well, brother, you are even more Oblomov than I am,” and Zakhar almost certainly thought: “You lie! You’re just good at speaking clever and pathetic words, but you don’t care about dust or cobwebs.”

“Do you understand,” Ilya Ilyich said, “that dust breeds moths? I sometimes even see a bedbug on the wall!”

“I have fleas too!” Zakhar replied indifferently.

“Is that good? That’s disgusting!” Oblomov remarked.

Zakhar smiled broadly, so much so that the smile encompassed even his eyebrows and sideburns, which spread apart, and a red spot diffused across his entire face up to his forehead.

“How am I to blame that bedbugs exist in the world?” he said with naive surprise. “Did I invent them?”

“It’s from uncleanliness,” Oblomov interrupted. “Why do you always lie!”

“And I didn’t invent uncleanliness.”

“You have mice running around there at night — I hear them.”

“And I didn’t invent mice. There are a lot of these creatures everywhere, whether mice, cats, or bedbugs.”

“How is it that others have neither moths nor bedbugs?”

Zakhar’s face expressed incredulity, or rather, a calm certainty that such a thing simply wasn’t true.

“I have plenty of everything,” he said stubbornly, “you can’t keep an eye on every bedbug, you can’t crawl into its crack.”

And he himself seemed to be thinking: “And what kind of sleep is it without a bedbug?”

“You sweep, pick out the rubbish from the corners — and there will be nothing,” Oblomov instructed.

“You clean it up, and tomorrow it will gather again,” Zakhar said.

“It won’t gather,” the master interrupted, “it shouldn’t.”

“It will gather — I know,” the servant insisted.

“And if it gathers, then sweep it again.”

“How’s that? Sort through all the corners every day?” Zakhar asked. “What kind of life is that? May God take my soul sooner!”

“Why is it clean at others’ places?” Oblomov countered. “Look across the street, at the piano tuner’s: it’s a pleasure to look at, and there’s only one maid…”

“And where would Germans get rubbish?” Zakhar suddenly retorted. “You look at how they live! The whole family gnaws on a bone for a whole week. A frock coat passes from father to son, and from son back to father. The wives and daughters wear short dresses: they all pull their legs up under themselves like geese… Where would they get rubbish? They don’t have this, like we do, a pile of old, worn-out clothes lying in cupboards for years, or a whole corner of bread crusts accumulated over winter… They don’t even have a crust lying around for nothing: they make croutons and drink them with beer!”

Zakhar even spat through his teeth, discussing such a miserly way of living.

“No need to argue!” Ilya Ilyich countered, “you’d better clean up.”

“Sometimes I would clean, but you yourself don’t let me,” Zakhar said.

“Go on! You think I’m always in the way.”

“Of course, you are; you’re always at home: how can I clean with you around? Go away for a whole day, and I’ll clean.”

“Now you’ve come up with something else — going away! You’d better go to your room.”

“Honestly!” Zakhar insisted. “For example, if you went out today, Anisya and I would clean everything. Even then, we wouldn’t manage alone: we’d need to hire more women to wash everything.”

“Oh! What schemes — women! Go away,” Ilya Ilyich said.

He was already regretting having started this conversation with Zakhar. He always forgot that as soon as you touch upon this delicate subject, you’ll be burdened with trouble.

Oblomov wanted things to be clean, but he wished it would happen somehow, imperceptibly, by itself; and Zakhar always started a dispute as soon as he was asked to sweep dust, wash floors, and so on. In such cases, he would begin to prove the necessity of an immense fuss in the house, knowing very well that the mere thought of it terrified his master.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov fell into thought. A few minutes later, another half-hour struck.

“What’s this?” Ilya Ilyich said, almost with horror. “It’s almost eleven, and I still haven’t gotten up or washed yet? Zakhar, Zakhar!”

“Oh, my God! Fine!” came from the anteroom, and then the familiar jump.

“Is the washing ready?” Oblomov asked.

“It’s been ready for a long time!” Zakhar replied. “Why don’t you get up?”

“Why didn’t you say it was ready? I would have gotten up long ago. Go on, I’m coming right after you. I need to get to work, I’ll sit down and write.”

Zakhar left, but a minute later returned with a scribbled and greasy notebook and scraps of paper.

“Here, if you’re going to write, you might as well verify the accounts: we need to pay money.”

“What accounts? What money?” Ilya Ilyich asked with displeasure.

“From the butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, the baker: everyone’s asking for money.”

“Only money to worry about!” Ilya Ilyich grumbled. “Why don’t you bring the accounts little by little, instead of all at once?”

“You always sent me away: tomorrow, tomorrow…”

“Well, so can’t it wait until tomorrow now?”

“No! They’re pushing too hard: they won’t give any more credit. Today’s the first of the month.”

“Ah!” Oblomov said with anguish. “A new worry! Well, what are you standing there for? Put it on the table. I’ll get up now, wash, and look,” Ilya Ilyich said. “So, is the washing ready?”

“It’s ready!” Zakhar said.

“Well, now…”

He began, groaning, to raise himself in bed to get up.

“I forgot to tell you,” Zakhar began, “a while ago, while you were still sleeping, the caretaker of the building sent word: he says we absolutely must move out… the apartment is needed.”

“Well, what’s that about? If it’s needed, then, of course, we’ll move. Why are you bothering me? This is the third time you’ve told me about it.”

“They’re bothering me too.”

“Tell them we’ll move.”

“They say: you’ve been promising for about a month, they say, and you still haven’t moved; we, they say, will notify the police.”

“Let them notify!” Oblomov said decisively. “We’ll move ourselves when it gets warmer, in about three weeks.”

“Three weeks! The caretaker says the workers will come in two weeks: they’ll break everything… ‘Move out,’ he says, ‘tomorrow or the day after…'”

“Oh, oh, oh! Too hasty! See what else! Will you order it right now? And don’t you dare remind me about the apartment again. I’ve forbidden you once; and you’re doing it again. Watch it!”

“What am I to do then?” Zakhar replied.

“What to do? — that’s how he gets rid of me!” Ilya Ilyich replied. “He’s asking me! What do I care? Don’t bother me, and arrange it however you want, just so we don’t have to move. He can’t even make an effort for his master!”

“But how, my dear Ilya Ilyich, can I arrange it?” Zakhar began with a soft wheeze. “The house isn’t mine: how can we not move out of someone else’s house if they’re kicking us out? If it were my house, I would with great pleasure…”

“Can’t you persuade them somehow? ‘We’ve lived here a long time,’ you say, ‘we pay regularly.'”

“I told them,” Zakhar said.

“Well, what did they say?”

“What! They stuck to their story: ‘Move out,’ they say, ‘we need to remodel the apartment.’ They want to combine the doctor’s apartment and this one into one large apartment, for the landlord’s son’s wedding.”

“Oh, my God!” Oblomov said with annoyance. “There are such donkeys who get married!”

He turned onto his back.

“You should write to the landlord, sir,” Zakhar said, “then maybe he wouldn’t bother you and would tell them to break down that other apartment first.”

Zakhar then pointed his hand somewhere to the right.

“Alright, when I get up, I’ll write… You go to your room, and I’ll think. You can’t do anything,” he added, “I have to bother with this rubbish myself.”

Zakhar left, and Oblomov began to think.

But he was at a loss as to what to think about: the bailiff’s letter, moving to a new apartment, or settling accounts? He was lost in a rush of everyday worries and kept lying there, tossing from side to side. From time to time, only fragmented exclamations were heard: “Oh, my God! Life touches everywhere, it reaches everywhere.”

It’s unknown how much longer he would have remained in this indecision, but the doorbell rang in the anteroom.

“Someone’s already here!” Oblomov said, wrapping himself in his dressing gown. “And I haven’t even gotten up — what a disgrace! Who could it be so early?”

And he lay there, looking curiously at the door.

II

A young man of about twenty-five entered, radiant with health, with laughing cheeks, lips, and eyes. One felt envy just looking at him.

He was impeccably coiffed and dressed, dazzling with the freshness of his face, linen, gloves, and frock coat. An elegant chain lay across his waistcoat, with many tiny charms. He took out a very fine batiste handkerchief, inhaled the aromas of the East, then carelessly drew it across his face, over his glossy hat, and dabbed his lacquered boots.

“Ah, Volkov, hello!” said Ilya Ilyich.

“Hello, Oblomov,” said the brilliant gentleman, approaching him.

“Don’t come closer, don’t come closer: you’re cold!” said Oblomov.

“Oh, you pampered darling, you sybarite!” said Volkov, looking for somewhere to put his hat, and seeing dust everywhere, placed it nowhere; he spread both tails of his frock coat to sit down, but after looking closely at the armchair, remained standing.

“You haven’t gotten up yet! What kind of dressing gown is that you’re wearing? People stopped wearing those ages ago,” he chided Oblomov.

“It’s not a dressing gown, but a khalat (dressing gown/robe),” Oblomov said, lovingly wrapping himself in the wide folds of his khalat.

“Are you well?” Volkov asked.

“What health!” Oblomov said, yawning. “Bad! The hot flashes are tormenting me. And how are you doing?”

“Me? Nothing: healthy and cheerful,” he added with feeling. “Very cheerful!”

“Where are you coming from so early?” Oblomov asked.

“From the tailor. Look, is the frock coat good?” he said, turning around in front of Oblomov.

“Excellent! Very tastefully made,” Ilya Ilyich said, “but why is it so wide in the back?”

“It’s a riding coat (reit-frak): for horseback riding.”

“Ah! So that’s what it is! Do you ride horseback?”

“Of course! I had this frock coat specially made for today. After all, today is the first of May: I’m going to Yekaterinhof with Goryunov. Ah! You don’t know? Misha Goryunov got promoted — so today we’re celebrating,” Volkov added enthusiastically.

“Is that so!” Oblomov said.

“He has a red horse,” Volkov continued, “they have red ones in their regiment, and I have a black one. How will you be going: on foot or by carriage?”

“Well… not at all,” Oblomov said.

“Not going to Yekaterinhof on the first of May! Ilya Ilyich, what are you thinking!” Volkov said in amazement. “Everyone will be there!”

“Well, ‘everyone’! No, not everyone!” Oblomov remarked lazily.

“Go, my dear Ilya Ilyich! Sofya Nikolaevna and Lidiya will be only two in the carriage; there’s a small seat opposite in the phaeton: you could go with them…”

“No, I won’t sit on a small seat. And what would I do there?”

“Well then, if you like, Misha will give you another horse?”

“God knows what he’ll come up with!” Oblomov said almost to himself. “What’s with your obsession with the Goryunovs?”

“Ah!” Volkov exclaimed, flushing, “Shall I tell you?”

“Speak!”

“You won’t tell anyone — honest word?” Volkov continued, sitting down on the sofa next to him.

“Perhaps.”

“I… I’m in love with Lidiya,” he whispered.

“Bravo! Since when? She seems so pretty.”

“For three weeks now!” Volkov said with a deep sigh. “And Misha is in love with Dashenka.”

“Which Dashenka?”

“Where are you from, Oblomov? Doesn’t know Dashenka! The whole city is crazy about how she dances! Today, he and I are at the ballet; he’ll throw a bouquet. I need to introduce him: he’s shy, still a novice… Oh! I need to go get camellias…”

“Where else? Enough of that, come have dinner: we could talk. I have two misfortunes…”

“I can’t: I’m dining at Prince Tyumenev’s; all the Goryunovs will be there, and she, she… Lidenka,” he added in a whisper. “Why did you stop visiting the Prince? What a cheerful house! How well it’s run! And the dacha (country house)! Drowned in flowers! They’ve added a gallery, gothique (Gothic). They say there will be dances and tableaux vivants in the summer. Will you be attending?”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“Ah, what a house! This past winter, on Wednesdays, there were never fewer than fifty people, and sometimes up to a hundred…”

“My God! That must be hellish boredom!”

“How can that be? Boredom! The more, the merrier. Lidiya used to be there, I didn’t notice her, but suddenly… ‘In vain I try to forget her / And want to conquer passion with reason…’ “

He sang and sat down, lost in thought, in the armchair, but suddenly jumped up and began to brush dust from his clothes.

“You have dust everywhere!” he said.

“It’s all Zakhar!” Oblomov complained.

“Well, I must go!” Volkov said. “For camellias for Misha’s bouquet. Au revoir (Goodbye).”

“Come for tea in the evening, after the ballet: you can tell me how everything was,” Oblomov invited.

“I can’t, I promised the Mussinskys: it’s their day today. You come too. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“No, what would I do there?”

“At the Mussinskys’? My dear, half the town goes there. What to do? It’s a house where they talk about everything…”

“That’s exactly what’s boring, that they talk about everything,” Oblomov said.

“Well, visit the Mezdrovs,” Volkov interrupted, “there they talk about only one thing, about the arts; all you hear is: Venetian school, Beethoven and Bach, Leonardo da Vinci…”

“Forever on the same thing — how boring! Pedants, they must be!” Oblomov said, yawning.

“You’re impossible to please. But there are so many houses! Now everyone has their days: the Savinovs dine on Thursdays, the Maklashins on Fridays, the Vyaznikovs on Sundays, Prince Tyumenev on Wednesdays. All my days are busy!” Volkov concluded with shining eyes.

“And you’re not lazy to wander about day after day?”

“Lazy! What laziness? It’s great fun!” he said carelessly. “In the morning you read, you have to be au courant (up to date) with everything, know the news. Thank God, my service is such that I don’t need to be in office. Only twice a week I sit and dine with the general, and then you go on visits where you haven’t been for a long time; well, and then… a new actress, either in the Russian or French theater. There’s an opera coming, I’ll subscribe. And now I’m in love… Summer is beginning; Misha has been promised leave; we’ll go to their village for a month, for a change. There’s hunting there. They have excellent neighbors, they give bals champêtres (country dances). Lidiya and I will walk in the grove, go boating, pick flowers… Ah!..” And he rolled over with joy. “However, it’s time… Goodbye,” he said, trying in vain to look at himself from front and back in the dusty mirror.

“Wait,” Oblomov held him back, “I wanted to talk to you about business.”

“Pardon (Excuse me), no time,” Volkov hurried, “another time! And don’t you want to eat oysters with me? Then you can tell me. Let’s go, Misha is treating.”

“No, God be with you!” Oblomov said.

“Goodbye then.”

He left and returned.

“Did you see this?” he asked, showing his hand, as if molded into the glove.

“What is that?” Oblomov asked in bewilderment.

“New lacets (laces)! See how perfectly it tightens: you don’t struggle with a button for two hours; you pull the cord — and it’s done. This just arrived from Paris. Would you like me to bring you a pair to try?”

“Good, bring them!” Oblomov said.

“And look at this; isn’t it very nice?” he said, finding one charm in a pile of charms. “A calling card with a bent corner.”

“I can’t make out what’s written.”

“Pr. – Prince M. – Michel (Prince Michel),” Volkov said, “and the surname Tyumenev didn’t fit; he gave it to me at Easter instead of an egg. But goodbye, au revoir. I have ten more places to go. — My God, what joy there is in the world!”

And he disappeared.

“Ten places in one day — unhappy man!” Oblomov thought. “And this is life! — He shrugged his shoulders forcefully. — Where is the man in all this? What is he breaking himself into and scattering himself for? Of course, it’s not bad to look in on the theater and fall in love with some Lidiya… she’s pretty! To pick flowers with her in the village, to go boating — that’s good; but ten places in one day — unhappy man!” he concluded, turning onto his back and rejoicing that he had no such empty desires and thoughts, that he didn’t wander about but lay right there, preserving his human dignity and his peace.

A new ring interrupted his thoughts.

A new guest entered.

This was a gentleman in a dark green frock coat with crested buttons, cleanly shaven, with dark sideburns neatly framing his face, with a weary but calmly self-aware expression in his eyes, a well-worn face, and a thoughtful smile.

“Hello, Sudbinsky!” Oblomov greeted cheerfully. “Finally came to see an old colleague! Don’t come closer, don’t come closer! You’re cold.”

“Hello, Ilya Ilyich. I’ve been meaning to visit you for a long time,” the guest said, “but you know what a devilish service we have! Look, I’m carrying a whole suitcase for a report; and now, if they ask anything there, I’ve ordered the courier to rush here. Not a minute to myself.”

“You’re still on duty? Why so late?” Oblomov asked. “You used to be there from ten o’clock…”

“Used to be — yes; but now it’s different: I go at twelve o’clock.” He emphasized the last word.

“Ah! I guess so!” Oblomov said. “Head of department! Since when?”

Sudbinsky nodded his head significantly.

“By Holy Week,” he said. “But so much work — it’s awful! From eight to twelve at home, from twelve to five in the office, and I work in the evening. I’ve completely lost touch with people!”

“Hmm! Head of department — how about that!” Oblomov said. “Congratulations! How about that? We used to serve as clerks together. I suppose next year you’ll be a civil servant.”

“No way! God forbid! I still need to receive my crown this year: I thought they’d present me for distinction, but now I’ve taken a new position: can’t do two years in a row…”

“Come for dinner, we’ll drink to your promotion!” Oblomov said.

“No, today I’m dining at the vice-director’s. I need to prepare a report by Thursday — hellish work! You can’t rely on presentations from the provinces. I have to check the lists myself. Foma Fomich is so suspicious: he wants to do everything himself. So today we’ll sit down together after dinner.”

“Even after dinner?” Oblomov asked incredulously.

“What did you think? It’ll be good if I finish early and manage to ride to Yekaterinhof… Oh, I stopped by to ask: won’t you go for a stroll? I’d pick you up.”

“I’m feeling unwell, I can’t!” Oblomov said, grimacing. “And I have a lot of things to do… no, I can’t!”

“What a shame!” Sudbinsky said. “But it’s a good day. Today’s the only day I hope to catch my breath.”

“Well, what’s new with you?” Oblomov asked.

“Quite a lot: in letters, they’ve abolished writing ‘your humble servant,’ now they write ‘please accept assurances’; formal lists are no longer required in duplicate. We’re adding three desks and two special assignment clerks. Our commission has been closed… A lot!”

“Well, what about our former colleagues?”

“Nothing yet; Svinkin lost a case!”

“Really? What about the director?” Oblomov asked in a trembling voice. He felt a chill, from old memories.

“He ordered to withhold the reward until it’s found. It’s an important matter: ‘regarding penalties.’ The director thinks,” Sudbinsky added almost in a whisper, “that he lost it… deliberately.”

“Impossible!” Oblomov said.

“No, no! That’s wrong,” Sudbinsky confirmed with importance and condescension. “Svinkin is a flighty head. Sometimes, God knows what totals he’ll come up with for you, confuse all the references. I’m exhausted with him; but no, he hasn’t been noticed in anything like that… He won’t do it, no, no! The case has just got lost somewhere; it’ll turn up later.”

“So that’s how it is: always toiling!” Oblomov said, “you work.”

“Horror, horror! Well, of course, it’s pleasant to serve with a man like Foma Fomich: he doesn’t leave you without rewards; even those who do nothing, he won’t forget them. As soon as the term is up — for distinction, he presents them; for those whose term for rank or cross hasn’t come — he’ll get them money…”

“How much do you get?”

“Well: twelve hundred rubles in salary, an additional seven hundred fifty for table expenses, six hundred for lodging, nine hundred in allowances, five hundred for travel, plus up to a thousand rubles in rewards.”

“Phew! Dammit!” Oblomov said, jumping out of bed. “Is your voice good, or something? Just like an Italian singer!”

“What else is this! Peresvetov gets extra, and does less work than I do and knows nothing. Well, of course, he doesn’t have such a reputation. I am very much valued,” he added modestly, casting down his eyes, “the minister recently said of me that I am ‘the ornament of the ministry.'”

“Good for you!” Oblomov said. “But to work from eight to twelve, from twelve to five, and then at home too — oh, oh!”

He shook his head.

“And what would I do if I didn’t serve?” Sudbinsky asked.

“Lots of things! You’d read, write…” Oblomov said.

“I do nothing but read and write even now.”

“But that’s not it; you’d publish…”

“Not everyone can be a writer. You don’t write either, after all,” Sudbinsky countered.

“But I have an estate on my hands,” Oblomov said with a sigh. “I’m figuring out a new plan; I’m introducing various improvements. I’m tormenting myself, tormenting myself… But you’re doing someone else’s work, not your own.”

“What can one do! One has to work if one takes money. I’ll rest in the summer: Foma Fomich promises to invent a special mission for me… there, I’ll get travel expenses for five horses, three rubles a day in daily allowances, and then a reward…”

“What exorbitant sums!” Oblomov said enviously; then he sighed and fell into thought.

“Money is needed: I’m getting married in the autumn,” Sudbinsky added.

“What! Really? To whom?” Oblomov asked with interest.

“Seriously, to Murashina. Remember, they lived next to me at the dacha? You had tea at my place and, I think, saw her.”

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

“Yes, she’s sweet. Let’s go, if you like, to dine with them…”

Oblomov hesitated.

“Yes… good, only…”

“Next week,” Sudbinsky said.

“Yes, yes, next week,” Oblomov rejoiced, “my clothes aren’t ready yet. Well, is it a good match?”

“Yes, her father is a Privy Councillor; he gives ten thousand, the apartment is state-provided. He’s allocated us a whole half, twelve rooms; state-provided furniture, heating, lighting too: one can live…”

“Yes, one can! Indeed! What a Sudbinsky!” Oblomov added, not without envy.

“For the wedding, Ilya Ilyich, I invite you as groomsman: mind you…”

“Of course, definitely!” Oblomov said. “Well, what about Kuznetsov, Vasilyev, Makhov?”

“Kuznetsov has been married for a long time, Makhov took my place, and Vasilyev was transferred to Poland. Ivan Petrovich was given the Order of St. Vladimir, Oleshkin — His Excellency.”

“He’s a good fellow!” Oblomov said.

“Good, good; he deserves it.”

“Very good, a soft, even character,” Oblomov said.

“So obliging,” Sudbinsky added, “and not like that, you know, trying to curry favor, to spoil things, trip someone up, get ahead… he does everything he can.”

“A wonderful person! If you used to make a mess in a document, overlook something, misquote an opinion or laws in a memo, it was nothing: he’d just tell someone else to redo it. An excellent person!” Oblomov concluded.

“But our Semyon Semyonich is incorrigible,” Sudbinsky said, “he’s only good at throwing dust in people’s eyes. What he did recently: a proposal came from the provinces to build dog kennels at buildings belonging to our department to protect state property from embezzlement; our architect, a capable, knowledgeable, and honest man, drew up a very moderate estimate; suddenly it seemed too high to him, and he started making inquiries about what it could cost to build a dog kennel? He found a place that cost thirty kopecks less — immediately a memorandum…”

Another ring sounded.

“Farewell,” said the official, “I’ve talked too much, something might be needed there…”

“Stay a little longer,” Oblomov urged. “By the way, I’ll consult with you: I have two misfortunes…”

“No, no, I’ll stop by again in a few days,” he said, leaving.

“He’s stuck, my dear friend, stuck up to his ears,” Oblomov thought, watching him go. “And blind, and deaf, and mute to everything else in the world. But he’ll make his way in the world, in time he’ll manage affairs and grab ranks… With us, that’s also called a career! And how little of a man is needed here: his mind, his will, his feelings — why are they necessary? A luxury! And he’ll live his life, and much, much will remain unstirred within him… Meanwhile, he works from twelve to five in the office, from eight to twelve at home — unhappy man!”

He felt a sense of peaceful joy that he could remain on his sofa from nine to three, from eight to nine, and was proud that he didn’t have to go for a report, write papers, that there was ample space for his feelings, for his imagination.

Oblomov was philosophizing and didn’t notice that a very thin, dark-haired gentleman was standing by his bed, completely overgrown with sideburns, a mustache, and a goatee. He was dressed with deliberate negligence.

“Hello, Ilya Ilyich.”

“Hello, Penkin; don’t come closer, don’t come closer: you’re cold!” Oblomov said.

“Oh, you eccentric!” the other said. “Still the same incorrigible, carefree idler!”

“Yes, carefree!” Oblomov said. “I’ll show you a letter from the bailiff right now: I’m racking my brains, and you say: carefree! Where are you from?”

“From the bookshop: I went to see if the journals were out. Have you read my article?”

“No.”

“I’ll send it to you, read it.”

“About what?” Oblomov asked through a big yawn.

“About trade, about women’s emancipation, about the beautiful April days that fell to our lot, and about a newly invented fireproofing compound. How come you don’t read? After all, this is our everyday life. And most of all, I advocate for the realistic direction (a literary movement emphasizing objective reality and social issues) in literature.”

“Do you have a lot of work?” Oblomov asked.

“Yes, quite a lot. Two articles for the newspaper every week, then I write reviews of fiction writers, and I’ve written a story…”

“About what?”

“About how in one town, the mayor beats townspeople in the teeth…”

“Yes, that’s indeed the realistic direction,” Oblomov said.

“Isn’t it?” the delighted literateur confirmed. “I’m advancing this idea, and I know it’s new and bold. A traveler witnessed these beatings and complained to the governor during a meeting. The governor ordered an official, who was going there for an investigation, to ascertain this in passing and generally gather information about the mayor’s character and behavior. The official gathered the townspeople, ostensibly to ask about trade, but meanwhile began to inquire about this as well. What about the townspeople? They bow and laugh and heap praises on the mayor. The official began to inquire indirectly, and he was told that the townspeople were terrible swindlers, selling rotten goods, short-weighing, short-measuring even the treasury, all immoral, so these beatings were a righteous punishment…”

“So, the mayor’s beatings appear in the story as the fatum (fate or destiny) of ancient tragedians?” Oblomov said.

“Precisely,” Penkin chimed in. “You have great tact, Ilya Ilyich, you should write! Meanwhile, I managed to show both the mayor’s arbitrariness and the corruption of morals among the common people; the poor organization of the actions of subordinate officials and the necessity of strict but legal measures… Isn’t this idea… quite new?”

“Yes, especially for me,” Oblomov said, “I read so little…”

“Indeed, no books to be seen at your place!” Penkin said. “But, I beg you, read one thing; a magnificent, one might say, poem is being prepared: ‘The Love of a Briber for a Fallen Woman.’ I cannot tell you who the author is: it’s still a secret.”

“What is it about?”

“The entire mechanism of our social movement is revealed, all in poetic colors. All springs are touched; all steps of the social ladder are traversed. Here, as if for judgment, the author has summoned both the weak but vicious dignitary and a whole swarm of bribers deceiving him; and all categories of fallen women are analyzed… Frenchwomen, German women, Finnish women, and everything, everything… with striking, vibrant fidelity… I’ve heard excerpts — the author is great! One hears Dante in him, and then Shakespeare…”

“You’ve gone far!” Oblomov said in amazement, rising slightly.

Penkin suddenly fell silent, seeing that he had indeed gone too far.

“You read it, you’ll see for yourself,” he added, now without fervor.

“No, Penkin, I won’t read it.”

“Why not? It’s causing a stir, people are talking about it…”

“Let them! Some people have nothing else to do but talk. It’s a calling.”

“But at least read it out of curiosity.”

“What haven’t I seen there?” Oblomov said. “Why do they write this: they’re just amusing themselves…”

“Amusing themselves how: what fidelity, what fidelity! It’s ridiculously similar. Exactly like living portraits. Whoever they take, whether a merchant, an official, an officer, a policeman — they print them exactly as they are.”

“What are they striving for: for fun, that no matter whom they take, it will come out accurately? But there’s no life in anything: no understanding of it or sympathy, no what you call humanity. Only self-love. They depict thieves, fallen women, as if they’re catching them on the street and taking them to prison. In their story, one hears not ‘invisible tears,’ but only visible, crude laughter, malice…”

“What else is needed? And it’s excellent, you’ve said it yourself: it’s seething malice — bilious persecution of vice, contemptuous laughter at a fallen man… it’s all there!”

“No, not all!” Oblomov suddenly said, flaring up. “Depict a thief, a fallen woman, a puffed-up fool, but don’t forget the human being right there. Where is the humanity? You want to write with just your head!” Oblomov almost hissed. “Do you think that thought doesn’t need a heart? No, it’s fertilized by love. Extend a hand to the fallen man to lift him up, or weep bitterly over him if he perishes, and don’t mock him. Love him, remember yourself in him, and treat him as you would yourself — then I will read you and bow my head before you…” he said, settling back comfortably on the sofa. “They depict a thief, a fallen woman,” he said, “but they forget the human being or don’t know how to depict him. What art is there in this, what poetic colors have you found? Denounce depravity, filth, but please, without claiming poetry.”

“So, you want us to depict nature: roses, nightingales, or a frosty morning, while everything around is boiling, moving? We need only the bare physiology of society; we have no time for songs now…”

“A human, give me a human!” Oblomov said. “Love him…”

“Love a usurer, a hypocrite, a thieving or dull-witted official — do you hear? What are you saying? It’s clear you’re not involved in literature!” Penkin exclaimed heatedly. “No, they must be punished, expelled from civil society, from society…”

“Expelled from civil society!” Oblomov suddenly said with inspiration, standing before Penkin. “That means forgetting that a higher principle was present in this unworthy vessel; that he is a corrupted man, but still a man, that is, yourself. Expel! And how will you expel from the circle of humanity, from the bosom of nature, from God’s mercy?” he almost shouted with burning eyes.

“You’ve gone far!” Penkin said in turn, with astonishment.

Oblomov saw that he, too, had gone far. He suddenly fell silent, stood for a minute, yawned, and slowly lay back on the sofa.

Both fell into silence.

“What do you read?” Penkin asked.

“I… mostly travel books.”

Silence again.

“So, will you read the poem when it comes out? I could bring it…” Penkin asked.

Oblomov made a negative sign with his head.

“Well, shall I send you my story?”

Oblomov nodded in agreement.

“However, I must go to the printing press!” Penkin said. “You know why I came to you? I wanted to suggest that you go to Yekaterinhof; I have a carriage. Tomorrow I need to write an article about the stroll: we could observe together, what I wouldn’t notice, you could tell me; it would be more fun. Let’s go…”

“No, I’m unwell,” Oblomov said, grimacing and pulling the blanket up, “I’m afraid of the dampness, it hasn’t dried yet. But you should come for dinner today: we could talk… I have two misfortunes…”

“No, our whole editorial board is at Saint-George’s today; we’ll go from there to the stroll. And write at night and send it to the printing press at dawn. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Penkin.”

“Write at night,” Oblomov thought, “when is one supposed to sleep? And he probably earns five thousand a year! That’s his bread! But to write all the time, to spend one’s thought, one’s soul on trifles, to change convictions, to trade one’s mind and imagination, to violate one’s nature, to be agitated, to seethe, to burn, to know no peace and always move somewhere… And always write, always write, like a wheel, like a machine: write tomorrow, the day after tomorrow; a holiday will come, summer will arrive — and he’s still writing? When does one stop and rest? Unhappy man!”

He turned his head towards the table where everything was smooth, and the ink was dry, and no pen was visible, and he rejoiced that he lay there, carefree as a newborn infant, that he didn’t scatter himself, didn’t sell anything…

“And the bailiff’s letter, and the apartment?” he suddenly remembered and fell into thought.

But then the doorbell rang again.

“What kind of reception am I having today?” Oblomov said and waited to see who would enter.

A man of indeterminate age entered, with an indeterminate physiognomy, at such a point in life when it’s hard to guess one’s years; neither handsome nor ugly, neither tall nor short, neither blond nor brunette. Nature had not given him any sharp, noticeable feature, neither bad nor good. Many called him Ivan Ivanovich, others Ivan Vasilyevich, still others Ivan Mikhailovich.

His surname was also given differently: some said he was Ivanov, others called him Vasilyev or Andreev, others thought he was Alekseev. To a stranger who saw him for the first time, his name would be forgotten immediately, and his face forgotten; what he said would not be noticed. His presence would add nothing to society, just as his absence would take nothing away from it. Wit, originality, and other characteristics, like distinct marks on the body, were absent from his mind.

Perhaps he could at least relate everything he had seen and heard, and thus engage others, but he had never been anywhere: since he was born in St. Petersburg, he had never left; consequently, he had seen and heard what others already knew.

Is such a person likable? Does he love, hate, suffer? It would seem he ought to love, and not love, and suffer, because no one is exempt from that. But he somehow manages to love everyone. There are people in whom, no matter how hard you try, you cannot awaken a spirit of hostility, revenge, etc. Whatever you do to them, they all fawn. However, one must credit them with the fact that their love, if divided into degrees, never reaches the intensity of passion. Although such people are said to love everyone and therefore are kind, in essence, they love no one and are kind only because they are not evil.

If others give alms to a beggar in the presence of such a person — he will also throw his penny; but if they scold, or drive away, or mock — he will also scold and mock with the others. He cannot be called rich, because he is not rich, but rather poor; but he cannot be called decidedly poor either, only because there are many poorer than him.

He has some income of about three hundred rubles a year, and, moreover, he serves in some unimportant position and receives an unimportant salary: he does not suffer want and never borrows money from anyone, and borrowing from him doesn’t even occur to anyone.

In his service, he has no particular permanent occupation, because colleagues and superiors could never notice what he did worse or better, so as to determine what he was specifically capable of. If he is given to do both this and that, he will do it in such a way that the superior is always at a loss as to how to comment on his work; he will look and look, read and read, and then just say: “Leave it, I’ll look at it later… yes, it’s almost as it should be.”

You will never catch a trace of worry or a dream on his face that would show him conversing with himself at that moment, nor will you ever see him fix an inquisitive gaze on some external object he wishes to assimilate to his understanding.

He meets an acquaintance on the street: “Where are you going?” he asks. “Oh, I’m going to work, or to the shop, or to visit someone.” — “Let’s go with me instead,” the other will say, “to the post office or let’s drop by the tailor, or take a walk,” — and he goes with him, visits the tailor, and the post office, and walks in the opposite direction from where he was going.

Hardly anyone, except his mother, noticed his birth; very few notice him during his life, but surely no one will notice when he disappears from the world; no one will ask, no one will feel sorry for him, no one will even rejoice at his death. He has neither enemies nor friends, but a multitude of acquaintances. Perhaps only his funeral procession will draw the attention of a passerby, who will honor this indeterminate person with the first proper tribute he ever receives — a deep bow; perhaps even another, curious, will run ahead of the procession to inquire about the deceased’s name and then immediately forget it.

All this Alekseev, Vasilyev, Andreev, or whatever you want to call him, is some kind of incomplete, impersonal hint of the human mass, a dull echo, an unclear reflection of it.

Even Zakhar, who in frank conversations, at gatherings at the gate or in the shop, made various characterizations of all the guests who visited his master, always found it difficult when it came to this… let’s say, Alekseev. He thought for a long time, trying to find some angular feature to latch onto, in the appearance, manners, or character of this person, and finally, throwing up his hands, he would express himself thus: “He has neither hide nor hair, nor wit!”

“Ah!” Oblomov greeted him. “Is that you, Alekseev? Hello. Where are you from? Don’t come closer, don’t come closer: I won’t shake your hand: you’re cold!”

“What are you talking about, what cold! I wasn’t planning on coming to you today,” Alekseev said, “but Ovchinin met me and took me to his place. I’m here for you, Ilya Ilyich.”

“Where to?”

“Why, to Ovchinin’s, let’s go. Matvey Andreevich Alyanov, Kazimir Albertovich Pkhailo, Vasily Sevastyanovich Kolymyagin are there.”

“Why are they gathered there and what do they want from me?”

“Ovchinin invites you to dinner.”

“Hmm! Dinner…” Oblomov repeated monotonously.

“And then everyone is going to Yekaterinhof: they told me to tell you to hire a carriage.”

“What is there to do there?”

“Well! There’s a stroll there today. Don’t you know: today is the first of May?”

“Sit down; we’ll think…” Oblomov said.

“Get up then! It’s time to get dressed.”

“Wait a little: it’s still early.”

“What early! They asked for twelve o’clock; we’ll have an early dinner, around two, and then go for the stroll. Let’s go quickly! Shall I tell them to get your clothes ready?”

“Dress for where? I haven’t even washed yet.”

“Then wash yourself.”

Alekseev began to walk back and forth in the room, then stopped in front of a painting he had seen a thousand times before, glanced briefly out the window, picked up an item from the shelving unit, twirled it in his hands, looked at it from all sides and put it back, and then began walking again, whistling — all this so as not to disturb Oblomov from getting up and washing. Ten minutes passed like this.

“Well, what about you?” Alekseev suddenly asked Ilya Ilyich.

“What?”

“Still lying down?”

“Do I have to get up?”

“Of course! They’re waiting for us. You wanted to go.”

“Go where? I didn’t want to go anywhere…”

“Look, Ilya Ilyich, just now you said we were going to Ovchinin’s for dinner, and then to Yekaterinhof…”

“I’ll go in this damp weather! And what haven’t I seen there? Look, it’s gathering rain, it’s cloudy outside,” Oblomov said lazily.

“There’s not a cloud in the sky, and you’ve invented rain. It’s cloudy because your windows haven’t been washed in ages! So much dirt, so much dirt on them! You can’t see God’s light, and one curtain is almost completely down.”

“Yes, go on, mention that to Zakhar, and he’ll immediately suggest hiring women and kicking me out of the house for the whole day!”

Oblomov fell into thought, and Alekseev drummed his fingers on the table he was sitting at, his eyes absently scanning the walls and ceiling.

“So what shall we do? What to do? Will you get dressed or stay as you are?” he asked a few minutes later.

“And what?”

“Well, to Yekaterinhof?”

“You’re obsessed with this Yekaterinhof, honestly!” Oblomov replied with annoyance. “Can’t you sit still here? Is the room cold, or does it smell bad, that you keep looking out?”

“No, I’m always well at your place; I’m content,” Alekseev said.

“And if it’s good here, then why want to go somewhere else? Better stay with me all day, have dinner, and then in the evening — God be with you!… Oh, I forgot: where do I need to go! Tarantyev is coming for dinner: today is Saturday.”

“If that’s the case… I’m good… just like you…” Alekseev said.

“And I haven’t told you about my affairs?” Oblomov asked eagerly.

“What affairs? I don’t know,” Alekseev said, looking at him wide-eyed.

“Why haven’t I gotten up for so long? I’ve been lying here all this time, thinking about how to get out of trouble.”

“What’s wrong?” Alekseev asked, trying to make a frightened face.

“Two misfortunes! I don’t know what to do.”

“What are they?”

“They’re kicking me out of my apartment; imagine — I have to move: breaking things, fussing… it’s terrifying to think about! I’ve lived in this apartment for eight years, after all. The landlord played a trick on me: ‘Move out,’ he says, ‘as quickly as possible.'”

“Even faster! He’s rushing you, so it must be necessary. Moving is very unbearable: there’s always a lot of trouble with moving,” Alekseev said, “they’ll lose things, break things — very tedious! And you have such a splendid apartment… what do you pay?”

“Where would I find another like it,” Oblomov said, “and in a hurry, too? The apartment is dry, warm; the house is quiet: only robbed once! Look, the ceiling seems unstable: the plaster has come off completely — yet it still doesn’t fall.”

“You don’t say!” Alekseev said, shaking his head.

“How could I arrange it so that… I don’t have to move?” Oblomov mused to himself.

“Is your apartment rented by contract?” Alekseev asked, looking around the room from ceiling to floor.

“Yes, but the contract term has expired; I’ve been paying monthly all this time… I just don’t remember since when.”

“So, what do you think?” Alekseev asked after a moment of silence, “move out or stay?”

“I don’t think at all,” Oblomov said, “I don’t even want to think about it. Let Zakhar come up with something.”

“But some people love to move,” Alekseev said, “they find pleasure only in changing apartments…”

“Well, let those ‘some people’ move. But I can’t stand any changes! What’s this, an apartment!” Oblomov began. “But look what the bailiff writes to me. I’ll show you the letter right now… where is it, anyway? Zakhar, Zakhar!”

“Oh, Holy Mother of God!” Zakhar croaked from his room, jumping down from the stove bench, “when will God take me?”

He entered and looked at his master dully.

“Why didn’t you find the letter?”

“And where would I find it? How am I supposed to know which letter you need? I can’t read.”

“Just look anyway,” Oblomov said.

“You yourself read some letter last night,” Zakhar said, “and I haven’t seen it since.”

“Where is it then?” Ilya Ilyich retorted with annoyance. “I didn’t swallow it. I remember very well that you took it from me and put it somewhere right here. Oh, there it is, look!”

He shook the blanket: the letter fell onto the floor from its folds.

“That’s how you always blame me!…” “Well, well, go on, go on!” Oblomov and Zakhar shouted at each other simultaneously.

Zakhar left, and Oblomov began to read the letter, written as if with kvass, on gray paper, with a seal of brown sealing wax. Huge pale letters stretched in a solemn procession, not touching each other, along a vertical line, from the top corner to the bottom. The procession was sometimes interrupted by a large, pale ink stain.

” ‘Gracious sir,’ ” Oblomov began, ” ‘Your Honor, our father and provider, Ilya Ilyich…’ “

Here Oblomov skipped a few greetings and wishes for health and continued from the middle:

” ‘I humbly report to your lordly grace that all is well in your estate, our provider. For the fifth week, there has been no rain: it seems we have angered the Lord God, that there is no rain. Old men do not remember such a drought: the spring crops are burning as if in flames. The winter crops in some places were ruined by worms, in other places by early frosts; we replowed for spring crops, but it is unknown if anything will grow? Perhaps, the merciful Lord will have mercy on your lordly grace, and we do not care for ourselves: let us perish. And three more peasants left before St. John’s Day: Laptev, Balochov, and Vaska, the blacksmith’s son, left separately. I sent the women after their husbands: those women did not return, and they are heard to be living in Chelki, and my godfather from Verkhlev went to Chelki; the manager sent him there: they say they brought an overseas plow, and the manager sent my godfather to Chelki to look at that plow. I instructed my godfather about the runaway peasants; I bowed to the police officer, he said: “Submit a paper, and then every measure will be taken to resettle the peasants to their homes,” and, besides that, he said nothing, and I fell at his feet and tearfully begged; he shouted at the top of his lungs: “Go, go! you are told it will be done — submit a paper!” And I did not submit a paper. And there is no one to hire here: everyone has gone to the Volga, to work on barges — such foolish people have become here now, our provider, father, Ilya Ilyich! Our canvas will not be at the fair this year: I locked the drying and bleaching sheds and put Sychug to watch day and night: he is a sober peasant; but so that he does not steal anything of the master’s, I watch him day and night. Others drink too much and ask for quit-rent. There is a shortfall in arrears: this year we will send about two thousand less income than the past year, only if the drought does not ruin us completely, otherwise we will send what we propose to your grace.’ “

Then followed expressions of devotion and the signature: ” ‘Your bailiff, your most humble servant Prokofy Vityagushkin, put his own hand.’ ” A cross was placed due to illiteracy. ” ‘And written from the words of that bailiff by his brother-in-law, Demka Krivoi.’ “

Oblomov looked at the end of the letter.

“No month or year,” he said, “the letter must have been lying with the bailiff since last year; here are St. John’s Day and the drought! When did he finally remember!”

He fell into thought.

“Ah?” he continued. “How does this strike you: he proposes ‘about two thousand less’! How much will be left? How much did I receive last year, by the way?” he asked, looking at Alekseev. “Didn’t I tell you then?”

Alekseev turned his eyes to the ceiling and fell into thought.

“I need to ask Stolz when he arrives,” Oblomov continued, “I think, seven, eight thousand… it’s bad not to write it down! So now he’s putting me at six! I’ll starve to death! How am I to live here?”

“Why worry so much, Ilya Ilyich?” Alekseev said. “One should never give in to despair: grind it well, and it will be flour (a proverb meaning “all will be well in the end”).”

“But do you hear what he writes? Instead of sending money, comforting me somehow, he, as if to mock me, only causes me trouble! And every year! Now I’m beside myself! ‘About two thousand less’!”

“Yes, a big loss,” Alekseev said, “two thousand is no joke! They say Aleksey Logynych will also receive only twelve thousand instead of seventeen this year…”

“So, twelve, not six,” Oblomov interrupted. “The bailiff has completely upset me! If it’s really like that: crop failure and drought, then why grieve in advance?”

“Yes… it really is…” Alekseev began, “it shouldn’t be; but what delicacy can you expect from a peasant? These people don’t understand anything.”

“Well, what would you do in my place?” Oblomov asked, looking inquiringly at Alekseev, with sweet hope that he might invent something to calm him.

“One needs to think, Ilya Ilyich, you can’t decide suddenly,” Alekseev said.

“Should I write to the governor, perhaps!” Ilya Ilyich said, lost in thought.

“And who is your governor?” Alekseev asked.

Ilya Ilyich did not answer and fell into thought. Alekseev fell silent and also pondered something.

Oblomov, crumpling the letter in his hands, propped his head with his hands, and rested his elbows on his knees, and sat like that for some time, tormented by a rush of restless thoughts.

“If only Stolz would arrive sooner!” he said. “He writes he’ll be here soon, but he’s God knows where!” He would sort it out.

He became gloomy again. Both were silent for a long time. Finally, Oblomov recovered first.

“Here’s what needs to be done!” he said decisively and almost got out of bed, “and done as quickly as possible, no time to delay… First…”

At that moment, a desperate ring echoed in the anteroom, making Oblomov and Alekseev jump, and Zakhar instantly leapt from the sleeping bench.

III

“Is anyone home?” a loud, rough voice asked from the anteroom.

“Where would one go at this hour?” Zakhar replied even more coarsely.

A man of about forty entered, of a large build, tall, broad in the shoulders and throughout his torso, with coarse features, a large head, a strong, short neck, big bulging eyes, and thick lips. A fleeting glance at this man created an impression of something crude and unkempt. It was evident that he did not strive for elegance in his attire. It was not always possible to see him cleanly shaven. But he seemed not to care; he was not embarrassed by his clothing and wore it with a kind of cynical dignity.

This was Mikhey Andreevich Tarantyev, Oblomov’s countryman.

Tarantyev looked at everything sullenly, with semi-contempt, with clear ill-will towards everything around him, ready to scold everything and everyone in the world, as if he were someone unjustly offended or unacknowledged in some merit, finally, like a strong character persecuted by fate, who unwillingly, uncheerfully submits to it.

His movements were bold and sweeping; he spoke loudly, briskly, and almost always angrily; if listened to from a distance, it sounded precisely as if three empty carts were rattling across a bridge. He was never embarrassed by anyone’s presence and never hesitated to speak his mind, and generally was consistently rude in his dealings with everyone, not excluding friends, as if to make it felt that by speaking to someone, even by dining or supping at their house, he was doing them a great honor.

Tarantyev was a man of quick and cunning intellect; no one could better resolve some general everyday issue or a legally tangled case: he would immediately construct a theory of action for any given situation and subtly provide evidence, and in conclusion, would almost always insult the person who sought his advice.

Meanwhile, he had started as a clerk in some office twenty-five years ago and had remained in that position until his hair turned gray. Neither he nor anyone else had ever considered that he might rise higher.

The fact was, Tarantyev was only good at talking; verbally, he resolved everything clearly and easily, especially concerning others; but as soon as he had to lift a finger, to move from his spot — in short, to apply the theory he himself had created to practice and set it in motion, to show efficiency, speed — he was a completely different person: he simply couldn’t do it — he suddenly felt heavy and unwell, sometimes awkward, sometimes another matter would come up that he wouldn’t tackle either, and even if he did, God forbid what would come of it. He was like a child: he would overlook something there, wouldn’t know some trifle here, would be late there, and would end up abandoning the task halfway or starting it from the end and spoiling everything so thoroughly that it was impossible to fix, and then he would be the one to start scolding.

His father, an old-fashioned provincial clerk, had intended to bequeath to his son the art and experience of managing other people’s affairs and his own cleverly navigated career in a government office; but fate decided otherwise. The father, who had once learned Russian on meager means, did not want his son to fall behind the times and wished to teach him something beyond the intricate science of dealing with affairs. For about three years, he sent him to a priest to learn Latin.

The boy, naturally capable, in three years mastered Latin grammar and syntax and had begun to read Cornelius Nepos, but his father decided that what he already knew was enough, that even these attainments gave him a huge advantage over the older generation, and that, finally, further studies might perhaps harm his service in government offices.

Sixteen-year-old Mikhey, not knowing what to do with his Latin, began to forget it at his parents’ house, but in anticipation of the honor of being present in the zemstvo or district court, he meanwhile attended all his father’s drinking parties, and it was in this school, amidst frank conversations, that the young man’s mind developed with subtlety.

With youthful impressionability, he listened to the stories of his father and his comrades about various civil and criminal cases, about curious incidents that passed through the hands of all these old-time clerks.

But all this led to nothing. Mikhey did not become a wheeler-dealer or a pettifogger, although all his father’s efforts tended towards this and would, of course, have been crowned with success, had not fate destroyed the old man’s plans. Mikhey indeed assimilated the entire theory of his father’s conversations, it remained only to apply it in practice, but after his father’s death he did not manage to enter the court and was taken to St. Petersburg by some benefactor, who found him a place as a clerk in one department, and then forgot about him.

So Tarantyev remained only a theoretician for his entire life. In Petersburg service, he had nothing to do with his Latin or with the subtle theory of arbitrarily settling right and wrong cases; meanwhile, he carried and felt within himself a dormant force, locked within him forever by hostile circumstances, without hope of manifestation, just as, according to fairy tales, evil spirits deprived of the power to harm were locked in narrow enchanted walls. Perhaps it was from this awareness of useless power within him that Tarantyev was rude in manner, ill-disposed, constantly angry, and quarrelsome.

He looked with bitterness and contempt at his current occupations: copying papers, filing documents, and so on. Only one last hope smiled at him in the distance: to transfer to serve in the wine tax collection. On this path, he saw the only profitable alternative to the career bequeathed to him by his father and never achieved. And while awaiting this, the ready-made theory of activity and life, the theory of bribes and cunning, created for him by his father, having bypassed its main and worthy field in the provinces, applied itself to all the trifles of his insignificant existence in St. Petersburg, creeping into all his friendly relations due to the lack of official ones.

He was a briber at heart, in theory; he managed to take bribes, in the absence of cases and petitioners, from colleagues, from friends, God knows how and for what — he forced, wherever and whomever he could, sometimes by cunning, sometimes by importunity, to treat him, demanded undeserved respect from everyone, was nit-picky. He was never bothered by shame for worn-out clothes, but he was not immune to anxiety if there was no huge dinner with a decent amount of wine and vodka in the day’s outlook.

From this, in the circle of his acquaintances, he played the role of a large watchdog that barks at everyone, doesn’t let anyone move, but at the same time will certainly snatch a piece of meat on the fly, no matter where it comes from or goes.

Such were Oblomov’s two most zealous visitors.

Why did these two Russian proletarians visit him? They knew very well why: to drink, eat, and smoke good cigars. They found a warm, comfortable refuge and always an equally, if not welcoming, then indifferent reception.

But why Oblomov let them into his home — he could hardly account for this himself. It seems it was for the same reason that, even to this day, in our remote Oblomovkas, a swarm of similar individuals of both sexes, without bread, without trade, without hands for productivity and only with a stomach for consumption, but almost always with rank and title, gathered in every prosperous house.

There are still sybarites who need such additions in life: they are bored without superfluous things in the world. Who will hand over a lost snuffbox or pick up a handkerchief that has fallen on the floor? To whom can one complain of a headache with a right to sympathy, tell a bad dream and demand an interpretation? Who will read a book before bed and help one fall asleep? And sometimes such a proletarian is sent to the nearest town for a purchase, helps with the household — one can’t bother oneself!

Tarantyev made a lot of noise, rousing Oblomov from his immobility and boredom. He shouted, argued, and created a kind of spectacle, relieving the lazy master himself from the need to speak and act. Into the room where sleep and peace reigned, Tarantyev brought life, movement, and sometimes news from outside. Oblomov could listen, watch, without moving a finger, something lively, moving, and speaking before him. Moreover, he also had the simplicity to believe that Tarantyev was indeed capable of giving him some sensible advice. Oblomov tolerated Alekseev’s visits for another, no less important reason. If he wanted to live his own way, that is, to lie silently, doze, or walk around the room, Alekseev seemed not to be there: he, too, was silent, dozing, or looking at a book, lazily yawning to tears at pictures and trinkets. He could stay like that for three days straight. But if Oblomov grew tired of being alone and felt the need to express himself, to talk, read, reason, show agitation — there was always a submissive and ready listener and participant, who equally shared his silence, his conversation, his agitation, and his way of thinking, whatever it might be.

Other guests did not visit often, only for a minute, like the first three guests; with all of them, the living connections became more and more tenuous. Oblomov was sometimes interested in some news, a five-minute conversation, then, satisfied with this, he would fall silent. They had to be reciprocated, to participate in what interested them. They bathed in the human crowd; everyone understood life in their own way, as Oblomov did not want to understand it, and they involved him in it too: all this displeased him, repelled him, was not to his liking.

Only one person was dear to his heart: that one also gave him no peace; he loved news, and society, and science, and all of life, but somehow more deeply, more sincerely — and Oblomov, though affectionate with everyone, truly loved only him, believed only him, perhaps because he had grown up, studied, and lived with him. This was Andrey Ivanovich Stolz.

He was away, but Oblomov expected him any moment.

IV

“Hello, countryman,” Tarantyev said abruptly, extending a hairy hand to Oblomov. “Why are you still lying around like a log?”

“Don’t come near, don’t come near: you’re cold!” Oblomov said, pulling the blanket up.

“There he goes again — what a notion — cold!” Tarantyev bawled. “Well, well, take the hand, if it’s offered! It’s almost twelve o’clock, and he’s still lounging!”

He tried to lift Oblomov from the bed, but the latter anticipated him, quickly dropping his feet and immediately stepping into both slippers.

“I was just about to get up myself,” he said, yawning.

“I know how you get up: you’d lie around here until dinner. Hey, Zakhar! Where are you, old fool? Hurry up and get the master dressed.”

“You just go get your own Zakhar first, and then you can shout!” Zakhar said, entering the room and glaring angrily at Tarantyev. “Look how you’ve tracked dirt, like a peddler!” he added.

“Well, still talking, you ugly mug!” Tarantyev said and raised his foot to kick Zakhar, who was passing by; but Zakhar stopped, turned to him, and bristled.

“Just you touch me!” he growled furiously. “What is this? I’ll leave…” he said, walking back towards the door.

“Enough, Mikhey Andreich, why are you so restless! Why are you bothering him?” Oblomov said. “Come on, Zakhar, what’s needed!”

Zakhar returned and, glancing at Tarantyev, nimbly darted past him.

Oblomov, leaning on him, reluctantly, like a very tired man, rose from the bed and, equally reluctantly, moved to a large armchair, sank into it, and remained as motionless as he had sat down.

Zakhar took pomade, a comb, and brushes from the small table, pomaded his master’s head, made a parting, and then brushed his hair.

“Will you wash now, then?” he asked.

“I’ll wait a little longer,” Oblomov replied, “you go on.”

“Oh, are you here too?” Tarantyev suddenly said, addressing Alekseev while Zakhar was combing Oblomov’s hair. “I didn’t even see you. Why are you here? What a pig your relative is! I always wanted to tell you…”

“What relative? I don’t have any relative,” the startled Alekseev replied timidly, bulging his eyes at Tarantyev.

“Well, this one, who also serves here, what’s his name?… Afanasyev. How is he not a relative? — He is a relative.”

“But I’m not Afanasyev, I’m Alekseev,” Alekseev said, “I don’t have a relative.”

“There’s another ‘not a relative’! He’s just like you, unremarkable, and his name is also Vasily Nikolaich.”

“By God, no relation; my name is Ivan Alekseich.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, he looks like you. Only he’s a pig; you tell him that when you see him.”

“I don’t know him, I’ve never seen him,” Alekseev said, opening his snuffbox.

“Give me some tobacco!” Tarantyev said. “But yours is plain, not French? Just as I thought,” he said after sniffing. “Why isn’t it French?” he then added strictly. “Yes, I’ve never seen such a pig as your relative,” Tarantyev continued. “I once borrowed fifty rubles from him, it must have been two years ago. Well, is fifty rubles a lot of money? How, it seems, can one not forget? No, he remembers: a month later, wherever he meets me: ‘What about the debt?’ he says. He’s a nuisance! Not only that, yesterday he came to our department: ‘Surely you’ve received your salary,’ he says, ‘now you can pay it back.’ I gave him his salary: he shamed me in front of everyone, so he barely found the door. ‘Poor man, he needs it himself!’ As if I don’t need it! What kind of rich man am I to hand over fifty rubles to him! Give me a cigar, countryman.”

“The cigars are over there, in the box,” Oblomov replied, pointing to the shelving unit.

He sat thoughtfully in the armchair, in his lazily graceful pose, not noticing what was happening around him, not listening to what was being said. He lovingly examined and stroked his small, white hands.

“Eh! Are these all the same?” Tarantyev asked strictly, taking out a cigar and glancing at Oblomov.

“Yes, the same,” Oblomov replied mechanically.

“But I told you to buy others, foreign ones? See how well you remember what you’re told! Make sure to have them by next Saturday, or I won’t come for a long time. See, what rubbish this is!” he continued, lighting the cigar and exhaling one cloud of smoke into the air, and inhaling another. “Can’t even smoke.”

“You came early today, Mikhey Andreich,” Oblomov said, yawning.

“What, am I bothering you, or something?”

“No, I just noticed; you usually come directly for dinner, and now it’s only past one.”

“I deliberately came early to find out what dinner will be. You always feed me rubbish, so I’m finding out what you’ve ordered today.”

“Go find out in the kitchen,” Oblomov said.

Tarantyev left.

“Good heavens!” he said, returning. “Beef and veal! Ah, brother Oblomov, you don’t know how to live, and yet you’re a landowner! What kind of master are you? You live like a townsman; you don’t know how to treat a friend! Well, is the Madeira bought?”

“I don’t know, ask Zakhar,” Oblomov said, almost not listening to him, “there’s probably wine there.”

“Is that the old one, from the German? No, please buy it at the English shop.”

“Well, this one is enough,” Oblomov said, “or else I’ll have to send for more!”

“Wait, give me the money, I’ll pass by and bring it; I still have some errands to run.”

Oblomov rummaged in the drawer and pulled out a then-current red ten-ruble note.

“Madeira costs seven rubles,” Oblomov said, “and here’s ten.”

“Just give me everything: they’ll give you change, don’t worry!”

He snatched the banknote from Oblomov’s hands and quickly hid it in his pocket.

“Well, I’m going,” Tarantyev said, putting on his hat, “and I’ll be back by five; I need to go somewhere: they promised me a position in the liquor office, so they told me to inquire… Oh, and Ilya Ilyich: won’t you hire a carriage today to go to Yekaterinhof? And you could take me along.”

Oblomov shook his head in denial.

“What, lazy or stingy? Ah, you old sack!” he said. “Well, goodbye for now…”

“Wait, Mikhey Andreich,” Oblomov interrupted, “I need to consult with you about something.”

“What else is there? Speak quickly: I don’t have time.”

“Well, two misfortunes have suddenly fallen upon me. They’re kicking me out of my apartment…”

“You probably don’t pay: serves you right!” Tarantyev said and made to leave.

“Get out of here! I always pay in advance. No, they want to redecorate another apartment… But wait! Where are you going? Tell me what to do: they’re rushing me, saying I have to move out in a week…”

“What kind of advisor did you get in me? You imagine things in vain…”

“I’m not imagining anything at all,” Oblomov said, “don’t make noise and don’t shout, but rather think about what to do. You’re a practical man…”

Tarantyev was no longer listening to him and was contemplating something.

“Well, so be it, thank me,” he said, taking off his hat and sitting down, “and order champagne for dinner: your business is done.”

“What is it?” Oblomov asked.

“Will there be champagne?”

“Perhaps, if the advice is worth it…”

“No, you yourself are not worth the advice. Why would I advise you for free? Ask him,” he added, pointing to Alekseev, “or his relative.”

“Well, well, enough, speak!” Oblomov pleaded.

“Here’s what: tomorrow you must move to the apartment…”

“Eh! What have you thought of! I knew that myself…”

“Wait, don’t interrupt!” Tarantyev shouted. “Tomorrow, move to my godmother’s apartment, on the Vyborg Side…”

“What’s this news? To the Vyborg Side! They say wolves run there in winter.”

“Sometimes they run in from the islands, but what’s that to you?”

“It’s boring there, empty, no one is there.”

“You’re lying! My godmother lives there: she has her own house, with large gardens. She’s a noble woman, a widow, with two children; her unmarried brother lives with her: a smart fellow, not like this one sitting in the corner here,” he said, pointing to Alekseev, “he’d outwit both you and me!”

“But what’s all that to me?” Oblomov said impatiently. “I won’t move there.”

“Oh, I’ll see how you won’t move. No, if you asked for advice, then listen to what’s said.”

“I won’t move,” Oblomov said resolutely.

“Well, then to hell with you!” Tarantyev replied, pulling his hat down, and went to the door.

“You eccentric fellow!” Tarantyev said, returning. “What seems sweet to you here?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? It’s close to everything,” Oblomov said, “there are shops here, and the theater, and acquaintances… the city center, everything…”

“What?” Tarantyev interrupted. “And when was the last time you left your yard, tell me? When were you last at the theater? What acquaintances do you visit? What the devil do you need this center for, if I may ask!”

“Well, why not? There are many reasons!”

“See, you don’t even know yourself! But there, think: you’ll live at my godmother’s, a noblewoman, in peace, quietly; no one will bother you; no noise, no fuss, clean, neat. Look, you live exactly like in an inn, and yet you’re a master, a landowner! But there’s cleanliness, quiet; someone to exchange a word with when you get bored. Besides me, no one else will visit you. Two children — play with them as much as you want! What do you need? And the advantage, what an advantage. What do you pay here?”

“Fifteen hundred.”

“And there, a thousand rubles for almost a whole house! And what bright, splendid rooms! She’s long wanted a quiet, neat tenant — so I’m appointing you…”

Oblomov vaguely shook his head in denial.

“You’re lying, you’ll move!” Tarantyev said. “You consider that it will cost you half as much: you’ll save five hundred rubles on the apartment alone. Your table will be twice as good and cleaner; neither the cook nor Zakhar will steal…”

A grumbling was heard from the anteroom.

“And more order,” Tarantyev continued, “because now it’s awful to sit at your table! You reach for pepper — there’s none, vinegar hasn’t been bought, knives aren’t cleaned; your linen, you say, disappears, dust everywhere — well, it’s a mess! But there, a woman will be in charge: neither you nor your fool, Zakhar…”

The grumbling in the anteroom grew louder.

“This old dog,” Tarantyev continued, “won’t have to think about anything: you’ll live on everything ready-made. What is there to ponder? Move, and that’s the end of it…”

“But how can I suddenly, out of the blue, go to the Vyborg Side…”

“Go with him!” Tarantyev said, wiping sweat from his face. “It’s summer now: it’s like a dacha. Why are you rotting here in summer, in Gorokhovaya?.. There’s Bezborodkin’s Garden, Okhta is nearby, the Neva is two steps away, your own garden — no dust, no stuffiness! Don’t even think about it: I’ll fly over to her place right now before dinner — give me money for a cabbie — and move tomorrow…”

“What a man!” Oblomov said. “Suddenly he’ll come up with God knows what: the Vyborg Side… That’s not hard to come up with. No, you try to come up with how to stay here. I’ve lived here for eight years, so I don’t want to move…”

“It’s settled: you’ll move. I’m going to my godmother’s now, I’ll inquire about the position another time…”

He made to leave.

“Wait, wait! Where are you going?” Oblomov stopped him. “I have another matter, more important. Look at the letter I received from the bailiff, and tell me what to do.”

“See how you were born!” Tarantyev retorted. “You can’t do anything yourself. It’s always me, me! Well, what good are you? Not a man: just straw!”

“Where’s the letter? Zakhar, Zakhar! He’s lost it again!” Oblomov said.

“Here’s the bailiff’s letter,” Alekseev said, picking up the crumpled letter.

“Yes, here it is,” Oblomov repeated and began to read aloud.

“What do you say? What should I do?” Ilya Ilyich asked after reading. “Droughts, arrears…”

“Lost, utterly lost man!” Tarantyev said.

“But why lost?”

“How is he not lost?”

“Well, if lost, then tell me what to do?”

“And what about it?”

“I said there’ll be champagne: what more do you want?”

“Champagne for finding an apartment: I’ve done you a favor, and you don’t feel it, you’re still arguing; you’re ungrateful! Go find an apartment yourself! And what’s an apartment? The main thing is the peace you’ll have: it’s like being with a native sister. Two children, an unmarried brother, I’ll visit every day…”

“Well, alright, alright,” Oblomov interrupted, “now tell me, what should I do with the bailiff?”

“No, add porter to dinner, then I’ll tell you.”

“Now porter! Not enough for you…”

“Well, then goodbye,” Tarantyev said, putting on his hat again.

“Oh, my God! Here the bailiff writes that the income will be ‘about two thousand less,’ and he’s still adding porter! Well, alright, buy some porter.”

“Give me more money!” Tarantyev said.

“You’ll have change left from the red note.”

“And for the cab to the Vyborg Side?” Tarantyev replied.

Oblomov pulled out another ruble coin and shoved it to him with annoyance.

“Your bailiff is a swindler — that’s what I’ll tell you,” Tarantyev began, putting the ruble in his pocket, “and you believe him, mouth agape. See what a song he sings! Droughts, crop failure, arrears, and peasants have left. He’s lying, it’s all lies! I heard that in our areas, in Shumilov’s estate, all debts were paid with last year’s harvest, and you suddenly have drought and crop failure. Shumilovo is only fifty versts from you: why didn’t the grain burn there? He even invented arrears! And what was he looking at? Why did he let it happen? Where do these arrears come from? Is there no work or market in our area? Oh, he’s a bandit! I’d teach him a lesson! And the peasants left because he himself, I’m sure, extorted something from them, and then let them go, and didn’t even think of complaining to the police officer.”

“That can’t be,” Oblomov said, “he even relays the police officer’s reply in the letter — so naturally…”

“Ah, you! You know nothing. All swindlers write naturally — you can believe me on that! For example,” he continued, pointing to Alekseev, “here sits an honest soul, meek as a lamb, but will he write naturally? — Never. But his relative, although a pig and a scoundrel, he will write. And you won’t write naturally! Therefore, your bailiff is a scoundrel precisely because he wrote skillfully and naturally. See how he put it, word for word: ‘Resettle them to their place of residence.'”

“What should be done with him?” Oblomov asked.

“Replace him immediately.”

“But whom will I appoint? How do I know the peasants? Another might be worse. I haven’t been there in twelve years.”

“Go to the village yourself: you can’t do without it; stay there for the summer, and in autumn, come directly to your new apartment. I’ll take care of making sure it’s ready here.”

“To a new apartment, to the village, myself! What desperate measures you propose!” Oblomov said with displeasure. “Why not avoid extremes and stick to the middle ground…”

“Well, brother Ilya Ilyich, you’ll be utterly ruined. If I were you, I would have long ago mortgaged the estate and bought another, or a house here, in a good location: it’s worth your village. And then I’d mortgage the house and buy another… Give me your estate, and people would hear about me.”

“Stop boasting, and figure out how not to move out of the apartment, and not go to the village, and have the matter settled…” Oblomov remarked.

“Will you ever get off your behind?” Tarantyev said. “Just look at yourself: what good are you? What use are you to the fatherland? He can’t even go to the village!”

“It’s still too early for me to go,” Ilya Ilyich replied, “first let me finish the plan of reforms that I intend to introduce in the estate… And you know what, Mikhey Andreich?” Oblomov suddenly said. “Why don’t you go? You know the business, the places are also familiar to you; and I wouldn’t spare the expenses.”

“Am I your manager or something?” Tarantyev replied haughtily. “And I’m out of practice dealing with peasants…”

“What to do?” Oblomov said thoughtfully. “Truly, I don’t know.”

“Well, write to the police chief: ask him if the bailiff told him about the wandering peasants,” Tarantyev advised, “and ask him to drop by the village; then write to the governor, asking him to instruct the police chief to report on the bailiff’s conduct. ‘Accept, if you please, Your Excellency, paternal participation and cast an eye of mercy upon the inevitable, most terrible misfortune threatening me, arising from the violent actions of the bailiff, and the extreme ruin to which I must inevitably be subjected, with my wife and underage children, twelve children remaining without any care and a piece of bread…'”

Oblomov laughed.

“Where will I get so many children if they ask to see them?” he said.

“Nonsense, write: ‘with twelve children’; it will slip by, they won’t make inquiries, but it will be ‘natural’…” The governor will pass the letter to the secretary, and you write to him at the same time, of course with an enclosure — he will then give the order. And ask your neighbors: who is there near you?”

“Dobrynin is close by,” Oblomov said, “I often saw him here; he’s there now.”

“Write to him too, ask him nicely: ‘You will, if you please, do me a vital favor and obligate me as a Christian, as a friend, and as a neighbor.’ And enclose some Petersburg gift with the letter… cigars, perhaps. That’s how you should act, otherwise you understand nothing. A lost man! My bailiff would dance for me: I’d show him! When is the mail going there?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Oblomov said.

“So sit down and write now.”

“But it’s the day after tomorrow, so why now?” Oblomov remarked. “I can do it tomorrow. But listen, Mikhey Andreich,” he added, “finish your ‘good deeds’: I will, so be it, add fish or some poultry to dinner.”

“What else?” Tarantyev asked.

“Sit down and write. How long will it take you to dash off three letters? You tell stories so ‘naturally’…” he added, trying to hide a smile, “and Ivan Alekseich would copy them…”

“Eh! What notions!” Tarantyev replied. “That I should write! I haven’t even written at my job for three days: as soon as I sit down, a tear starts streaming from my left eye; it must be a draft, and my head aches when I bend down… You’re a loafer, a loafer! You’ll be ruined, brother, Ilya Ilyich, for nothing!”

“Oh, if only Andrey would arrive sooner!” Oblomov said. “He would sort everything out…”

“There’s a benefactor you found!” Tarantyev interrupted him. “The damned German, a cunning scoundrel!..”

Tarantyev harbored some instinctive aversion to foreigners. In his eyes, a Frenchman, a German, an Englishman were synonyms for a swindler, a deceiver, a sly fox, or a bandit. He didn’t even differentiate between nationalities: they were all the same in his eyes.

“Listen, Mikhey Andreich,” Oblomov began sternly, “I asked you to be more restrained in your speech, especially about a person close to me…”

“About a person close to him!” Tarantyev retorted with hatred. “What kind of relative is he to you? A German — it’s obvious.”

“Closer than any relative: I grew up with him, studied with him, and I won’t allow insolence…”

Tarantyev reddened with anger.

“Ah! If you’re exchanging me for a German,” he said, “then I won’t set foot here again.”

He put on his hat and went to the door. Oblomov instantly softened.

“You should respect him as my friend and speak of him more cautiously — that’s all I demand! It seems like a small favor,” he said.

“Respect a German?” Tarantyev said with the utmost contempt. “For what?”

“I already told you, if only for the fact that he grew up and studied with me.”

“Big deal! How many people have studied with whom!”

“If he were here, he would have long ago saved me from all this trouble, without asking for porter or champagne…” Oblomov said.

“Ah! You’re reproaching me! Then to hell with you and your porter and champagne! Here, take your money… Where did I put it? I’ve completely forgotten where I shoved the cursed things!”

He pulled out some greasy, scribbled paper.

“No, not these!..” he said. “Where did I put them?..”

He rummaged through his pockets.

“Don’t bother, don’t get them out!” Oblomov said. “I’m not reproaching you, I’m just asking you to speak more appropriately about a person who is close to me and who has done so much for me…”

“So much!” Tarantyev retorted maliciously. “Just wait, he’ll do even more — you listen to him!”

“Why are you telling me this?” Oblomov asked.

“Because when your German fleeces you later, then you’ll know what it’s like to trade a countryman, a Russian man, for some vagabond…”

“Listen, Mikhey Andreich…” Oblomov began.

“Nothing to listen to, I’ve listened a lot, suffered enough grief from you! God sees how many insults I’ve endured… I bet his father didn’t even see bread in Saxony, and he came here to put on airs.”

“Why are you disturbing the dead? How is his father to blame?”

“Both are to blame, both father and son,” Tarantyev said gloomily, waving his hand. “No wonder my father advised guarding against these Germans, and he certainly knew all sorts of people in his lifetime!”

“But what, for example, don’t you like about the father?” Ilya Ilyich asked.

“Well, the fact that he arrived in our province in only a coat and shoes, in September, and then suddenly left an inheritance to his son — what does that mean?”

“He left his son only about forty thousand in inheritance. He received some as a dowry for his wife, and the rest he acquired by teaching children and managing an estate: he received a good salary. You see that the father is not to blame. How is the son to blame now?”

“A fine boy! Suddenly from his father’s forty thousand he made three hundred thousand in capital, and in service he advanced to a court councilor, and he’s educated… now he’s even traveling! He’s everywhere, got everywhere in a flash! Would a truly good Russian person do all this? A Russian person would choose one thing, and even then, unhurriedly, slowly and gently, somehow, but not like this, go on! If only he had entered the liquor business — well, it’s clear why he got rich; but no, just like that, for nothing! It’s unclean! I’d put such people on trial! Now he’s wandering God knows where!” Tarantyev continued. “Why is he wandering in foreign lands?”

“He wants to learn, to see everything, to know.”

“Learn! Haven’t they taught him enough already? What is there to learn? He’s lying, don’t believe him: he’s deceiving you to your face, like a little child. Do important people learn anything? Do you hear what he’s saying? A court councilor is going to study! You studied in school, but are you studying now? And is he (he pointed to Alekseev) studying? And is his relative studying? Who among decent people studies? Is he sitting in some German school, learning lessons? He’s lying! I heard he went to look at and order some machine: probably vices for Russian money! I’d throw him in jail… Some kind of shares… Oh, these shares, they just stir up my soul!”

Oblomov burst out laughing.

“Why are you baring your teeth? Am I not telling the truth, or what?” Tarantyev said.

“Well, let’s leave that!” Ilya Ilyich interrupted him. “You go with God, wherever you wanted, and I, with Ivan Alekseevich, will write all these letters and try to quickly put my plan on paper: it’s better to do it all at once…”

Tarantyev started to go to the anteroom, but suddenly turned back again.

“Completely forgot! I came to you this morning on business,” he began, no longer rude at all. “Tomorrow I’m invited to a wedding: Rokotov is getting married. Let me wear your frock coat, countryman; mine, you see, is a bit worn…”

“How can you!” Oblomov said, frowning at this new demand. “My frock coat won’t fit you…”

“It will fit; it will!” Tarantyev interrupted. “And do you remember, I tried on your frock coat: it was as if it was tailored for me! Zakhar, Zakhar! Come here, you old brute!” Tarantyev shouted.

Zakhar growled like a bear, but did not come.

“Call him, Ilya Ilyich. Why is he like this with you?” Tarantyev complained.

“Zakhar!” Oblomov called.

“Oh, damn you all!” came from the anteroom along with the sound of feet jumping from the sleeping bench.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked, turning to Tarantyev.

“Bring me my black frock coat!” Ilya Ilyich commanded. “Mikhey Andreich will try it on, to see if it fits him: he needs it for a wedding tomorrow…”

“I won’t give the frock coat,” Zakhar said decisively.

“How dare you, when the master commands?” Tarantyev shouted. “Ilya Ilyich, why don’t you send him to a madhouse?”

“Yes, that’s all we needed: an old man in a madhouse!” Oblomov said. “Give him the frock coat, Zakhar, don’t be stubborn!”

“I won’t!” Zakhar replied coldly. “Let them first bring back the waistcoat and our shirt: it’s been a guest there for five months. They took it just like this for a name day, and then it was gone; the waistcoat is velvet, and the shirt is fine, Dutch: it costs twenty-five rubles. I won’t give the frock coat!”

“Well, goodbye! To hell with you for now!” Tarantyev concluded angrily, leaving and shaking his fist at Zakhar. “Mind you, Ilya Ilyich, I’ll find you an apartment — do you hear me?” he added.

“Well, alright, alright!” Oblomov said impatiently, just to get rid of him.

“And you write down what you need here,” Tarantyev continued, “and don’t forget to write to the governor that you have twelve children, ‘smaller than small.’ And by five o’clock, the soup should be on the table! And why didn’t you order a pie?”

But Oblomov was silent; he had long since stopped listening to him and, closing his eyes, was thinking of something else.

With Tarantyev’s departure, an unbroken silence settled in the room for about ten minutes. Oblomov was upset by both the bailiff’s letter and the impending apartment move, and partly tired by Tarantyev’s chatter. Finally, he sighed.

“Why aren’t you writing?” Alekseev asked quietly. “I could sharpen a pen for you.”

“Sharpen it, and God bless you, go somewhere!” Oblomov said. “I’ll manage alone, and you can copy it after dinner.”

“Very well, sir,” Alekseev replied. “Indeed, I might only get in the way somehow… And I’ll go now and tell them not to wait for us in Yekaterinhof. Goodbye, Ilya Ilyich.”

But Ilya Ilyich did not listen to him: he had pulled his legs up under him, almost settled into the armchair, and, feeling gloomy, had plunged into either a doze or a reverie.

V

Oblomov, a nobleman by birth, a collegiate secretary by rank, had been living in Petersburg for twelve years without leaving.

Initially, during his parents’ lifetime, he lived more modestly, occupying two rooms and content with only Zakhar, the servant he had brought from the village. But after the death of his father and mother, he became the sole owner of three hundred and fifty souls (serfs), which he inherited in a remote province, almost in Asia.

Instead of five, he now received between seven and ten thousand rubles in assignats as income; it was then that his life took on different, broader dimensions. He rented a larger apartment, added a cook to his staff, and even acquired a pair of horses.

At that time, he was still young, and if one couldn’t say he was lively, he was at least livelier than he was now; he was still full of various aspirations, always hoping for something, expecting much from both fate and himself; he was always preparing for a career, for a role — first and foremost, of course, in government service, which was the purpose of his arrival in Petersburg. Then he also thought about a role in society; finally, in the distant future, at the turn from youth to maturity, family happiness glimmered and smiled in his imagination.

But days followed days, years replaced years, down turned into a coarse beard, the sparkle in his eyes was replaced by two dull dots, his waistline broadened, his hair began to fall out mercilessly, he turned thirty, and he had not advanced a single step in any field and was still standing at the threshold of his arena, precisely where he had been ten years ago.

But he was still gathering himself and preparing to start life, always drawing in his mind the pattern of his future; but with each year that flashed over his head, he had to change and discard something from that pattern.

Life in his eyes was divided into two halves: one consisted of labor and boredom — these were synonyms for him; the other — of peace and peaceful merriment. Because of this, his main career path — government service — initially bewildered him in the most unpleasant way.

Raised in the depths of the province, amidst the gentle and warm customs and traditions of his homeland, moving for twenty years from the embraces of relatives, friends, and acquaintances, he was so imbued with the familial principle that his future service appeared to him as a kind of family occupation, like, for example, lazily recording income and expenses in a notebook, as his father used to do.

He believed that officials of one department formed a friendly, close-knit family, tirelessly caring for each other’s peace and pleasures, that visiting a government office was by no means an obligatory habit to be adhered to daily, and that slush, heat, or simply indisposition would always serve as sufficient and legitimate excuses for not attending duty.

But how distressed he became when he saw that at least an earthquake was necessary for a healthy official not to come to work, and earthquakes, as luck would have it, do not happen in Petersburg; a flood, of course, could also serve as an obstacle, but even that is rare.

Oblomov pondered even more deeply when packets marked “urgent” and “very urgent” flashed before his eyes, when he was forced to make various inquiries, excerpts, rummage through files, write notebooks two fingers thick, which, as if in mockery, were called “notes”; moreover, everything was demanded quickly, everyone was rushing somewhere, not stopping for anything: no sooner had they finished one task than they furiously seized another, as if all power resided in it, and having finished, they would forget it and rush to a third — and there was never an end to it!

He was roused twice at night and made to write “notes,” and several times he was fetched from guests by a courier—all because of these same notes. All this filled him with fear and great boredom. “When will I live? When will I live?” he kept repeating.

He had heard at home that a superior was the father of his subordinates, and therefore he formed the most ludicrous, most familial concept of this person. He imagined him as a sort of second father who breathed only to reward his subordinates, whether deserved or not, often and generously, and to care not only for their needs but also for their pleasures.

Ilya Ilyich thought that the superior would so completely enter into the subordinate’s situation that he would solicitously ask how he had rested at night, why his eyes were clouded, and if he had a headache.

But he was sorely disappointed on his very first day of service. With the arrival of the superior, there began a scurrying, a commotion; everyone was flustered, tripping over each other, some straightening their clothes, fearing they weren’t presentable enough for the superior.

This happened, as Oblomov later noticed, because there are such superiors who, in the face of a subordinate, terrified to the point of stupefaction, who has rushed out to meet them, see not only respect for themselves but even zeal, and sometimes even aptitude for service.

Ilya Ilyich didn’t need to be so afraid of his superior, who was a kind and pleasant man to deal with: he never did anyone harm, his subordinates were as content as could be and wished for nothing better. No one ever heard an unpleasant word from him, no shouting, no noise; he never demanded anything, but always asked. To get work done — he asked; to visit him — he asked; and to be put under arrest — he asked. He never addressed anyone with the familiar “ty”; always “vy” to everyone: to a single official and to all together.

But all subordinates felt a certain shyness in the superior’s presence; they answered his gentle questions not in their own voice, but in some other voice, which they didn’t use with others.

And Ilya Ilyich would suddenly feel shy, without knowing why, when the superior entered the room, and his own voice would disappear, and some other, thin and unpleasant voice would appear as soon as the superior spoke to him.

Ilya Ilyich suffered from fear and longing in his service, even under a kind, lenient superior. God knows what would have become of him if he had fallen under a strict and demanding one!

Oblomov served somehow for about two years; perhaps he would have lasted a third, until he received a higher rank, but a peculiar incident forced him to leave the service earlier.

One day, he sent an important document to Arkhangelsk instead of Astrakhan. The mistake was discovered; they began to search for the culprit.

Everyone else waited curiously to see how the superior would summon Oblomov, how calmly and coolly he would ask, “was it he who sent the document to Arkhangelsk,” and everyone wondered what voice Ilya Ilyich would answer him with. Some believed he wouldn’t answer at all: he wouldn’t be able to.

Looking at others, Ilya Ilyich himself became frightened, although both he and everyone else knew that the superior would limit himself to a remark; but his own conscience was much stricter than a reprimand.

Oblomov did not wait for his deserved punishment, went home, and sent a medical certificate.

This certificate stated: “I, the undersigned, certify, with the application of my seal, that Collegiate Secretary Ilya Oblomov is afflicted with cardiac hypertrophy with dilation of the left ventricle (Hypertrophia cordis cum dilatatione ejus ventriculi sinistri), as well as chronic liver pain (hepatitis), threatening dangerous development to the health and life of the patient, which attacks are caused, it must be supposed, by daily attendance at duty. Therefore, to prevent the recurrence and intensification of the painful attacks, I consider it necessary to temporarily cease Mr. Oblomov’s attendance at service and generally prescribe abstinence from mental occupation and any activity.”

But this only helped temporarily: he had to recover, and after that, the prospect of daily attendance at duty loomed again. Oblomov could not bear it and resigned. Thus ended — and was never resumed — his public service.

His role in society had fared better for a while.

In the first years of his stay in Petersburg, in his early, young years, his placid facial features animated more often, his eyes glowed with the fire of life for long periods, rays of light, hope, and strength flowed from them. He was agitated, like everyone else, hoped, rejoiced at trifles, and suffered from trifles. But all this was long ago, in that tender period when a person assumes an sincere friend in every other person and falls in love with almost every woman and is ready to offer his hand and heart to any, which some even manage to achieve, often to great sorrow for the rest of their lives.

In those blissful days, Ilya Ilyich also received many soft, velvety, even passionate glances from a crowd of beauties, a host of promising smiles, two or three unprivileged kisses, and even more painful, tear-inducing friendly handshakes.

However, he never surrendered himself captive to beauties, was never their slave, nor even a very diligent admirer, already because getting close to women involved great hassle. Oblomov mostly limited himself to worshipping from afar, at a respectful distance.

Rarely did fate bring him into contact with a woman in society to such an extent that he might ignite for a few days and consider himself in love. Because of this, his love intrigues never developed into full-fledged romances: they stopped at the very beginning and, in their innocence, simplicity, and purity, were no less charming than the love stories of some boarding-school girl of age.

Most of all, he avoided those pale, sad maidens, mostly with dark eyes, in which “agonizing days and unrighteous nights” glowed, maidens with sorrows and joys unknown to anyone, who always had something to confide, to say, and when they needed to speak, they would tremble, burst into sudden tears, then suddenly throw their arms around a friend’s neck, look into their eyes for a long time, then at the sky, say that their life was cursed, and sometimes faint. He avoided such maidens with fear. His soul was still pure and virginal; it, perhaps, awaited its love, its time, its pathetic passion, and then, with years, it seemed to stop waiting and despaired.

Ilya Ilyich parted even more coldly with the crowd of friends. Immediately after the bailiff’s first letter about arrears and crop failure, he replaced his first friend, the cook, with a kitchen maid, then sold his horses, and finally, dismissed the other “friends.”

Almost nothing drew him out of his home, and with each passing day, he settled more firmly and permanently in his apartment.

At first, it became difficult for him to stay dressed all day; then he became too lazy to dine at acquaintances’ homes, except for those he knew well, mostly bachelor houses, where one could loosen one’s tie, unbutton one’s vest, and where one could even “lounge about” or nap for an hour.

Soon, evenings also bored him: he had to put on a frock coat and shave every day.

He read somewhere that only morning vapours were beneficial, while evening ones were harmful, and he began to fear dampness.

Despite all these whims, his friend, Stolz, managed to drag him out into society; but Stolz often left Petersburg for Moscow, Nizhny, Crimea, and then abroad — and without him, Oblomov again plunged head over heels into his solitude and seclusion, from which only something extraordinary, outside the realm of daily life’s phenomena, could draw him out; but nothing of the sort was present or foreseen in the future.

To all this, with years, a kind of childish timidity returned, an anticipation of danger and evil from everything that was not encountered in the sphere of his daily life — a consequence of his unaccustomedness to diverse external phenomena.

For example, a crack in the ceiling of his bedroom did not frighten him: he was used to it; nor did it occur to him that the perpetually stale air in the room and constant confinement were perhaps more detrimental to health than nocturnal dampness; that daily overfilling of the stomach was a kind of gradual suicide; but he was accustomed to this and was not afraid.

He was not accustomed to movement, to life, to crowds and commotion.

In a dense crowd, he felt suffocated; he got into a boat with uncertain hope of safely reaching the other shore; he rode in a carriage, expecting the horses to bolt and cause a crash.

At other times, a nervous fear would seize him: he would be frightened by the silence around him, or simply by he knew not what — a shiver would run down his body. He would sometimes glance fearfully at a dark corner, expecting his imagination to play a trick on him and show him a supernatural phenomenon.

Thus, his role in society played out. He lazily waved his hand at all his youthful hopes, which had either deceived him or been deceived by him, all the tenderly sad, bright memories that make some hearts beat even in old age.

VI

What did he do at home? Read? Write? Study?

Yes: if a book or newspaper came to hand, he would read it.

If he heard about some remarkable work, he would feel an urge to get acquainted with it; he would seek it out, ask for the book, and if it was brought quickly, he would begin it, an idea about the subject would start to form in him; one more step—and he would have mastered it, but then you’d look, and he was already lying there, gazing apathetically at the ceiling, and the book lay beside him unread, misunderstood.

Coolness would overcome him even more quickly than enthusiasm: he never returned to an abandoned book.

Meanwhile, he studied, like others, like everyone, that is, until the age of fifteen, in a boarding school; then the elder Oblomovs, after a long struggle, decided to send Ilyusha to Moscow, where he, willy-nilly, completed his course of studies.

His timid, apathetic nature prevented him from fully revealing his laziness and whims among strangers, at school, where no exceptions were made for pampered sons. He was forced to sit upright in class, listen to what the teachers said, because there was nothing else to do, and with difficulty, with sweat, with sighs, he learned the lessons assigned to him.

He generally considered all this a punishment sent from heaven for our sins.

He never looked beyond the line under which the teacher drew a mark with his fingernail when assigning a lesson, he asked no questions and demanded no explanations. He was content with what was written in the notebook and showed no troublesome curiosity, even when he didn’t fully understand everything he heard and learned.

If he somehow managed to conquer a book called statistics, history, or political economy, he was completely satisfied.

When Stolz brought him books that he still had to read in addition to what he had learned, Oblomov looked at him silently for a long time.

“And you, Brutus, against me!” he would say with a sigh, taking up the books.

Such immoderate reading seemed unnatural and burdensome to him.

What was the point of all these notebooks, on which one would waste a huge amount of paper, time, and ink? What was the point of textbooks? Why, finally, six or seven years of seclusion, all the strictness, demands, sitting and languishing over lessons, the prohibition of running, playing, having fun, when not everything was finished yet?

“When will I live?” he would ask himself again. “When, at last, will I put into circulation this capital of knowledge, most of which will never be needed in life? Political economy, for example, algebra, geometry — what will I do with them in Oblomovka?”

And history itself only plunges one into melancholy: you study, you read that a time of calamity has come, man is unhappy; he gathers his strength, works, bustles, suffers terribly and toils, preparing clear days. Here they have come — here even history itself might rest: no, clouds appear again, the edifice collapses again, again work, bustle… Clear days do not stop, they run — and life always flows, always flows, always breaking and breaking.

Serious reading tired him. Thinkers failed to stir in him a thirst for speculative truths.

But the poets touched him deeply: he became a youth, like everyone else. And for him, there came a happy, never-betraying, smiling-to-all moment of life, the blossoming of strength, hopes for existence, the desire for good, valor, activity, an epoch of strong heartbeats, pulse, trembling, enthusiastic speeches and sweet tears. His mind and heart brightened: he shook off slumber, his soul craved activity.

Stolz helped him prolong this moment as much as possible for such a nature as his friend’s. He caught Oblomov on the poets and for a year and a half kept him under the ferule of thought and science.

Taking advantage of the enthusiastic flight of youthful dreams, he inserted other goals into the reading of poets besides mere pleasure, more strictly indicated the distant paths of his and his life, and carried him away into the future. Both were agitated, wept, and gave each other solemn promises to follow a rational and bright path.

Stolz’s youthful fervor infected Oblomov, and he burned with a thirst for work, for a distant but captivating goal.

But the flower of life blossomed and bore no fruit. Oblomov sobered up and only occasionally, at Stolz’s prompting, would perhaps read this or that book, but not at once, without rushing, without eagerness, but lazily skimming the lines.

However interesting the place he stopped at, if the hour of dinner or sleep found him there, he would put the book face down and go to dinner or extinguish the candle and go to bed.

If they gave him the first volume, he did not ask for the second after reading it, and if it was brought, he would read it slowly.

Later, he couldn’t even manage the first volume, and spent most of his free time with his elbow on the table and his head on his elbow; sometimes, instead of his elbow, he would use the book that Stolz had imposed on him to read.

Thus, Oblomov completed his academic career. The date on which he attended his last lecture was the Pillars of Hercules of his erudition. The head of the institution, with his signature on the certificate, just like the teacher with his fingernail on the book before, drew a line beyond which our hero no longer deemed it necessary to extend his scholarly pursuits.

His head was a complex archive of dead cases, persons, eras, figures, religions, and disconnected political-economic, mathematical, or other truths, problems, propositions, and so on.

It was as if it were a library consisting only of disparate volumes from various branches of knowledge.

Learning strangely affected Ilya Ilyich: between science and life lay a whole abyss, which he did not attempt to cross. Life was one thing for him, and science another.

He studied all existing and long non-existent laws, completed a course in practical jurisprudence, but when, due to some theft in the house, it became necessary to write a paper to the police, he took a sheet of paper, a pen, thought and thought, and then sent for a scribe.

The accounts in the village were kept by the bailiff. “What was science to do here?” he reasoned in bewilderment.

And he returned to his solitude without the burden of knowledge that could have given direction to the thoughts idly wandering or lazily dozing in his head.

What did he do? He continued to draw the pattern of his own life. In it, not without reason, he found so much wisdom and poetry that one could never exhaust it without books and learning.

Having abandoned service and society, he began to solve the problem of existence differently, delving into his purpose and finally discovering that the horizon of his activity and way of life lay within himself.

He understood that he was destined for family happiness and the cares of the estate. Until then, he hadn’t properly known his affairs: Stolz sometimes took care of them for him. He didn’t really know his income or expenses, never made a budget—nothing.

Old Oblomov, having received the estate from his father, passed it on to his son in the same condition. Although he lived his whole life in the village, he didn’t fuss or rack his brains over various schemes, as people do nowadays: how to discover new sources of land productivity or expand and strengthen old ones, and so on. The way the fields were sown under his grandfather, and the ways of selling agricultural products then, remained the same under him.

However, the old man was very pleased if a good harvest or a high price yielded more income than the previous year: he called it a blessing from God. He simply disliked contrivances and stratagems for acquiring money.

“Our fathers and grandfathers were no stupider than us,” he would say in response to what he considered harmful advice, “and they lived a happy life; we’ll live too: God willing, we’ll be fed.”

Receiving, without any cunning stratagems, from his estate as much income as he needed to dine and sup every day without measure, with his family and various guests, he thanked God and considered it a sin to strive to acquire more.

If the manager brought him two thousand, having hidden a third in his pocket, and tearfully cited hail, drought, and crop failure, old Oblomov would cross himself and, also with tears, would murmur: “God’s will; you can’t argue with God! We must thank the Lord even for what we have.”

Since the death of the old folks, the economic affairs in the village had not only not improved but, as evident from the bailiff’s letter, had worsened. It was clear that Ilya Ilyich needed to go there himself and find the reason for the gradual decrease in income on the spot.

He intended to do this, but kept postponing it, partly because the trip was an ordeal for him, almost new and unknown.

He had only made one journey in his life, on a long one, amidst featherbeds, chests, suitcases, hams, rolls, all kinds of roasted and boiled livestock and poultry, and accompanied by several servants.

Thus he made his only journey from his village to Moscow, and he took this journey as the standard for all journeys in general. But now, he heard, people didn’t travel like that: one had to rush headlong!

Then Ilya Ilyich also postponed his trip because he hadn’t prepared properly to attend to his affairs.

He was no longer like his father or grandfather. He had studied, lived in society: all this led him to various considerations alien to them. He understood that acquisition was not only not a sin, but that it was the duty of every citizen to support the general welfare through honest labor.

Because of this, a large part of the pattern of life that he drew in his solitude was occupied by a new, fresh plan for the arrangement of the estate and the management of the peasants, in accordance with the needs of the time.

The basic idea of the plan, the layout, the main parts—everything had long been ready in his head; only the details, estimates, and figures remained.

For several years, he worked tirelessly on the plan, thinking, contemplating both while walking, lying down, and among people; he would add, then change various articles, then recall what he had thought of yesterday and forgotten during the night; and sometimes, suddenly, like lightning, a new, unexpected thought would flash and boil in his head—and the work would begin.

He was not some minor executor of another’s ready-made thought; he was himself the creator and the executor of his own ideas.

When he got out of bed in the morning, after tea he would immediately lie on the sofa, prop his head with his hand, and ponder tirelessly until, finally, his head grew weary from the heavy work and his conscience said: enough has been done today for the common good.

Only then would he decide to rest from his labors and change his thoughtful posture to another, less business-like and strict, more conducive to dreams and languor.

Freed from business concerns, Oblomov loved to retreat into himself and live in the world he had created.

He had access to the pleasures of high thoughts; he was not alien to universal human sorrows. He wept bitterly in the depths of his soul at times over the calamities of humanity, experienced unknown, nameless sufferings, and anguish, and a yearning for something far away, there, probably, to that world where Stolz used to carry him.

Sweet tears would flow down his cheeks…

Sometimes, he would be filled with contempt for human vice, for lies, for slander, for the evil spread throughout the world, and he would burn with a desire to point out man’s flaws, and suddenly thoughts would ignite within him, circulating and wandering in his head like waves in the sea, then growing into intentions, setting all his blood ablaze, his muscles twitching, his veins tensing, intentions transforming into aspirations: he, moved by moral force, would swiftly change two or three poses in an instant, rise halfway up in bed with shining eyes, stretch out his hand, and look around inspired… Just on the verge of the aspiration being realized, turning into an exploit… and then, Lord! What wonders, what benevolent consequences could be expected from such a lofty effort!

But then, you see, morning would pass, the day would already be nearing evening, and with it, Oblomov’s tired strengths would incline towards rest: storms and turmoil would subside in his soul, his head would sober from thoughts, his blood would circulate more slowly through his veins. Oblomov would quietly, thoughtfully turn onto his back and, fixing a mournful gaze out the window, at the sky, sadly follow the sun with his eyes, magnificently setting behind someone’s four-story house.

And how many, how many times had he watched the sunset that way!

The next morning, life again, again agitation, dreams! He liked to imagine himself sometimes as some invincible general, before whom not only Napoleon but even Yeruslan Lazarevich meant nothing; he would invent a war and its cause: for instance, peoples would stream from Africa into Europe, or he would organize new crusades and wage war, decide the fate of nations, destroy cities, spare, execute, perform feats of goodness and generosity.

Or he would choose the arena of a thinker, a great artist: everyone bowed to him; he reaped laurels; the crowd chased after him, exclaiming: “Look, look, here comes Oblomov, our famous Ilya Ilyich!”

In bitter moments, he suffered from worries, tossing and turning, lying face down, sometimes even completely lost; then he would get out of bed on his knees and begin to pray fervently, diligently, begging heaven to somehow avert the threatening storm.

Then, having entrusted the care of his fate to the heavens, he would become calm and indifferent to everything in the world, and the storm could do as it pleased.

Thus he put his moral forces into action, thus he was often agitated for whole days, and only then would he perhaps awaken with a deep sigh from a captivating dream or from a tormenting worry, when the day approached evening and the sun, a huge orb, began to magnificently descend behind a four-story house.

Then he would again follow it with a thoughtful gaze and a sad smile, and peacefully rest from his agitations.

No one knew or saw this inner life of Ilya Ilyich: everyone thought that Oblomov was just lying around and eating for his health, and that nothing more could be expected from him; that his thoughts barely formed in his head. That’s how he was talked about everywhere he was known.

His abilities, his inner volcanic work of a fervent mind, a humane heart, were known in detail and could be attested to by Stolz, but Stolz was almost never in Petersburg.

Only Zakhar, who spent his entire life around his master, knew his entire inner life even more thoroughly; but he was convinced that he and his master were doing their business and living normally, as they should, and that one should not live otherwise.

VII

Zakhar was over fifty years old. He was no longer a direct descendant of those Russian Calebs, knights of the valet class, without fear or reproach, filled with selfless devotion to their masters, who possessed all virtues and no vices.

This knight was both with fear and with reproach. He belonged to two epochs, and both had left their mark on him. From one, he inherited boundless devotion to the Oblomov household; from the other, a later one, came refinement and corruption of morals.

Passionately devoted to his master, he nevertheless rarely spent a day without lying to him about something. An old-time servant would have restrained his master from extravagance and intemperance, but Zakhar himself liked to drink with friends at his master’s expense; the former servant was chaste as a eunuch, while this one always ran off to a godmother of dubious character. The former would guard his master’s money more securely than any chest, while Zakhar aimed to shortchange his master a dime on any expense and would invariably appropriate a copper ten-kopeck piece or a five-kopeck coin lying on the table. Likewise, if Ilya Ilyich forgot to ask for change from Zakhar, it would never return to him.

He didn’t steal larger sums, perhaps because he measured his needs in dimes and ten-kopeck pieces or was afraid of being noticed, but in any case, not out of an excess of honesty.

The old-fashioned Caleb would rather die, like a perfectly trained hunting dog, over the food entrusted to him than touch it; but this one was always looking for a way to eat and drink what wasn’t entrusted to him; the former cared only that his master ate more, and grieved when he didn’t eat; but this one grieved when his master ate up everything placed on his plate.

Furthermore, Zakhar was also a gossip. In the kitchen, in the shop, at gatherings by the gate, he would complain every day that life was unbearable, that such a bad master had never been heard of: he was capricious, stingy, ill-tempered, and that you couldn’t please him in anything, that, in short, it was better to die than to live with him.

Zakhar did this not out of malice or a desire to harm his master, but out of habit, inherited from his grandfather and father—to curse the master at every convenient opportunity.

Sometimes, out of boredom, for lack of conversational material, or to instill more interest in his listeners, he would suddenly spread some tall tale about his master.

“Mine has taken to visiting that widow,” he would rasp quietly, confidentially, “yesterday he wrote her a note.”

Or he would declare that his master was such a card sharper and drunkard as the world had never produced; that he would gamble and drink heavily all night until morning.

But nothing of the sort ever happened: Ilya Ilyich didn’t visit the widow, he slept peacefully at night, and he didn’t touch cards.

Zakhar was untidy. He shaved rarely, and though he washed his hands and face, it seemed more like he was pretending to wash; and no soap could truly clean them. When he was in the bathhouse, his hands would turn red from black for only about two hours, and then black again.

He was very clumsy: if he tried to open a gate or door, he would open one half, and the other would close; he would rush to that one, and this one would close.

He never picked up a handkerchief or any other item from the floor in one go; he would always bend down three times, as if trying to catch it, and only on the fourth try would he pick it up, and even then, he sometimes dropped it again.

If he carried a stack of dishes or other items across the room, the top items would begin to desert to the floor with the very first step. First, one would fly off; he would suddenly make a belated and useless movement to prevent it from falling, and drop two more. He would stare, mouth agape in surprise, at the falling items, and not at those remaining in his hands, and therefore held the tray askew, and the items continued to fall—and so sometimes he would bring only one glass or plate to the other end of the room, and sometimes, with curses and imprecations, would himself throw down the last thing remaining in his hands.

Walking through the room, he would bump either his foot or his side against a table or chair, not always hitting directly the open half of the door, but striking his shoulder against the other, and would then curse both halves, or the owner of the house, or the carpenter who made them.

In Oblomov’s study, almost all items, especially small ones requiring careful handling, were broken or smashed—all thanks to Zakhar. He applied his ability to pick up an item uniformly to all objects, making no distinction in how to handle one or another.

If, for example, he was told to take a candle off a candlestick or pour water into a glass: he would use as much force as needed to open a gate.

God forbid, when Zakhar ignited with zeal to please his master and decided to clean, tidy, arrange everything, swiftly, at once to put things in order! There was no end to the troubles and losses: hardly an enemy soldier, bursting into the house, would cause so much harm. A breakage, a fall of various objects, breaking of dishes, overturning of chairs would begin; it would end with him having to be driven out of the room, or he would leave himself with curses and imprecations.

Fortunately, he very rarely ignited with such zeal.

All this, of course, happened because he received his upbringing and acquired his manners not in the confined, dimly lit, luxuriously, whimsically furnished studies and boudoirs, where God knows what is crammed in, but in the village, at peace, in spaciousness and fresh air.

There, he was accustomed to serving without constraining his movements by anything, around massive objects: he dealt mostly with sturdy and solid tools, such as a shovel, a crowbar, iron door brackets, and chairs that you couldn’t budge from their place.

An item, a candlestick, a lamp, a transparency, a paperweight, would stand for three or four years in place—nothing; as soon as he picked it up, you’d see—it broke.

“Ah,” he would sometimes say to Oblomov with surprise, “Look, sir, what a wonder: I just picked up this little thing, and it fell apart!”

Or he would say nothing at all, but secretly put it back in its place as quickly as possible and afterwards assure the master that he himself had broken it; and sometimes he would justify himself, as seen at the beginning of the story, by saying that even a thing must have an end, even if it were made of iron, that it could not live forever.

In the first two cases, one could still argue with him, but when, in extremity, he armed himself with the last argument, then all contradiction was useless, and he remained right without appeal.

Zakhar had once and for all outlined a defined sphere of activity for himself, beyond which he voluntarily never stepped.

In the morning, he would set up the samovar, clean the boots, and brush the clothes the master asked for, but by no means those he didn’t ask for, even if they had hung for ten years.

Then he would sweep—though not every day—the middle of the room, not reaching the corners, and dust only the table on which nothing stood, so as not to move things.

After that, he considered himself entitled to doze on the sleeping bench or chat with Anisya in the kitchen and with the servants at the gate, caring about nothing.

If he was ordered to do something beyond this, he would execute the command reluctantly, after arguments and persuasions about the uselessness of the command or the impossibility of fulfilling it.

No means could make him introduce a new permanent item into the circle of tasks he had outlined for himself.

If he was told to clean or wash something, or to carry this, or bring that, he would, as usual, grumbling, carry out the command; but if someone wanted him to then do the same thing constantly himself, that was impossible to achieve.

On the second, third day, and so on, it would be necessary to command the same thing anew, and again enter into unpleasant explanations with him.

Despite all this, that is, that Zakhar liked to drink, gossip, took five-kopeck pieces and ten-kopeck pieces from Oblomov, broke and smashed various things, and was lazy, it still turned out that he was a deeply devoted servant to his master.

He would not hesitate to burn or drown for him, without considering it an act worthy of admiration or any rewards. He looked upon it as something natural, something that could not be otherwise, or, more accurately, he did not look at it at all, but acted so, without any speculation.

He had no theories on this subject. It never occurred to him to analyze his feelings and relationship with Ilya Ilyich; he did not invent them himself; they were passed down from his father, grandfather, brothers, and the servants among whom he was born and raised, and became flesh and blood.

Zakhar would have died instead of his master, considering it his inevitable and natural duty, and not even considering it anything at all, but simply would have rushed to his death, just as a dog encountering a beast in the forest rushes at it, without reasoning why it should rush and not its master.

But then, if it were necessary, for example, to sit up all night by his master’s bed, without closing his eyes, and if his master’s health or even life depended on it, Zakhar would certainly fall asleep.

Outwardly, he showed not only no obsequiousness to his master, but was even rude, familiar in his dealings with him, genuinely angry with him over every trifle, and even, as mentioned, slandered him at the gate; but all this only temporarily obscured, and by no means diminished, his deep-seated, familial feeling of devotion not to Ilya Ilyich personally, but to everything that bore the name Oblomov, everything that was close, dear, precious to him.

Perhaps this feeling even contradicted Zakhar’s own view of Oblomov’s personality; perhaps studying his master’s character instilled other convictions in Zakhar. Probably, if Zakhar were explained the extent of his attachment to Ilya Ilyich, he would dispute it.

Zakhar loved Oblomovka, as a cat loves its attic, a horse its stable, a dog its kennel, where it was born and raised. Within the sphere of this attachment, he had already developed his own special, personal impressions.

For example, he loved Oblomov’s coachman more than the cook, the cow-girl Varvara more than both of them, and Ilya Ilyich less than all of them; but still, Oblomov’s cook was better and higher than all other cooks in the world for him, and Ilya Ilyich was higher than all other landowners.

He couldn’t stand Taraska, the butler; but he wouldn’t trade this Taraska for the best person in the whole world simply because Taraska was Oblomov’s.

He treated Oblomov familiarly and rudely, just as a shaman treats his idol roughly and familiarly: he sweeps it, drops it, sometimes, perhaps, even hits it in annoyance, but deep down, he always maintains a conscious sense of the idol’s natural superiority over his own.

The slightest reason was enough to evoke this feeling from the depths of Zakhar’s soul and make him look at his master with reverence, sometimes even bringing tears of tenderness to his eyes. God forbid he should place any other master not only above, but even on par with his own! God forbid anyone else should think of doing so!

Zakhar looked down on all other gentlemen and guests who came to Oblomov somewhat, and served them—offering tea, etc.—with a certain condescension, as if making them feel the honor they enjoyed by being at his master’s house. He would refuse them somewhat rudely: “The master is resting, you see,” he would say, haughtily surveying the visitor from head to toe.

Sometimes, instead of gossip and slander, he would suddenly begin to immoderately exalt Ilya Ilyich in the shops and at gatherings by the gate, and then there was no end to his raptures. He would suddenly begin to enumerate his master’s virtues: intelligence, kindness, generosity, goodness; and if his master lacked qualities for a panegyric, he would borrow from others and ascribe to him nobility, wealth, or extraordinary power.

If it was necessary to frighten the yardman, the house manager, or even the owner himself, he would always threaten with the master. “Just wait, I’ll tell the master,” he would say with a threat, “you’ll get it later!” He did not suspect a stronger authority in the world.

But Oblomov’s outward relations with Zakhar were always somehow hostile. Living together, they had grown tired of each other. The close, daily interaction between people does not come without a cost to either; it takes a great deal of life experience, logic, and heartfelt warmth from both sides to enjoy only virtues and not to prick or be pricked by mutual shortcomings.

Ilya Ilyich already knew one immense virtue of Zakhar — his devotion to him, and had grown accustomed to it, also believing, for his part, that it could not and should not be otherwise; having become accustomed to this virtue once and for all, he no longer enjoyed it, and meanwhile, with all his indifference to everything, he could not patiently endure Zakhar’s countless minor shortcomings.

If Zakhar, nurturing deep in his soul the devotion characteristic of old-fashioned servants, differed from them by modern shortcomings, then Ilya Ilyich, for his part, while inwardly valuing his devotion, no longer harbored that friendly, almost familial affection towards him that former masters felt for their servants. He sometimes allowed himself to swear harshly at Zakhar.

Zakhar also found Oblomov tiresome. Zakhar, having served as a valet in the master’s house in his youth, was promoted to male nurse for Ilya Ilyich and from then on began to consider himself merely a luxury item, an aristocratic accessory of the house, designated to maintain the fullness and splendor of the old family, and not a necessity. Because of this, after dressing the young master in the morning and undressing him in the evening, he did absolutely nothing for the rest of the time.

Lazy by nature, he was also lazy due to his valet’s upbringing. He put on airs among the servants, not bothering to set up the samovar or sweep the floors. He would either doze in the anteroom or go chat in the servants’ quarters, in the kitchen; otherwise, for hours on end, with his arms crossed over his chest, he would stand at the gate and with a sleepy thoughtfulness gaze in all directions.

And after such a life, a heavy burden was suddenly laid upon him: to bear the service of an entire house on his shoulders! He had to serve the master, sweep, clean, and run errands! From all this, sullenness settled in his soul, and rudeness and harshness appeared in his character; because of this, he grumbled every time his master’s voice forced him to leave the sleeping bench.

Despite this outward sullenness and wildness, Zakhar had a rather soft and kind heart. He even enjoyed spending time with children. In the yard, by the gate, he was often seen with a crowd of children. He would reconcile them, tease them, arrange games, or simply sit with them, holding one on each knee, while some mischievous one would wrap their arms around his neck from behind or tug at his sideburns.

And so Oblomov interfered with Zakhar’s life by constantly demanding his services and presence near him, whereas his heart, his communicative nature, his love for idleness, and his eternal, never-ceasing need to chew drew Zakhar now to his godmother, now to the kitchen, now to the shop, now to the gate.

They had known each other for a long time and had lived together for a long time. Zakhar had nursed little Oblomov in his arms, and Oblomov remembered him as a young, nimble, voracious, and cunning fellow.

An ancient bond was indestructible between them. Just as Ilya Ilyich could neither get up nor go to bed, nor be combed and shod, nor dine without Zakhar’s help, so Zakhar could not imagine another master than Ilya Ilyich, another existence than dressing him, feeding him, being rude to him, being cunning, lying, and at the same time inwardly revering him.

VIII

Zakhar, having locked the door behind Tarantyev and Alexeyev when they left, did not sit on the sleeping bench, expecting his master to call him soon, because he heard that he was going to write. But in Oblomov’s study, all was quiet, as in a tomb.

Zakhar peered through the crack—what? Ilya Ilyich was lying on the sofa, his head resting on his palm; a book lay before him. Zakhar opened the door.

“Why are you lying down again?” he asked.

“Don’t disturb me; don’t you see, I’m reading!” Oblomov said curtly.

“It’s time to wash up and write,” said the persistent Zakhar.

“Yes, indeed, it’s time,” Ilya Ilyich roused himself. “Right now: you go. I’ll think.”

“And when did he manage to lie down again!” Zakhar grumbled, jumping onto the stove. “Quick one!”

Oblomov, however, had managed to read the page, yellowed with time, where his reading had been interrupted about a month ago. He put the book back in its place and yawned, then sank into the persistent thought of “two misfortunes.”

“What boredom!” he whispered, now stretching, now drawing up his legs.

He was drawn to languor and dreams; he turned his eyes to the sky, looking for his favorite luminary, but it was at its zenith and only cast a dazzling glare on the whitewashed wall of the house, behind which it set in the evenings in Oblomov’s view. “No, first business,” he thought sternly, “and then…”

The village morning had long passed, and the Petersburg one was nearing its end. From the courtyard, a mixed noise of human and inhuman voices reached Ilya Ilyich: the singing of wandering artists, mostly accompanied by the barking of dogs. They came to show a sea beast, brought and offered in various voices all sorts of products.

He lay on his back and put both hands under his head. Ilya Ilyich began to work on the plan for his estate. He quickly ran through in his mind several serious, fundamental articles about quitrent, about plowing, devised a new, stricter measure against the laziness and vagrancy of the peasants, and moved on to arranging his own life in the village.

He was preoccupied with the construction of a country house; he lingered with pleasure for a few minutes on the arrangement of the rooms, determined the length and width of the dining room, the billiard room, and even thought about where his study windows would face; he even remembered the furniture and carpets.

After this, he arranged the wings of the house, calculating the number of guests he intended to receive, and allocated space for stables, sheds, servants’ quarters, and various other services.

Finally, he turned to the garden: he decided to leave all the old lime and oak trees as they were, but to destroy the apple and pear trees and plant acacias in their place; he thought about a park, but, having mentally estimated the costs, found it expensive, and, postponing this until another time, moved on to flowerbeds and greenhouses.

Here, a tempting thought of future fruits flashed so vividly that he suddenly transported himself several years forward to the village, when the estate was already arranged according to his plan and when he lived there without leaving.

He imagined himself sitting on the terrace on a summer evening, at a tea table, under a sun-impenetrable canopy of trees, with a long pipe, lazily drawing in smoke, thoughtfully enjoying the view opening up from behind the trees, the coolness, the silence; and in the distance, the fields yellowed, the sun set behind the familiar birch grove and reddened the smooth, mirror-like pond; steam rose from the fields; it grew cool, twilight fell; peasants walked home in crowds.

The idle servants sat by the gate; cheerful voices, laughter, a balalaika were heard there, girls played tag; around him, his little ones frolicked, climbed onto his knees, hung around his neck; at the samovar sat… the queen of everything around, his deity… a woman! his wife! Meanwhile, in the dining room, furnished with elegant simplicity, welcoming lights shone brightly, a large round table was being set; Zakhar, promoted to majordomo, with completely gray sideburns, set the table, arranging crystal with a pleasant clinking and laying out silver, constantly dropping a glass or a fork on the floor; they sat down for a lavish dinner; there also sat his childhood friend, his unchanging friend, Stolz, and others, all familiar faces; then they went to sleep…

Oblomov’s face suddenly flushed with happiness: the dream was so vivid, alive, poetic, that he instantly turned his face to the pillow. He suddenly felt a vague desire for love, for quiet happiness, suddenly longed for the fields and hills of his homeland, his home, a wife and children…

After lying face down for about five minutes, he slowly turned onto his back again. His face shone with a gentle, touching feeling: he was happy.

He stretched out his legs slowly, with pleasure, which caused his trousers to roll up a little, but he did not even notice this small disorder. The obliging dream carried him lightly and freely, far into the future.

Now he was absorbed by his favorite thought: he thought of a small colony of friends who would settle in villages and farms, fifteen or twenty versts around his village, how they would alternately gather at each other’s houses every day for visits, dinners, suppers, dances; he saw all clear days, clear faces, without worries or wrinkles, laughing, round, with bright blushes, with double chins, with unfading appetites; there would be eternal summer, eternal merriment, sweet food and sweet laziness.

“God, God!” he uttered from the fullness of happiness and awoke.

And then from the courtyard came a five-voiced cry: “Potatoes! Sand, do you need sand? Coal! Coal!… Donate, merciful sirs, for the construction of the Lord’s temple!” And from the neighboring, newly built house came the sound of axes, the shouts of workers.

“Ah!” Ilya Ilyich sighed mournfully aloud. “What a life! What an abomination this city noise is! When will the desired, heavenly life come? When to the fields, to the native groves?” he thought. “To lie now on the grass, under a tree, and look through the branches at the sun and count how many birds visit the branches. And here, some rosy-cheeked servant girl, with bare, round, and soft elbows and a tanned neck, would bring you dinner or breakfast on the grass; she would cast down her eyes mischievously and smile… When will this time come?..”

“And the plan! And the bailiff, and the apartment?” suddenly echoed in his memory.

“Yes, yes!” Ilya Ilyich began hastily, “right now, this very minute!”

Oblomov quickly sat up on the sofa, then let his feet down to the floor, slipped into both slippers at once, and sat like that; then he stood up completely and stood thoughtfully for about two minutes.

“Zakhar, Zakhar!” he cried loudly, glancing at the table and the inkwell.

“What now?” came a voice, accompanied by a jump. “How do my legs even carry me?” Zakhar added in a hoarse whisper.

“Zakhar!” Ilya Ilyich repeated thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the table. “Here’s the thing, brother…” he began, pointing to the inkwell, but, without finishing the phrase, he fell into thought again.

Then his arms began to stretch upwards, his knees to bend, he began to stretch, to yawn…

“We had some left,” he began, still stretching, deliberately, “cheese, and… give me some Madeira; it’s a long time until dinner, so I’ll have a little breakfast…”

“Where was it left?” Zakhar said, “there was nothing left…”

“How was there nothing left?” Ilya Ilyich interrupted. “I remember very well: it was such a big piece…”

“No, there isn’t! There was no piece!” Zakhar insisted stubbornly.

“There was!” Ilya Ilyich said.

“There wasn’t,” Zakhar replied.

“Well, then buy some.”

“Please give me money.”

“There’s some change there, take it.”

“But there’s only one ruble forty, and it needs one ruble six grivnas.”

“There were copper coins too.”

“I didn’t see any!” Zakhar said, shifting from foot to foot. “There was silver, there it is, but there were no copper coins!”

“There were: yesterday the peddler gave them to me himself.”

“He gave them in my presence,” Zakhar said, “I saw him give change, but I didn’t see any copper…”

“Did Tarantyev take it?” Ilya Ilyich thought indecisively. “No, he would have taken the change too.”

“So what else is there?” he asked.

“Nothing was there. Is there any of yesterday’s ham, I should ask Anisya,” Zakhar said. “Shall I bring it?”

“Bring what there is. But how was there nothing?”

“Just like that, there was nothing!” Zakhar said and left.

And Ilya Ilyich walked slowly and thoughtfully about the study.

“Yes, a lot of trouble,” he said softly. “Even in the plan—a huge amount of work still to do!… And the cheese was left, after all,” he added thoughtfully, “Zakhar ate it and says there was none! And where did the copper coins disappear to?” he said, feeling around on the table with his hand.

After a quarter of an hour, Zakhar opened the door with a tray, which he held in both hands, and, entering the room, tried to close the door with his foot, but missed and hit empty space: a glass fell, and with it a cork from the decanter and a roll.

“Not a step without this!” Ilya Ilyich said. “Well, at least pick up what you dropped; and he just stands there admiring it!”

Zakhar, with the tray in his hands, bent down to pick up the roll, but, crouching, suddenly saw that both his hands were occupied and he had nothing to pick it up with.

“Well, pick it up!” Ilya Ilyich said mockingly. “What are you doing? What’s the holdup?”

“Oh, damn you, you cursed things!” Zakhar burst out furiously, addressing the fallen objects. “Where have you ever seen breakfast before dinner?”

And, setting down the tray, he picked up what he had dropped from the floor; taking the roll, he blew on it and placed it on the table.

Ilya Ilyich began to have breakfast, and Zakhar stopped at some distance from him, looking at him sideways and apparently intending to say something.

But Oblomov ate breakfast, paying no attention to him whatsoever.

Zakhar coughed twice.

Oblomov still said nothing.

“The manager just sent word again,” Zakhar finally spoke timidly, “the contractor was with him, says: can we take a look at our apartment? About the alterations and all…”

Ilya Ilyich ate, not answering his words.

“Ilya Ilyich,” Zakhar said even more quietly after a pause.

Ilya Ilyich pretended not to hear.

“They’re telling us to move out next week,” Zakhar hissed.

Oblomov drank a glass of wine and remained silent.

“What are we to do, Ilya Ilyich?” Zakhar asked almost in a whisper.

“And I forbade you to talk to me about this,” Ilya Ilyich said sternly and, standing up, approached Zakhar.

He recoiled from him.

“What a venomous man you are, Zakhar!” Oblomov added with feeling.

Zakhar took offense.

“There,” he said, “venomous! What kind of venomous am I? I haven’t killed anyone.”

“How can you not be venomous!” Ilya Ilyich repeated, “you poison my life.”

“I’m not venomous!” Zakhar insisted.

“Why are you bothering me about the apartment?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“You wanted to write to the landlord, didn’t you?”

“Well, I will write; wait; you can’t do everything at once!”

“You could have written it now.”

“Now, now! I have more important things to do. You think it’s like chopping wood? Chop-chop? Look,” Oblomov said, turning a dry pen in the inkwell, “there’s no ink!” How am I supposed to write?”

“I’ll dilute it with kvass right now,” Zakhar said, and, taking the inkwell, he quickly went to the anteroom, and Oblomov began to look for paper.

“Yes, there’s no paper at all!” he said to himself, rummaging in the drawer and feeling the table. “And there’s none anywhere! Oh, this Zakhar: he’s the death of me!”

“Well, how are you not a venomous man?” Ilya Ilyich said to the entering Zakhar, “you don’t look after anything! How can a house not have paper?”

“What is this, Ilya Ilyich, what a punishment! I am a Christian: why do you call me venomous? It’s stuck: venomous! We were born and raised with the old master, he even called me a puppy and pulled my ears, but we never heard such a word, there were no such inventions! How long until sin? Here’s the paper, please.”

He took half a sheet of gray paper from the bookshelf and handed it to him.

“Can one really write on this?” Oblomov asked, throwing the paper down. “I used this to cover a glass at night, so that nothing… venomous would get into it.”

Zakhar turned away and looked at the wall.

“Well, never mind: give it here, I’ll write a draft, and Alexeyev will copy it later.”

Ilya Ilyich sat down at the table and quickly wrote: “My dear sir!..”

“What terrible ink!” Oblomov said. “Next time, keep your ears open, Zakhar, and do your job properly!”

He thought for a moment and began to write.

“The apartment which I occupy on the second floor of the house, in which you have proposed to make certain alterations, fully corresponds to my way of life and the habit acquired due to long residence in this house. Having learned through my serf, Zakhar Trofimov, that you ordered me to be informed that the apartment occupied by me…”

Oblomov stopped and read what he had written.

“Awkward,” he said, “here’s ‘what’ twice in a row, and there’s ‘which’ twice.”

He whispered and rearranged the words: it turned out that “which” referred to the floor—again awkward. He somehow corrected it and began to think how to avoid “what” twice.

He would cross out a word, then put it back again. He moved “what” three times, but it either made no sense or was next to another “what.”

“And you can’t get rid of that other ‘what’!” he said impatiently. “Eh! To hell with the letter altogether! To rack my brains over such trifles! I’m out of practice writing business letters. And it’s already past three o’clock.”

“Zakhar, here you go.” He tore the letter into four pieces and threw them on the floor.

“Did you see?” he asked.

“I saw,” Zakhar replied, picking up the pieces of paper.

“So don’t bother me about the apartment anymore. And what’s that you have?”

“The accounts.”

“Oh, my God! You’ll completely exhaust me! Well, how much is it, tell me quickly!”

“Well, to the butcher, eighty-six rubles and fifty-four kopecks.”

Ilya Ilyich threw up his hands:

“Are you out of your mind? Such a huge amount of money for just one butcher?”

“We haven’t paid for three months, so it will be a huge amount! It’s all written down here, not stolen!”

“Well, how are you not venomous?” Oblomov said. “You bought a million’s worth of beef! What does it all come to for you? It would be fine if it were for future use.”

“I didn’t eat it!” Zakhar snapped back.

“No! You didn’t eat it?”

“Why are you reproaching me with bread? Look!”

And he shoved the accounts at him.

“Well, who else?” Ilya Ilyich said, pushing away the greasy notebooks in annoyance.

“Another one hundred twenty-one rubles and eighteen kopecks to the baker and the greengrocer.”

“This is ruin! This is unheard of!” Oblomov said, losing his temper. “What are you, a cow, to chew so much greenery…”

“No! I’m a venomous man!” Zakhar remarked bitterly, turning completely sideways to his master. “If Mikhey Andreich hadn’t been let in, it would have been less!” he added.

“Well, how much will that be in total, count!” Ilya Ilyich said and began to count himself.

Zakhar did the same calculation on his fingers.

“God knows what nonsense comes out: it’s different every time!” Oblomov said. “Well, how much do you have? Two hundred, perhaps?”

“Just wait, give me time!” Zakhar said, screwing up his eyes and grumbling. “Eight tens and ten tens—eighteen, and two tens…”

“Well, you’ll never finish that way,” Ilya Ilyich said. “Go to your place, and give me the accounts tomorrow, and take care of the paper and ink… Such a huge amount of money! I told you to pay little by little—no, he tries to do everything at once… what a lot!”

“Two hundred five rubles seventy-two kopecks,” Zakhar said, having counted. “Please give me the money.”

“Of course, right now! Wait a bit: I’ll check tomorrow…”

“As you wish, Ilya Ilyich, they are asking…”

“Well, well, leave me alone! I said tomorrow, so you’ll get it tomorrow. Go to your place, and I’ll get busy: I have more important concerns.”

Ilya Ilyich sat down on a chair, tucked his legs under him, and no sooner had he fallen into thought than the doorbell rang.

A short man appeared, with a moderate belly, a white face, rosy cheeks, and a bald head, which was surrounded from the back of the head, like a fringe, by thick black hair. The bald spot was round, clean, and so shiny as if it had been carved from ivory. The guest’s face was distinguished by a solicitous and attentive expression towards everything he looked at, restraint in his gaze, moderation in his smile, and a modestly official decorum.

He was dressed in a comfortable frock coat that opened wide and easily, like a gate, almost at a touch. His linen gleamed with whiteness, as if matching his bald head. On the index finger of his right hand was a large, massive ring with some dark stone.

“Doctor! What brings you here?” Oblomov exclaimed, extending one hand to the guest and pushing a chair with the other.

“I got bored that you’re always healthy, not calling, so I dropped in myself,” the doctor replied playfully. “No,” he then added seriously, “I was upstairs, at your neighbor’s, and just dropped in to check on you.”

“Thank you. And how is the neighbor?”

“Well: three or four weeks, maybe he’ll last until autumn, and then… dropsy in the chest: a known end. Well, how are you?”

Oblomov sadly shook his head: “Bad, doctor. I myself was thinking of consulting you. I don’t know what to do. My stomach hardly digests, there’s a heaviness under my spoon, heartburn has tormented me, my breathing is heavy…” Oblomov said with a pitiful expression.

“Give me your hand,” the doctor said, took his pulse, and closed his eyes for a moment. “And do you have a cough?” he asked.

“At night, especially after supper.”

“Hmm! Does your heart pound? Does your head ache?”

And the doctor asked several more such questions, then bowed his bald head and fell into deep thought. After two minutes, he suddenly raised his head and said in a decisive voice:

“If you live another two or three years in this climate and continue to lie down, eat fatty and heavy food—you will die of a stroke.”

Oblomov started.

“What should I do? Teach me, for God’s sake!” he asked.

“The same as others do: go abroad.”

“Abroad!” Oblomov repeated in astonishment.

“Yes; why not?”

“Forgive me, Doctor, abroad! How is that possible?”

“Why not possible?”

Oblomov silently surveyed himself, then his study, and mechanically repeated:

“Abroad!”

“What’s stopping you?”

“What do you mean? Everything…”

“What is everything? No money, perhaps?”

“Yes, yes, indeed, there’s no money,” Oblomov said quickly, delighted with this most natural obstacle, behind which he could completely hide. “Look what the bailiff is writing to me… Where’s the letter, where did I put it? Zakhar!”

“Alright, alright,” the doctor said, “that’s not my business; my duty is to tell you that you must change your way of life, your place, your air, your occupation—everything, everything.”

“Alright, I’ll think about it,” Oblomov said. “Where should I go and what should I do?” he asked.

“Go to Kissingen or Ems,” the doctor began, “stay there in June and July; drink the waters; then go to Switzerland or Tyrol: for grape cure. Stay there in September and October…”

“God knows what, Tyrol!” Ilya Ilyich whispered barely audibly.

“Then to some dry place, even Egypt…”

“Oh!” Oblomov thought.

“Avoid worries and vexations…”

“Easy for you to say,” Oblomov remarked, “you don’t receive letters like this from the bailiff…”

“One must also avoid thoughts,” the doctor continued.

“Thoughts?”

“Yes, mental strain.”

“And the plan for arranging the estate? Forgive me, am I a mere block of wood?..”

“Well, as you wish there. My business is only to warn you. You must also beware of passions: they harm the treatment. You should try to entertain yourself with horseback riding, dancing, moderate exercise in the fresh air, pleasant conversations, especially with ladies, so that the heart beats lightly and only from pleasant sensations.”

Oblomov listened to him, his head bowed.

“Then?” he asked.

“Then, as for reading, writing—God save you from it! Rent a villa, with windows facing south, lots of flowers, with music and women around…”

“And what about food?”

“Avoid meat and animal food in general, also starchy and gelatinous foods. You can eat light broth, greens; only be careful: cholera is now almost everywhere, so you must be more cautious… You can walk about eight hours a day. Get a gun…”

“Lord!..” Oblomov groaned.

“Finally,” the doctor concluded, “for winter, go to Paris and there, in the whirl of life, distract yourself, don’t ponder: from the theater to a ball, to a masquerade, to the countryside for visits, with friends around you, noise, laughter…”

“Is there anything else I need?” Oblomov asked with poorly concealed annoyance.

The doctor thought…

“Perhaps take advantage of the sea air: get on a steamer in England and ride to America…”

He stood up and began to say goodbye.

“If you fulfill all this exactly…” he said…

“Alright, alright, I will certainly fulfill it,” Oblomov replied acerbically, seeing him off.

The doctor left, leaving Oblomov in the most pathetic state. He closed his eyes, placed both hands on his head, huddled into a ball on the chair, and sat there, looking nowhere, feeling nothing.

From behind him, a timid call was heard:

“Ilya Ilyich!”

“Well?” he responded.

“And what should I tell the manager?”

“About what?”

“About moving?”

“You’re on about that again?” Oblomov asked in astonishment.

“But what am I to do, master, Ilya Ilyich? Judge for yourself: my life is bitter enough as it is, I’m already looking into the grave…”

“No, it seems you want to drive me into the grave with your moving,” Oblomov said. “Listen to what the doctor says!”

Zakhar didn’t know what to say, only sighed so that the ends of his neckerchief trembled on his chest.

“Are you determined to kill me, or what?” Oblomov asked again. “Am I annoying you—huh? Well, speak!”

“Christ be with you! Live in good health! Who wishes you ill?” Zakhar grumbled in complete confusion at the tragic turn the conversation was taking.

“You!” Ilya Ilyich said. “I forbade you to stammer about moving, and you, not a day passes that you don’t remind me five times: it upsets me—do you understand? My health is bad enough as it is.”

“I thought, sir, that… why not move, I thought?” Zakhar said, his voice trembling with inner anxiety.

“Why not move! You judge so lightly about this!” Oblomov said, turning with his armchair to Zakhar. “Have you really thought carefully about what moving means—huh? Surely you haven’t?”

“I certainly haven’t!” Zakhar replied meekly, ready to agree with his master on everything, just to avoid pathetic scenes, which were worse than bitter radishes for him.

“You haven’t, so listen, and then figure out if it’s possible to move or not. What does it mean to move? It means: the master goes out for the whole day, and walks around dressed like that from morning on…”

“Well, what if you do go out?” Zakhar remarked. “Why not be away for a whole day? It’s not healthy to sit at home. Look how unwell you’ve become! Before you were fresh as a cucumber, but now, as you sit, God knows what you look like. You should walk around the streets, look at people or something else…”

“Stop talking nonsense and listen!” Oblomov said. “Walk around the streets!”

“Yes, really,” Zakhar continued with great eagerness. “They say some unheard-of monster has been brought: you should go see it. You should go to the theater or a masquerade, and we could move everything without you.”

“Don’t chatter nonsense! How wonderfully you care about your master’s peace! According to you, I should wander around all day—you don’t care that I’ll have dinner God knows where and how and won’t lie down after dinner?… They’ll move everything here without me! If I don’t supervise, they’ll move nothing but shards. I know,” Oblomov said with increasing conviction, “what moving means! It means breakage, noise; all things will be piled up on the floor: here’s a suitcase, and a sofa back, and paintings, and pipe stems, and books, and some flasks you never see at other times, but here they’ll appear from God knows where! Watch everything, so nothing gets lost or broken… half is here, the other half is in the cart or at the new apartment: you’ll want to smoke, you’ll take your pipe, but the tobacco has already left… You want to sit, but there’s nothing to sit on; whatever you touch—you get dirty; everything’s dusty; nothing to wash with, and you’ll walk around with hands like yours…”

“My hands are clean,” Zakhar remarked, showing what looked like two soles instead of hands.

“Well, just don’t show them!” Ilya Ilyich said, turning away. “And if you want to drink,” Oblomov continued, “you’d take the decanter, but there’s no glass…”

“You can drink from the decanter!” Zakhar added good-naturedly.

“That’s how it is with you: you don’t have to sweep, and you don’t have to wipe dust, and you don’t have to beat carpets. And in the new apartment,” Ilya Ilyich continued, carried away by the vivid picture of the move that appeared before him, “it won’t be sorted out for three days, everything will be out of place: paintings against the walls, on the floor, galoshes on the bed, boots in one bundle with tea and pomade. Then, you look, a chair leg is broken, or the glass on a painting is smashed, or the sofa is stained. Whatever you ask for—it’s not there, no one knows where, or it’s lost, or forgotten in the old apartment: run there…”

“Sometimes you’d run back and forth ten times,” Zakhar interrupted.

“See!” Oblomov continued. “And when you wake up in the new apartment in the morning, what boredom! No water, no coal, and in winter you’ll sit in the cold, the rooms will be chilled, and no firewood; go run, borrow…”

“And God knows what kind of neighbors we’ll get,” Zakhar remarked again, “from some, you won’t even get a log of wood—or a dipper of water.”

“Exactly!” Ilya Ilyich said. “You’ve moved—by evening, it seems, the troubles are over: no, you’ll fuss for another two weeks. It seems everything is arranged… you look, something is still left: hang curtains, nail up pictures—it will drain your soul, you won’t want to live… And the expenses, the expenses…”

“Last time, eight years ago, it cost about two hundred rubles—I remember it now,” Zakhar confirmed.

“Well, that’s a joke!” Ilya Ilyich said. “And how strange it is to live in a new apartment at first! How soon will you get used to it? I won’t sleep for five nights in a new place; anguish will gnaw at me when I get up and see, instead of that turner’s sign opposite, something else, or if that short-haired old woman doesn’t look out the window before dinner, then I’ll be bored… Do you see now, yourself, what you’ve driven your master to—huh?” Ilya Ilyich asked reproachfully.

“I see,” Zakhar whispered meekly.

“Why did you suggest I move? Would human strength be enough to bear all this?”

“I thought that others, you know, aren’t worse than us, and they move, so we can too…” Zakhar said.

“What? What?” Ilya Ilyich suddenly asked in astonishment, rising from his armchair. “What did you say?”

Zakhar suddenly became confused, not knowing how he could have given his master cause for such a pathetic exclamation and gesture… He remained silent.

“Others aren’t worse!” Ilya Ilyich repeated in horror. “That’s what you’ve come to! Now I’ll know that for you, I’m just ‘another’!”

Oblomov bowed ironically to Zakhar and made a deeply offended face.

“Forgive me, Ilya Ilyich, do I compare you to anyone?..”

“Get out of my sight!” Oblomov said imperiously, pointing his hand towards the door. “I can’t bear to see you. Ah! ‘Others’! Good!”

Zakhar, with a deep sigh, retreated to his quarters.

“What a life, you think!” he grumbled, sitting on the sleeping bench.

“My God!” Oblomov also groaned. “I wanted to dedicate the morning to productive work, but here I am, upset for the whole day! And who? My own servant, devoted, tested, and what he said! How could he?”

Oblomov could not calm down for a long time; he lay down, got up, walked around the room, and lay down again. In Zakhar’s reduction of him to the level of “others,” he saw a violation of his rights to Zakhar’s exclusive preference for his master above all and everyone.

He delved into the depth of this comparison and analyzed what “others” were and what he himself was, to what extent this parallel was possible and fair, and how heavy the offense inflicted by Zakhar was; finally, whether Zakhar had insulted him consciously, that is, was he convinced that Ilya Ilyich was just like “another,” or did it just slip off his tongue, without his head being involved. All this touched Oblomov’s self-esteem, and he decided to show Zakhar the difference between him and those whom Zakhar understood by the name “others,” and to make him feel the full vileness of his act.

“Zakhar!” he called out, long and solemnly.

Zakhar, hearing this call, did not jump, as usual, from the sleeping bench, stamping his feet, nor did he grumble; he slowly slid off the stove and walked, bumping into everything with his hands and sides, quietly, reluctantly, like a dog that, by its master’s voice, senses that its mischief has been discovered and that it is being called for punishment.

Zakhar half-opened the door, but dared not enter.

“Come in!” Ilya Ilyich said.

Although the door opened freely, Zakhar opened it as if it were impossible to squeeze through, and thus only got stuck in the doorway, but did not enter.

Oblomov sat on the edge of the bed.

“Come here!” he said insistently.

Zakhar with difficulty freed himself from the door, but immediately closed it behind him and leaned firmly against it with his back.

“Here!” Ilya Ilyich said, pointing with his finger to a spot beside him.

Zakhar took half a step and stopped two sazhens from the indicated spot.

“More!” Oblomov said.

Zakhar pretended to step, but only swayed, stomped his foot, and remained in place.

Ilya Ilyich, seeing that he could by no means lure Zakhar closer this time, left him where he stood, and looked at him for some time in silence, reproachfully.

Zakhar, feeling awkward from this silent contemplation of his person, pretended not to notice his master, and stood more sideways to him than ever, not even casting his unilateral glance at Ilya Ilyich at that moment.

He stubbornly began to look to the left, in another direction: there he saw a long-familiar object—a fringe of cobwebs around the paintings, and in the spider—a living reproach to his negligence.

“Zakhar!” Ilya Ilyich pronounced softly, with dignity.

Zakhar did not answer; he seemed to think: “Well, what do you want? Another Zakhar, perhaps? I’m standing right here,” and shifted his gaze past his master, from left to right; there, too, the mirror, covered as if by gauze with thick dust, reminded him of himself; through it, his own gloomy and ugly face looked wildly, from under his brow, as if from a fog.

He turned his gaze away with displeasure from this sad, too familiar object and decided for a moment to fix it on Ilya Ilyich. Their gazes met.

Zakhar could not bear the reproach written in his master’s eyes, and lowered his own to his feet: here again, in the carpet, permeated with dust and stains, he read a mournful testament to his diligence in his master’s service.

“Zakhar!” Ilya Ilyich repeated with feeling.

“What do you wish?” Zakhar whispered barely audibly and trembled slightly, anticipating a pathetic speech.

“Give me some kvass!” Ilya Ilyich said.

Zakhar’s heart lightened; with joy, like a boy, he quickly rushed to the cupboard and brought kvass.

“How are you doing?” Ilya Ilyich asked gently, taking a sip from the glass and holding it in his hands. “It’s not good, is it?”

The wild look on Zakhar’s face instantly softened with a glimmer of remorse in his features. Zakhar felt the first signs of reverent feeling awakening in his breast and rising to his heart for his master, and he suddenly began to look directly into his eyes.

“Do you feel your transgression?” Ilya Ilyich asked.

“What kind of ‘transgression’ is this?” Zakhar thought with sorrow. “Something pathetic; you’ll cry against your will when he starts to roast you like this.”

“Well, Ilya Ilyich,” Zakhar began from the lowest note of his register, “I said nothing, except that, you know…”

“No, you wait!” Oblomov interrupted. “Do you understand what you’ve done? Here, put the glass on the table and answer!”

Zakhar answered nothing and definitely did not understand what he had done, but this did not prevent him from looking at his master with reverence; he even bowed his head a little, acknowledging his guilt.

“How are you not a venomous man?” Oblomov said.

Zakhar remained silent, only blinking hard three times.

“You’ve grieved your master!” Ilya Ilyich said deliberately and stared intently at Zakhar, enjoying his confusion.

Zakhar didn’t know where to hide from his anguish.

“You did grieve me, didn’t you?” Ilya Ilyich asked.

“Grieved!” Zakhar whispered, completely bewildered by this new, pathetic word. He cast glances right, left, and straight ahead, seeking salvation in something, and again the cobwebs, and the dust, and his own reflection, and his master’s face flashed before him.

“If only the earth would swallow me up! Oh, death won’t come!” he thought, seeing that he couldn’t avoid the pathetic scene, no matter how he twisted and turned. And he felt that he was blinking more and more frequently, and any moment now, tears would burst forth.

Finally, he answered his master with a well-known song, only in prose.

“How have I grieved you, Ilya Ilyich?” he said, almost weeping.

“How?” Oblomov repeated. “Did you even think about what ‘another’ means?”

He paused, continuing to gaze at Zakhar.

“Shall I tell you what it is?”

Zakhar turned like a bear in its den, and sighed so loudly that it filled the room.

“The ‘other’—whom you mean—is a wretched pauper, a rude, uneducated man, lives dirtily, poorly, in an attic; he even sleeps on felt somewhere in the yard. What will happen to such a person? Nothing. He munches on potatoes and herring. Need throws him from corner to corner, and he runs all day long. He might even move to a new apartment. Look at Lyagaev, he’ll take a ruler under his arm and two shirts in a handkerchief and off he goes… ‘Where are you going?’ ‘I’m moving,’ he says. That’s what an ‘other’ is! And I, in your opinion, am ‘another’—huh?”

Zakhar looked at his master, shifted his weight from foot to foot, and remained silent.

“What is ‘another’?” Oblomov continued. “‘Another’ is a person who polishes his own boots, dresses himself, although sometimes he looks like a gentleman, but he lies, he doesn’t even know what servants are; he has no one to send—he runs for what he needs himself; and he stirs the firewood in the stove himself, sometimes even wipes the dust…”

“Many Germans are like that,” Zakhar said sullenly.

“Exactly! And I? What do you think, am I ‘another’?”

“You are completely different!” Zakhar said plaintively, still not understanding what his master wanted to say. “God knows what has come over you…”

“I’m completely different—huh? Wait, look at what you’re saying! Analyze how ‘the other’ lives? ‘The other’ works tirelessly, runs around, bustles,” Oblomov continued, “if he doesn’t work, he doesn’t eat. ‘The other’ bows, ‘the other’ begs, humiliates himself… And I? Well, decide: what do you think, am I ‘the other’—huh?”

“Oh, come on, master, stop tormenting me with pathetic words!” Zakhar pleaded. “Oh, my God!”

“I’m ‘the other’! Do I rush around, do I work? Do I eat little? Am I thin or pitiful to look at? Do I lack anything? It seems there’s someone to serve, to do things for! I’ve never once pulled on my own stockings, thank God, as long as I’ve lived! Am I going to worry? What for? And to whom am I saying this? Haven’t you taken care of me since childhood? You know all this, you’ve seen that I was raised gently, that I never suffered from cold or hunger, knew no need, never earned my own bread, and generally didn’t engage in manual labor. So how did you have the nerve to compare me to others? Do I have the same health as these ‘others’? Can I do and endure all this?”

Zakhar had completely lost the ability to understand Oblomov’s speech; but his lips swelled from inner turmoil; the pathetic scene thundered like a storm cloud over his head. He remained silent.

“Zakhar!” Ilya Ilyich repeated.

“What do you wish?” Zakhar hissed barely audibly.

“Give me more kvass.”

Zakhar brought the kvass, and when Ilya Ilyich, having drunk, gave him the glass, he quickly went back to his place.

“No, no, you wait!” Oblomov began. “I ask you: how could you so bitterly offend your master, whom you carried in your arms as a child, whom you have served your whole life, and who is beneficent to you?”

Zakhar couldn’t bear it: the word “beneficent” finished him off! He began to blink more and more frequently. The less he understood what Ilya Ilyich was saying to him in his pathetic speech, the sadder he became.

“I am at fault, Ilya Ilyich,” he began to wheeze with remorse, “it was out of foolishness, truly out of foolishness…”

And Zakhar, not understanding what he had done, didn’t know which verb to use at the end of his speech.

“And I,” Oblomov continued, in the voice of an offended and underestimated person, “I worry day and night, I work, sometimes my head burns, my heart sinks, I don’t sleep at night, I toss and turn, always thinking how to make things better… and for whom? For whom? All for you, for the peasants; consequently, for you too. You might think, looking at me sometimes completely covered with a blanket, that I’m lying like a log and sleeping; no, I’m not sleeping, but I’m thinking a hard thought, so that the peasants suffer no need in anything, so that they don’t envy others, so that they don’t complain about me to the Lord God at the Last Judgment, but would pray and remember me kindly. Ungrateful ones!” Oblomov concluded with bitter reproach.

Zakhar was completely moved by the last pathetic words. He began to sob little by little; the wheezing and croaking merged this time into one note, impossible for any instrument, except perhaps some Chinese gong or Indian tam-tam.

“My dear master, Ilya Ilyich!” he pleaded. “Enough! What are you saying, God be with you! Oh, Holy Mother of God! What a calamity has suddenly occurred unexpectedly…”

“And you,” Oblomov continued, not listening to him, “you should have been ashamed to utter that! This is the snake I warmed in my bosom!”

“A snake!” Zakhar exclaimed, throwing up his hands, and burst into such a wail as if two dozen beetles had flown in and buzzed in the room. “When did I ever mention a snake?” he said amidst sobs. “I don’t even see that vile thing in my dreams!”

Both of them stopped understanding each other, and finally, each himself.

“How could such a word pass your lips?” Ilya Ilyich continued. “And I even, in my plan, designated a special house for him, a garden, extra grain, appointed a salary! You are my manager, and majordomo, and business agent! The peasants bow to you; everything for you: Zakhar Trofimych here, and Zakhar Trofimych there! And he’s still dissatisfied, he’s promoted himself to ‘others’! Here’s his reward! How splendidly he honors his master!”

Zakhar continued to sob, and Ilya Ilyich himself was moved. Admonishing Zakhar, he was deeply imbued at that moment with the consciousness of the benefits he had bestowed upon the peasants, and he delivered the last reproaches with a trembling voice, with tears in his eyes.

“Well, now go with God!” he said in a conciliatory tone to Zakhar. “But wait, give me more kvass! My throat is completely dry: you should have guessed—do you hear, the master is hoarse? What you’ve driven me to!”

“I hope you understood your transgression,” Ilya Ilyich said, when Zakhar brought the kvass, “and in the future, you will not compare your master to others. To atone for your guilt, somehow arrange with the landlord so that I don’t have to move. This is how you preserve your master’s peace: you have completely upset me and deprived me of some new, useful thought. And from whom did you take it? From yourself; for you I dedicated myself entirely, for you I resigned, I sit locked up… Well, God be with you! Look, it’s striking three! Only two hours until dinner, what can you manage to do in two hours? — Nothing. But there’s a pile of things to do. So be it, I’ll put off the letter until the next mail, and I’ll sketch the plan tomorrow. Well, and now I’ll lie down a bit: I’m completely exhausted; you lower the blinds and close me in tightly so nothing disturbs me; perhaps I’ll sleep for an hour; and wake me at half past four.”

Zakhar began to seal his master in the study; he first covered him himself and tucked the blanket under him, then lowered the blinds, securely locked all the doors, and went to his own quarters.

“May you perish, you devil!” he grumbled, wiping away traces of tears and climbing onto the sleeping bench. “Truly, a devil! A special house, a garden, a salary!” Zakhar said, who had only understood the last words. “He’s a master at saying pathetic words: it cuts my heart like a knife… Here are my house and garden, here I’ll stretch my legs!” he said, striking the sleeping bench furiously. “Salary! If you don’t grab dimes and five-kopeck pieces, you won’t have money for tobacco, and nothing to treat your godmother with! May you perish!… You’d think, death doesn’t come!”

Ilya Ilyich lay on his back, but did not fall asleep immediately. He thought, thought, worried, worried…

“Two misfortunes at once!” he said, wrapping himself completely in the blanket. “Try to stand firm!”

But in reality, these two misfortunes, that is, the ominous letter from the bailiff and the move to a new apartment, ceased to trouble Oblomov and merely became part of his uneasy memories.

“The troubles threatened by the bailiff are still far off,” he thought, “many things can change by then: perhaps the rains will improve the harvest; perhaps the bailiff will make up for the arrears; the runaway peasants will be ‘returned to their place of residence,’ as he writes.”

“And where did those peasants go?” he thought, and delved deeper into the artistic consideration of this circumstance. “They probably left at night, in the dampness, without bread. Where will they sleep? In the forest? They can’t just sit still! In the hut, it smells bad, but at least it’s warm…”

“And why worry?” he thought. “The plan will be ready soon—why be scared in advance? Oh, me…”

The thought of moving troubled him somewhat more. This was a fresh, later misfortune; but in Oblomov’s calming spirit, a history was already unfolding for this fact. Although he vaguely foresaw the inevitability of the move, especially since Tarantyev had interfered, he mentally postponed this unsettling event in his life for at least a week, and a whole week of peace had already been gained!

“And perhaps Zakhar will manage to arrange things so that there will be no need to move at all, perhaps they will manage: they will postpone it until next summer or cancel the renovation entirely; well, somehow it will be done! It’s simply impossible… to move!..”

Thus, he alternately worried and calmed down, and finally, in these conciliatory and reassuring words perhaps, maybe, and somehow, Oblomov found this time, as he always did, a whole ark of hopes and consolations, like the Ark of the Covenant of our fathers, and at that moment he succeeded in protecting himself with them from two misfortunes.

A light, pleasant numbness had already run through his limbs and was beginning to slightly cloud his senses with sleep, just as the first, timid frosts cloud the surface of waters; another moment—and consciousness would have flown God knows where, but suddenly Ilya Ilyich woke up and opened his eyes.

“But I haven’t washed up! How can this be? And I haven’t done anything,” he whispered. “I wanted to put the plan on paper and didn’t, I didn’t write to the police chief, nor to the governor, I started a letter to the landlord and didn’t finish it, I didn’t check the accounts and didn’t pay out money—the morning was simply wasted!”

He fell into thought… “What is this? Would ‘another’ have done all this?” the thought flashed through his mind. “Another, another… What is this ‘another’?”

He delved into comparing himself with “the other.” He began to think, to think: and now an idea was forming in his mind, completely opposite to the one he had given Zakhar about the other.

He had to admit that another person would have managed to write all the letters, so that which and that would never have clashed, another would have moved to a new apartment, and would have carried out the plan, and would have traveled to the village…

“And I could do all that…” he thought to himself, “I think I can write, too; I used to write not just letters, but things more complicated than this! Where has it all gone? And what’s so difficult about moving? You just have to want to! ‘The other’ never even puts on a dressing gown,” he added to the description of “the other”; “‘the other’…” here he yawned… “hardly sleeps… ‘the other’ enjoys life, goes everywhere, sees everything, is interested in everything… But I! I… am not ‘the other’!” he said with sadness and fell into deep thought. He even freed his head from under the blanket.

One of those clear, conscious moments had come in Oblomov’s life.

How terrible it became for him when suddenly a vivid and clear conception of human fate and purpose arose in his soul, and when a parallel flashed between this purpose and his own life, when various life questions awoke in his head, one after another, and fluttered about disorderly and fearfully, like birds awakened by a sudden ray of sun in a slumbering ruin.

He felt sad and pained by his own underdevelopment, the stagnation in the growth of his moral strength, the heaviness that hindered everything; and envy gnawed at him that others lived so fully and broadly, while for him it was as if a heavy stone had been cast onto the narrow and pathetic path of his existence.

In his timid soul, a tormenting realization developed that many aspects of his nature had not awakened at all, others were barely touched, and not a single one had been developed to the end.

Meanwhile, he painfully felt that buried within him, as in a grave, was some good, bright beginning, perhaps now already dead, or it lay like gold in the depths of a mountain, and it was long past time for this gold to become circulating currency.

But the treasure was deeply and heavily covered with rubbish, with accumulated debris. Someone seemed to have stolen and buried in his own soul the riches bestowed upon him by the world and life. Something prevented him from rushing into the arena of life and sailing through it with all the sails of his intellect and will. Some secret enemy laid a heavy hand on him at the beginning of his journey and cast him far from his direct human purpose.

And it seemed he would never escape from the wilderness and wildness onto the straight path. The forest around him and in his soul grew denser and darker; the path became more and more overgrown; bright consciousness awoke less and less often and only for a moment roused his dormant powers. His intellect and will had long been paralyzed and, it seemed, irrevocably.

The events of his life had shrunk to microscopic proportions, but he couldn’t even cope with those events; he didn’t move from one to another, but was tossed by them, like from wave to wave; he was unable to oppose one with the resilience of will or to be carried away by reason after another.

It grew bitter for him during this secret confession to himself. Fruitless regrets about the past, searing reproaches of conscience stung him like needles, and he tried with all his might to cast off the burden of these reproaches, to find the guilty party outside himself and turn their sting upon them. But on whom?

“It’s all… Zakhar!” he whispered.

He recalled the details of the scene with Zakhar, and his face flushed with shame.

“What if someone had heard that?..” he thought, stiffening at the thought. “Thank God Zakhar won’t be able to retell it to anyone; and they wouldn’t believe him anyway; thank God!”

He sighed, cursed himself, tossed from side to side, sought the culprit, and found none. His sighs and groans even reached Zakhar’s ears.

“Ah, he’s bloated from kvass again!” Zakhar grumbled with annoyance.

“Why am I like this?” Oblomov asked himself, almost in tears, and hid his head under the blanket again, “really?”

After searching in vain for the hostile principle that prevented him from living properly, as “others” live, he sighed, closed his eyes, and after a few minutes, drowsiness gradually began to shackle his senses again.

“And I, too… would like…” he said, blinking with difficulty, “something like that… Did nature really offend me so much… No, thank God… I can’t complain…”

Following this, a conciliatory sigh was heard. He was transitioning from agitation to his normal state, peace and apathy.

“It must be fate… What am I to do here?..” he whispered barely audibly, overcome by sleep.

“‘Approximately two thousand less income’…” he suddenly said loudly in a delirium. “Right now, right now, wait…” and he half-woke up.

“However… I’d be curious to know… why am I… like this?..” he said again in a whisper. His eyelids closed completely. “Yes, why? It must be… it’s… because of…” he struggled to pronounce and didn’t.

So he never figured out the reason; his tongue and lips instantly froze mid-word and remained as they were, half-open. Instead of a word, another sigh was heard, and immediately after that, the even snoring of a peacefully sleeping man began to resound.

Sleep stopped the slow and lazy flow of his thoughts and instantly transported him to another era, to other people, to another place, whither we, the reader and I, shall follow him in the next chapter…

IX

Oblomov’s Dream

Where are we? To what blessed corner of the earth has Oblomov’s dream carried us? What a wondrous land!

No, truly, there are no seas there, no high mountains, cliffs, and abysses, no dense forests—nothing grandiose, wild, or gloomy.

And why would there be, this wild and grandiose? The sea, for example? God forbid! It only brings sadness to a person: looking at it, one wants to cry. The heart is troubled with timidity before the boundless expanse of waters, and there is nowhere for the gaze to rest, exhausted by the monotony of the endless picture.

The roar and furious crashes of the waves do not caress the tender ear; they endlessly repeat their one and the same song, from the beginning of the world, of a gloomy and unfathomable content; and always in it is heard the same groan, the same complaints as if of a monster condemned to torment, and someone’s piercing, ominous voices. Birds do not chirp around; only silent gulls, like condemned souls, fly mournfully along the shore and circle over the water.

The roar of a beast is powerless before these cries of nature, the voice of man is insignificant, and man himself is so small, weak, so imperceptibly disappearing in the minute details of the vast picture! Perhaps that is why it is so difficult for him to look at the sea.

No, God forbid the sea! Even its stillness and immobility do not evoke a joyful feeling in the soul: in the barely perceptible oscillation of the water mass, one still sees the same immense, though sleeping, force, which at times so venomously mocks his proud will and so deeply buries his daring plans, all his worries and labors.

Mountains and abysses were also not created for human amusement. They are menacing, terrible, like the claws and teeth of a wild beast unleashed and directed at him; they too vividly remind us of our perishable composition and hold us in fear and anguish for life. And the sky there, above the rocks and abysses, seems so distant and unattainable, as if it has abandoned humanity.

Not so is the peaceful corner where our hero suddenly found himself.

The sky there, on the contrary, seems to press closer to the earth, but not to hurl arrows more strongly, but only, perhaps, to embrace it more tightly, with love: it has spread so low overhead, like a reliable parental roof, seemingly to protect the chosen corner from all misfortunes.

The sun there shines brightly and warmly for about half a year and then leaves not suddenly, as if reluctantly, as if turning back to look once or twice more at the beloved place and to give it in autumn, amidst bad weather, a clear, warm day.

The mountains there seem to be only models of those terrible mountains erected somewhere else that terrify the imagination. They are a series of gentle hills, from which it is pleasant to slide down, frolicking, on one’s back, or, sitting on them, to gaze reflectively at the setting sun.

The river flows merrily, frolicking and playing; now it spreads into a wide pond, now it rushes as a swift thread, or it calms down, as if lost in thought, and crawls barely over the pebbles, sending out playful streams on its sides, to the murmur of which one can sweetly doze.

The entire corner, for about fifteen or twenty versts around, presented a series of picturesque sketches, cheerful, smiling landscapes. The sandy and sloping banks of the bright river, the small bushes climbing from the hill to the water, the crooked ravine with a stream at the bottom, and the birch grove—everything seemed to have been deliberately arranged one after another and skillfully drawn.

A heart exhausted by anxieties or completely unfamiliar with them longs to hide in this forgotten corner and live a happiness unknown to anyone. Everything there promises a peaceful, long life until one’s hair turns yellow, and an imperceptible, sleep-like death.

The annual cycle proceeds regularly and imperturbably there.

According to the calendar, spring arrives in March, dirty streams run from the hills, the earth thaws and smokes with warm vapor; the peasant sheds his sheepskin coat, goes out into the air in only a shirt, and, covering his eyes with his hand, admires the sun for a long time, shrugging his shoulders with pleasure; then he pulls an overturned cart by one shaft and then another, or inspects and kicks a plow lying idle under a shed, preparing for his usual labors.

Sudden blizzards do not return in spring, they do not bury the fields or break the trees with snow.

Winter, like an unapproachable, cold beauty, maintains its character right up to the legally appointed time of warmth; it does not tease with unexpected thaws and does not bend into three arcs with unheard-of frosts; everything proceeds in the usual, prescribed general order of nature.

In November, snow and frost begin, which by Epiphany intensifies to such an extent that a peasant, stepping out of his hut for a moment, invariably returns with frost on his beard; and in February, a keen nose already senses in the air the soft breath of approaching spring.

But summer, summer is especially intoxicating in that region. There, one must seek fresh, dry air, infused—not with lemon or laurel, but simply with the scent of wormwood, pine, and bird cherry; there, one seeks clear days, slightly scorching but not scorching rays of the sun, and almost three months of cloudless sky.

When clear days begin, they last for three or four weeks; and the evening is warm there, and the night is stuffy. The stars twinkle so welcomingly, so friendly from the heavens.

If it rains—what a beneficial summer rain! It pours down briskly, abundantly, leaps cheerfully, like large and hot tears of a suddenly gladdened person; and as soon as it stops—the sun already with a clear smile of love inspects and dries the fields and hills: and the whole country again smiles with happiness in response to the sun.

The peasant joyfully greets the rain: “The little rain will wash it, the sun will dry it!” he says, pleasurably exposing his face, shoulders, and back to the warm downpour.

Thunderstorms are not frightening, but only beneficial there: they occur constantly at the same appointed time, almost never forgetting Elijah’s Day, as if to maintain a certain tradition among the people. And the number and force of the strikes, it seems, are the same every year, as if a certain measure of electricity was released from the treasury for the entire region for a year.

No terrible storms or destructions are heard of in that region.

In the newspapers, no one has ever happened to read anything similar about this blessed corner. And nothing would ever have been published, and nothing would have been heard about this region, if only the peasant widow Marina Kulkova, twenty-eight years old, had not given birth to four infants at once, which could by no means be kept silent.

The Lord did not punish that side with either Egyptian or ordinary plagues. None of the inhabitants saw or remember any terrible celestial signs, no fireballs, no sudden darkness; there are no poisonous reptiles there; locusts do not fly there; there are no roaring lions, no roaring tigers, not even bears and wolves, because there are no forests. Only chewing cows, bleating sheep, and clucking chickens roam abundantly through the fields and villages.

God knows whether a poet or a dreamer would be content with the nature of this peaceful corner. These gentlemen, as is well known, love to gaze at the moon and listen to the nightingales’ trills. They love the coquettish moon that would dress up in pale clouds and mysteriously shimmer through tree branches, or cast shafts of silver light into the eyes of its admirers.

But in this region, no one even knew what kind of moon it was—everyone called it the month. It somehow kindly, with wide-open eyes, looked at the villages and the field, and greatly resembled a polished copper basin.

In vain would a poet gaze at it with rapturous eyes: it would look back at the poet just as simply, as a round-faced village beauty looks back at the passionate and eloquent glances of a city flirt.

Nightingales are also not heard in that region, perhaps because there were no shady refuges and roses there; but what an abundance of quails! In summer, during the harvest, boys catch them by hand.

Let it not be thought, however, that quails constituted an object of gastronomic luxury there—no, such corruption had not permeated the customs of the inhabitants of that region: the quail is a bird not specified for food by statute. It delights human ears with its singing there: that is why a quail hangs in a thread cage under the roof of almost every house.

A poet and a dreamer would not have been satisfied even with the general appearance of this modest and unpretentious locality. They would not have been able to see an evening there in Swiss or Scottish taste, when all nature—forest, water, hut walls, and sandy hills—all glows like a crimson blaze; when against this crimson background, a cavalcade of men riding along a sandy winding road, accompanying some lady on walks to a gloomy ruin and hastening to a strong castle where an episode about the War of the Roses, told by a grandfather, a wild goat for supper, and a ballad sung by a young miss to the sound of a lute await them—pictures with which Walter Scott’s pen has so richly populated our imagination.

No, none of that was in our region.

How quiet, how sleepy everything is in the three or four villages that make up this corner! They lay not far from each other and seemed to have been accidentally thrown by a giant hand and scattered in different directions, and so they have remained ever since.

As one hut ended up on the edge of a ravine, so it has hung there since time immemorial, standing half in the air and supported by three poles. Three or four generations lived in it quietly and happily.

It seems even a chicken would be afraid to enter it, but Onisim Suslov, a solid man who cannot stand at full height in his dwelling, lives there with his wife.

Not everyone would even be able to enter Onisim’s hut; only if the visitor were to persuade it to turn its back to the forest and its front to him.

The porch hung over the ravine, and to step onto the porch, one had to grasp the grass with one hand, the hut’s roof with the other, and then step directly onto the porch.

Another hut clung to a hillock like a swallow’s nest; three of them happened to be side by side by chance, and two stood at the very bottom of the ravine.

Everything is quiet and sleepy in the village: the silent huts are wide open; not a soul is visible; only flies fly in clouds and buzz in the stuffiness.

Upon entering a hut, you will call loudly in vain: dead silence will be the answer; in a rare hut, an old woman, living out her days on the stove, will respond with a painful groan or a muffled cough, or a barefoot, long-haired three-year-old child, in only a shirt, will appear from behind the partition, silently, stare intently at the newcomer, and timidly hide again.

The same deep silence and peace lie over the fields; only here and there, like an ant, a sun-scorched plowman toils on the black field, leaning on his plow and drenched in sweat.

Silence and imperturbable tranquility reign also in the manners of the people in that land. No robberies, no murders, no terrible accidents ever occurred there; neither strong passions nor daring enterprises agitated them.

And what passions and enterprises could agitate them? Everyone there knew himself. The inhabitants of this region lived far from other people. The nearest villages and the district town were about twenty-five to thirty versts away.

At a certain time, the peasants transported grain to the nearest pier on the Volga, which was their Colchis and Pillars of Hercules, and once a year some went to the fair, and otherwise had no contact with anyone.

Their interests were centered on themselves, neither intersecting nor touching anyone else’s.

They knew that eighty versts away there was a “province,” that is, the provincial town, but few traveled there; then they knew that further away, there, was Saratov or Nizhny; they had heard that there was Moscow and Petersburg, that beyond Petersburg lived Frenchmen or Germans, and further on, for them, as for the ancients, began a dark world, unknown lands, inhabited by monsters, two-headed people, giants; then followed darkness—and finally everything ended with the fish that held the earth.

And since their corner was almost impassable, there was nowhere to draw the latest news about what was happening in the wide world: the carters with wooden utensils lived only twenty versts away and knew no more than they did. They had nothing even to compare their life with: whether they lived well or not; whether they were rich or poor; whether there was anything more to wish for, what others had.

Happy people lived, thinking that it could not and should not be otherwise, confident that all others lived exactly the same way and that to live otherwise was a sin.

They would not have believed it if they were told that others somehow plow, sow, reap, sell differently. What passions and excitements could they have?

They, like all people, had worries, and weaknesses, the payment of taxes or quitrent, laziness and sleep; but all this cost them little, without emotional turmoil.

In the last five years, no one from several hundred souls died, not even by violent, but even by natural death.

And if someone passed away in eternal sleep from old age or some chronic illness, then for a long time afterward, they could not stop marveling at such an extraordinary occurrence.

Meanwhile, it did not seem at all surprising to them, for example, how Taras the blacksmith almost steamed himself to death in a dugout with his own hands, to the point where he had to be doused with water.

Of crimes, only one, namely: the theft of peas, carrots, and turnips from gardens, was very common, and once, two piglets and a chicken suddenly disappeared—an event that agitated the entire neighborhood and was unanimously attributed to a cart train with wooden utensils passing through to the fair the day before. Otherwise, accidents of all kinds were generally very rare.

Once, however, a man was found lying beyond the village outskirts, in a ditch, near the bridge, apparently having fallen behind a work gang that had passed through to the town.

The boys were the first to notice him and ran back to the village in horror with news of some terrible snake or werewolf lying in the ditch, adding that it had chased them and almost eaten Kuzka.

The bolder peasants armed themselves with pitchforks and axes and went in a crowd to the ditch.

“Where are you going?” the old men tried to restrain them. “Is your neck strong enough? What do you need? Don’t touch him: no one’s chasing you.”

But the peasants went and about fifty sazhens from the spot began to call out to the monster in different voices: there was no answer; they stopped; then they moved again.

In the ditch lay a peasant, his head resting on a hillock; a bag and a stick lay near him, on which two pairs of bast shoes were hung.

The peasants dared neither to approach closely nor to touch him.

“Hey! You, brother!” they shouted in turn, scratching either the back of their heads or their backs. “What’s your name? Hey, you! What are you doing here?”

The passerby made a movement to raise his head, but could not: he was, apparently, unwell or very tired.

One decided to touch him with a pitchfork.

“Don’t touch him! Don’t touch him!” many cried out. “How can we know what he is: look, he doesn’t say anything; maybe he’s some kind of… Don’t provoke him, lads!”

“Let’s go,” some said, “truly, let’s go: what is he to us, an uncle or something? Only trouble with him!”

And they all went back to the village, telling the old men that there was a stranger lying there, saying nothing, and God knows what he was.

“He’s a stranger, so don’t touch him!” the old men said, sitting on the porch bench with their elbows on their knees. “Let him be! You had no business going there anyway!”

Such was the corner where Oblomov suddenly found himself in his dream.

Of the three or four scattered villages there, one was Sosnovka, the other Vavilovka, a verst apart.

Sosnovka and Vavilovka were the ancestral estate of the Oblomov family and were therefore known by the common name Oblomovka.

Sosnovka had the manor house and residence. About five versts from Sosnovka lay the village of Verkhlyovo, which also once belonged to the Oblomov family and had long since passed into other hands, and a few more scattered huts attached to the same village.

The village belonged to a wealthy landowner who never showed himself at his estate; it was managed by a German steward.

That was the entire geography of this corner.

Ilya Ilyich woke up in the morning in his small bed. He is only seven years old. He feels light, cheerful.

How pretty he is, reddish, plump! His cheeks are so round that another mischievous child could puff them up on purpose and not make them like that.

His nurse waits for him to wake up. She begins to pull on his stockings; he resists, plays, kicks his legs; the nurse catches him, and both of them laugh.

Finally, she manages to get him on his feet; she washes him, combs his hair, and leads him to his mother.

Oblomov, seeing his long-dead mother, trembled even in his sleep with joy, with ardent love for her: two warm tears slowly welled up from beneath his eyelids and remained motionless on his sleeping face.

His mother showered him with passionate kisses, then examined him with eager, solicitous eyes, to see if his eyes were cloudy, asked if anything hurt, questioned the nanny whether he had slept peacefully, if he had woken up at night, if he had tossed in his sleep, if he had a fever? Then she took his hand and led him to the icon.

There, kneeling and embracing him with one arm, she prompted him with the words of prayer.

The boy repeated them distractedly, looking out the window, from which coolness and the scent of lilac poured into the room.

“Mama, are we going for a walk today?” he suddenly asked in the middle of the prayer.

“Yes, darling,” she said hurriedly, not taking her eyes off the icon and rushing to finish the holy words.

The boy repeated them languidly, but his mother put her whole soul into them.

Then they went to his father, then for tea.

Around the tea table, Oblomov saw his elderly aunt, eighty years old, who lived with them, continuously grumbling at her serving girl, who, shaking her head from old age, waited on her, standing behind her chair. There were also three elderly spinsters, distant relatives of his father, and his mother’s slightly deranged brother-in-law, and a landowner with seven serfs, Chekmenev, who was visiting them, and some other old women and old men.

All this staff and retinue of the Oblomov household picked up Ilya Ilyich and began to shower him with caresses and praises; he barely had time to wipe away the traces of uninvited kisses.

After that, his feeding began with buns, rusks, and cream.

Then his mother, after caressing him again, let him go for a walk in the garden, in the yard, in the meadow, with strict instructions to the nurse not to leave the child alone, not to let him near horses, dogs, or goats, not to go far from the house, and most importantly, not to let him into the ravine, as it was the most terrible place in the vicinity, enjoying a bad reputation.

A dog had once been found there, declared rabid only because it ran away from people when they gathered against it with pitchforks and axes, and disappeared somewhere beyond the mountain; carrion was dumped into the ravine; robbers, wolves, and various other creatures, which either did not exist in that region or not at all in the world, were believed to be in the ravine.

The child did not wait for his mother’s warnings: he was already in the yard.

With joyful astonishment, as if for the first time, he examined and ran around his parental home, with its crooked gate, its sagging wooden roof covered with soft green moss, its shaky porch, various additions and superstructures, and its neglected garden.

He yearned to run up the suspended gallery that surrounded the entire house, to look at the river from there: but the gallery was decrepit, barely held up, and only “servants” were allowed to walk on it, not gentlefolk.

He paid no attention to his mother’s prohibitions and was already heading for the tempting steps, but the nurse appeared on the porch and somehow caught him.

He rushed from her to the hayloft, intending to climb up the steep ladder there, and scarcely had she reached the hayloft when she had to rush to thwart his plans to climb into the dovecote, penetrate the cattle yard, and, God forbid! — into the ravine.

“Oh, my God, what a child, what a spinning top! Will you sit still, sir? Shame on you!” the nurse said.

And all day and all days and nights of the nurse were filled with commotion, running around: now torture, now lively joy for the child, now fear that he would fall and smash his nose, now tenderness from his unfeigned childlike affection, or a vague longing for his distant future: this alone made her heart beat, these emotions warmed the old woman’s blood, and somehow sustained her sleepy life, which otherwise, perhaps, would have faded long ago.

Not always playful, however, the child; sometimes he would suddenly quiet down, sitting beside his nurse, and watch everything so intently. His childish mind observed all the phenomena occurring before him; they sank deep into his soul, then grew and matured with him.

The morning is magnificent; the air is cool; the sun is not yet high. From the house, from the trees, and from the dovecote, and from the gallery—long shadows stretched far from everything. In the garden and in the yard, cool corners formed, inviting thoughtfulness and sleep. Only in the distance, the field with rye seems to burn with fire, and the river sparkles and shines so brightly in the sun that it hurts the eyes.

“Why is it, nurse, that it’s dark here, and light there, and soon it will be light there too?” the child asked.

“Because, my dear, the sun is meeting the moon and doesn’t see it, so it frowns; but as soon as it sees it from afar, it will brighten up.”

The child ponders and keeps looking around: he sees Antip driving for water, and on the ground, beside him, walked another Antip, ten times larger than the real one, and the barrel seemed as big as a house, and the shadow of the horse covered the entire meadow, the shadow took only two steps across the meadow and suddenly moved behind the mountain, and Antip had not even managed to drive out of the yard yet.

The child also took two steps, one more step—and he would be gone over the mountain.

He wished he could go to the mountain, to see where the horse had gone. He went to the gate, but from the window came his mother’s voice:

“Nurse! Don’t you see the child has run out into the sun! Take him into the cool; he’ll get a hot head—it’ll ache, he’ll feel sick, he won’t eat. He’ll go into the ravine with you like that!”

“Oh! You rascal!” the nurse grumbled quietly, dragging him onto the porch.

The child watches and observes with a keen and impressionable eye how and what adults do, to what they devote their morning.

Not a single trifle, not a single detail escapes the child’s inquisitive attention; the picture of home life is indelibly etched into his soul; his tender mind is saturated with living examples and unconsciously draws up the program of his life according to the life that surrounds him.

One cannot say that the morning was wasted in the Oblomov household. The clatter of knives chopping cutlets and greens in the kitchen reached even the village.

From the servants’ quarters, one could hear the hiss of a spindle and the quiet, thin voice of a woman: it was difficult to tell whether she was crying or improvising a mournful song without words.

In the yard, as soon as Antip returned with the barrel, women and coachmen crawled from various corners towards it with buckets, troughs, and jugs.

And then an old woman would carry a bowl of flour and a pile of eggs from the pantry to the kitchen; then the cook would suddenly splash water out the window and douse Arapka, who spent the whole morning, without taking her eyes off it, looking out the window, wagging her tail affectionately and licking her lips.

Oblomov himself—the old man is also not without occupation. He sits by the window all morning and unfailingly observes everything that happens in the yard.

“Hey, Ignashka? What are you carrying, fool?” he asks a person walking across the yard.

“I’m carrying knives to sharpen in the servants’ quarters,” the man replies, without looking at his master.

“Well, carry them, carry them; but sharpen them well, mind you!”

Then he stops a woman:

“Hey, woman! Woman! Where have you been?”

“To the cellar, master,” she said, stopping, and, covering her eyes with her hand, looked at the window, “to get milk for the table.”

“Well, go, go!” the master replied. “But mind you don’t spill the milk.”

“And you, Zakharka, you imp, where are you running off to again?” he then shouted. “I’ll give you a good running! I see you’ve run off a third time. Go back, to the antechamber!”

And Zakharka went back to doze in the antechamber.

If the cows come from the field, the old man is the first to make sure they are watered; if he sees from the window that the mongrel is chasing a chicken, he immediately takes strict measures against the disturbances.

And his wife is also very busy: for about three hours she discusses with Averka, the tailor, how to remake Ilya’s jacket from her husband’s peasant coat, she herself draws with chalk and watches to make sure Averka doesn’t steal the cloth; then she goes to the maids’ room, assigns each girl how much lace to braid per day; then she calls Nastasya Ivanovna, or Stepanida Agapovna, or another of her retinue to walk in the garden with a practical purpose: to see how the apples are ripening, if the one from yesterday, which was already ripe, has fallen; to graft there, to prune there, etc.

But the main concern was the kitchen and dinner. The whole household consulted about dinner; and the elderly aunt was invited to the council. Everyone proposed their own dish: someone, tripe soup, someone, noodles or stomach, someone, tripe, someone, red, someone, white gravy for the sauce.

Every piece of advice was taken into consideration, discussed thoroughly, and then accepted or rejected by the hostess’s final verdict.

Nastasya Petrovna or Stepanida Ivanovna were constantly sent to the kitchen to remind about this, to add that or cancel this, to bring sugar, honey, wine for the dishes and to see if the cook put everything that was allotted.

The concern for food was the first and foremost concern in Oblomovka. What calves were fattened there for yearly holidays! What poultry was raised! How many subtle considerations, how many occupations and worries in caring for them! Turkeys and chickens, designated for name days and other solemn occasions, were fattened with nuts; geese were deprived of exercise, made to hang motionless in a sack for several days before the holiday, so that they would become plump with fat. What stores of jams, pickles, pastries were there! What meads, what kvasses were brewed, what pies were baked in Oblomovka!

And so until noon, everyone bustled and worried, everyone lived such a full, ant-like, such a noticeable life.

On Sundays and holidays, these industrious ants also did not cease their activities: then the clatter of knives in the kitchen resounded more frequently and strongly; the peasant woman made several trips from the barn to the kitchen with double the amount of flour and eggs; in the poultry yard, there were more groans and bloodshed. An enormous pie was baked, which the masters themselves ate the next day; on the third and fourth days, the leftovers went to the maids’ room; the pie lasted until Friday, so that one completely stale end, without any filling, went, as a special favor, to Antip, who, crossing himself, bravely destroyed this curious petrifaction with a crack, enjoying more the awareness that it was the master’s pie than the pie itself, like an archaeologist who enjoys drinking rotten wine from a shard of some thousand-year-old pottery.

And the child kept watching and observing with his childish, all-seeing mind. He saw how, after a usefully and busily spent morning, noon and dinner arrived.

The midday is scorching; not a cloud in the sky. The sun stands motionless overhead and burns the grass. The air has stopped flowing and hangs motionless. Neither tree nor water stirs; an imperturbable silence lies over the village and the field—everything seems to have died out. The human voice rings out clearly and far in the emptiness. Twenty sazhens away, one can hear a beetle flying and buzzing, and in the thick grass someone keeps snoring, as if someone has fallen there and is sleeping a sweet sleep.

And a dead silence reigned in the house. The hour of the universal after-dinner nap had come.

The child sees that both his father, and mother, and old aunt, and the retinue—all dispersed to their corners; and whoever didn’t have one, went to the hayloft, another to the garden, a third sought coolness in the entryway, and another, covering his face with a handkerchief from flies, fell asleep where the heat had overcome him and the heavy dinner had felled him. And the gardener stretched out under a bush in the garden, beside his spade, and the coachman slept in the stable.

Ilya Ilyich peeked into the servants’ quarters: everyone there lay sprawled out, on benches, on the floor, and in the entryway, leaving the children to themselves; the children crawled around the yard and dug in the sand. And the dogs had crawled far into their kennels, luckily there was no one to bark at.

One could walk through the entire house and not meet a soul; it would be easy to steal everything around and carry it away from the yard in carts: no one would interfere, if only there were thieves in that region.

It was some all-consuming, unconquerable sleep, a true likeness of death. Everything was dead, only from all corners came diverse snoring in all tones and modes.

Occasionally, someone would suddenly raise their head from sleep, look senselessly, with surprise, in both directions, and roll over to the other side or, without opening their eyes, spit out in their sleep and, after smacking their lips or grumbling something to themselves, fall asleep again.

And another would quickly, without any preliminary preparations, jump up with both feet from their bed, as if afraid to lose precious minutes, grab a mug of kvass and, blowing on the flies floating there so that they would be carried to the other edge, which makes the hitherto motionless flies start to move vigorously, in the hope of improving their position, wet their throat and then fall back onto the bed as if shot.

And the child kept watching and watching.

He and his nurse went out into the fresh air again after dinner. But even the nurse, despite all the mistress’s strict instructions and her own will, could not resist the charm of sleep. She, too, caught this epidemic disease prevalent in Oblomovka.

At first, she cheerfully watched the child, didn’t let him go far, grumbled strictly at his friskiness, then, feeling the symptoms of the approaching infection, began to beg him not to go beyond the gate, not to bother the goat, not to climb into the dovecote or the gallery.

She herself would settle somewhere cool: on the porch, on the threshold of the cellar, or simply on the grass, seemingly to knit a stocking and watch the child. But soon she languidly quieted him, nodding her head.

“He’ll climb, oh, any moment now, that top will climb onto the gallery,” she thought almost in her sleep, “or else… he might go into the ravine…”

Then the old woman’s head drooped to her knees, the stocking fell from her hands; she lost sight of the child and, with her mouth slightly open, emitted a light snore.

And he impatiently awaited this moment, with which his independent life began.

He was as if alone in the whole world; he tiptoed away from his nurse; he observed everyone, where they slept; he would stop and look intently, how someone would wake up, spit, and mumble something in their sleep; then with a pounding heart, he would run up to the gallery, run around the creaking boards, climb into the dovecote, venture into the depths of the garden, listen to a beetle buzz, and follow its flight far into the air with his eyes; he would listen to someone chirping in the grass, search for and catch the violators of this silence; he would catch a dragonfly, tear off its wings, and watch what would become of it, or thread a straw through it and follow it as it flew with this addition; with pleasure, afraid to breathe, he would observe a spider, how it sucked the blood of a caught fly, how the poor victim struggled and buzzed in its paws. The child would end by killing both the victim and the tormentor.

Then he would climb into a ditch, dig around, search for some roots, peel off the bark, and eat them with pleasure, preferring them to the apples and jam his mother gave him.

He would also run out beyond the gate: he wanted to go to the birch grove; it seemed so close to him that he would reach it in five minutes, not by going around, by the road, but straight, across the ditch, fences, and pits; but he was afraid: there, they said, were wood goblins, and robbers, and terrible beasts.

He also wanted to run down into the ravine: it was only about fifty sazhens from the garden; the child had already run to the edge, squeezed his eyes shut, wanted to peek in, as into a volcano crater… but suddenly all the rumors and legends about this ravine rose before him: horror seized him, and he, half-dead with fright, rushed back and, trembling with fear, threw himself at his nurse and woke the old woman.

She started from her sleep, straightened the kerchief on her head, tucked stray gray hairs under it with her finger, and, pretending that she hadn’t been asleep at all, looked suspiciously at Ilyusha, then at the master’s windows, and began to poke the needles of the stocking lying on her knees with trembling fingers, one into another.

Meanwhile, the heat gradually began to subside; everything in nature became livelier; the sun had already moved towards the forest.

And in the house, little by little, the silence was disturbed: in one corner somewhere a door creaked; footsteps were heard in the yard; in the hayloft someone sneezed.

Soon, from the kitchen, a man rushed through, bending under the weight of a huge samovar. People began to gather for tea: some with crumpled faces and swollen eyes; another had a red spot on his cheek and temples from lying down; a third spoke in a strange voice from sleep. All of them snuffled, groaned, yawned, scratched their heads, and stretched, barely coming to their senses.

Dinner and sleep created an unquenchable thirst. Thirst parched their throats; they drank twelve cups of tea, but it didn’t help: groans, moans were heard; they resorted to cranberry water, pear water, kvass, and some even to medical aid, just to quench the dryness in their throats.

Everyone sought deliverance from thirst, as from some divine punishment; everyone tossed and turned, everyone languished, like a caravan of travelers in the Arabian steppe, finding no spring of water anywhere.

The child is here, by his mother: he peers into the strange faces around him, listens to their sleepy and sluggish conversation. He enjoys watching them, every bit of nonsense they utter seems curious to him.

After tea, everyone would busy themselves with something: some would go to the river and quietly wander along the bank, kicking pebbles into the water; another would sit by the window and catch every fleeting phenomenon with their eyes: if a cat ran across the yard, if a jackdaw flew by, the observer would pursue both with their gaze and the tip of their nose, turning their head now to the right, now to the left. Just as dogs sometimes like to sit for whole days at the window, tilting their heads into the sun and carefully inspecting every passerby.

His mother would take Ilyusha’s head, place it on her lap, and slowly comb his hair, admiring its softness and making Nastasya Ivanovna and Stepanida Tikhonovna admire it too, and talk with them about Ilyusha’s future, making him the hero of some brilliant epic she had created. They would promise him golden mountains.

But now dusk was beginning to fall. In the kitchen, the fire crackled again, the rhythmic clatter of knives sounded again: supper was being prepared.

The servants gathered at the gate: a balalaika was heard there, laughter. People were playing tag.

And the sun was already sinking behind the forest; it cast a few faintly warm rays that cut a fiery stripe through the entire forest, brightly bathing the tops of the pine trees in gold. Then the rays died out one by one; the last ray lingered for a long time; like a thin needle, it pierced the thicket of branches; but even that one faded.

Objects lost their form; everything merged first into a gray, then into a dark mass. The singing of birds gradually weakened; soon they fell completely silent, except for one stubborn one, which, as if defying everyone, among the general silence, chirped monotonously at intervals, but less and less frequently, and it too finally whistled faintly, indistinctly, for the last time, fluttered, slightly rustling the leaves around it… and fell asleep.

Everything grew silent. Only the crickets chirped more loudly in a race. White vapors rose from the earth and spread over the meadow and the river. The river also quieted down; a little later, someone suddenly splashed in it for the last time, and it became motionless.

It smelled of dampness. It grew darker and darker. The trees grouped into some kind of monsters; it became scary in the forest: someone would suddenly creak there, as if one of the monsters was moving from its place to another, and a dry twig, it seemed, crunched under its foot.

In the sky, the first star sparkled brightly, like a living eye, and lights flickered in the windows of the house.

The moments of universal, solemn silence of nature had come, those moments when the creative mind works more intensely, poetic thoughts seethe more passionately, when passion flares up more vividly in the heart or longing aches more painfully, when in a cruel soul the seed of a criminal thought ripens more imperturbably and strongly, and when… in Oblomovka everyone rests so soundly and peacefully.

“Let’s go, Mama, for a walk,” Ilyusha says.

“What are you saying, God be with you! Walk now,” she replies, “it’s damp, you’ll catch a cold in your feet; and it’s scary: the wood goblin walks in the forest now, he carries away little children.”

“Where does he carry them? What is he like? Where does he live?” the child asks.

And his mother gave free rein to her unrestrained imagination.

The child listened to her, opening and closing his eyes, until at last, sleep completely overcame him. The nurse came and, taking him from his mother’s lap, carried him, sleepy, with his head hanging over her shoulder, to bed.

“Well, the day is over, thank God!” the Oblomovs would say, getting into bed, groaning and crossing themselves. “We lived prosperously; God grant it will be the same tomorrow! Glory to you, Lord! Glory to you, Lord!”

Then Oblomov dreamed of another time: he, on an endless winter evening, timidly huddled against his nurse, and she whispered to him about some unknown land where there are neither nights nor cold, where all wonders happen, where rivers of honey and milk flow, where no one does anything all year round, and all day long they only know how to walk around, all good young men, like Ilya Ilyich, and beauties beyond description in fairy tales or with a pen.

There is also a kind sorceress, who sometimes appears to us in the form of a pike, who chooses a favorite, quiet, harmless—in other words, some idler whom everyone offends—and showers him with various good things for no reason, and he just eats and dresses in ready-made clothes, and then marries some unheard-of beauty, Militrisa Kirbitievna.

The child, with ears and eyes alert, avidly absorbed the story.

The nurse or tradition so skillfully avoided everything that actually exists in the story that imagination and mind, permeated by fiction, remained enslaved to him until old age. The nurse good-naturedly narrated the tale of Emelya the Fool, that wicked and treacherous satire on our great-grandfathers, and perhaps even on ourselves.

The adult Ilya Ilyich, though he would later learn that there are no rivers of honey and milk, no kind enchantresses, and though he would jokingly smile at the nurse’s tales, his smile would not be sincere; it would be accompanied by a secret sigh: the fairy tale had mingled with his life, and he would sometimes unconsciously feel sad that the fairy tale wasn’t life, and life wasn’t a fairy tale.

He involuntarily dreams of Militrisa Kirbitievna; he is always drawn to that side where all they know is to walk around, where there are no worries or sorrows; he forever retains a desire to lie on the stove, to wear ready-made, unearned clothes, and to eat at the expense of a kind enchantress.

Both old Oblomov and his grandfather had heard the same stories in their childhood, passed down in a stereotypical antique edition, from the mouths of nannies and manservants, through centuries and generations.

Meanwhile, the nurse was already painting another picture for the child’s imagination.

She tells him about the exploits of our Achilles and Ulysses, about the valor of Ilya Muromets, Dobrynya Nikitich, Alyosha Popovich, about Polkan the Bogatyr, about Kolechishche the Wanderer, about how they traveled across Russia, vanquished countless hordes of infidels, how they competed to see who could drink a full chalice of green wine in one gulp without a grunt; then she spoke of evil robbers, of sleeping princesses, of petrified cities and people; finally, she moved on to our demonology, to the dead, to monsters, and to werewolves.

With the simplicity and good-naturedness of Homer, with the same vibrant fidelity of details and vividness of scenes, she instilled into the child’s memory and imagination the Iliad of Russian life, created by our Homerids of those misty times when man had not yet come to terms with the dangers and mysteries of nature and life, when he trembled before both the werewolf and the wood goblin, and sought protection from Alyosha Popovich against the misfortunes surrounding him, when wonders reigned in the air, in the water, in the forest, and in the field.

The life of man in those days was terrible and uncertain; it was dangerous for him to step outside his home: at any moment, a beast might gore him, a robber might stab him, an evil Tatar might take everything from him, or a person might disappear without a trace.

And then suddenly celestial signs would appear, fiery pillars and spheres; and then, over a fresh grave, a light would flare up, or someone would wander in the forest, as if with a lantern, laughing terribly and flashing eyes in the darkness.

And so much that was incomprehensible happened to man himself: a person lives long and well—nothing, but suddenly speaks such nonsense, or begins to shout in an unnatural voice, or wanders sleepily at night; another, for no reason, begins to contort and throw himself on the ground. And before this happened, only a hen crowed like a rooster, and a crow cawed over the roof.

The weak man was lost, looking around in life with horror, and sought in his imagination a key to the mysteries of his surrounding nature and his own.

Or perhaps sleep, the eternal stillness of a sluggish life, and the absence of movement and any real fears, adventures, and dangers forced man to create another, impossible world amidst the natural one, and in it to seek revelry and amusement for an idle imagination, or an explanation for the ordinary chain of circumstances and causes of phenomena outside the phenomenon itself.

Our poor ancestors lived by groping; they did not give wings to or restrain their will, and then naively marveled at or recoiled in horror from inconvenience and evil, and interrogated the silent, unclear hieroglyphs of nature for reasons.

Death occurred to them because a deceased person was carried out of the house headfirst, not feet first, through the gate; a fire—because a dog howled for three nights under the window; and they made efforts to have the deceased carried feet first out of the gate, and ate the same food, in the same quantity, and slept as before on the bare grass; they beat the howling dog or drove it from the yard, but still dropped sparks from the splinter into a crack in the rotten floor.

And even now, the Russian person, amidst the strict, unembellished reality that surrounds him, loves to believe the tempting tales of old, and perhaps for a long time yet will not shake off this belief.

Listening to the nurse’s tales of our golden fleece—the Firebird, of the obstacles and hidden passages of the magical castle, the boy would sometimes perk up, imagining himself a hero of a feat—and goosebumps would run down his spine, then he would suffer for the brave man’s failures.

Story flowed after story. The nurse narrated with passion, vividly, with enthusiasm, at times inspired, because she herself half-believed the stories. The old woman’s eyes sparkled with fire; her head trembled with excitement; her voice rose to unaccustomed notes.

The child, gripped by an unknown horror, clung to her with tears in his eyes.

When the conversation turned to the dead rising from their graves at midnight, or to victims languishing in captivity to a monster, or to a bear with a wooden leg that walks through villages and towns looking for its severed natural leg, the child’s hair would stand on end with terror; his childish imagination would freeze, then boil; he experienced a tormenting, sweetly painful process; his nerves tightened like strings.

When the nurse gloomily repeated the bear’s words: “Creak, creak, wooden leg; I walked through villages, I walked through the village, all the women are sleeping, one woman is not sleeping, she sits on my skin, cooks my meat, spins my wool,” etc.; when the bear finally entered the hut and prepared to seize the thief of its leg, the child could not bear it: he threw himself into the nurse’s arms with trembling and a squeal; tears of fright burst from him, and at the same time he laughed with joy that he was not in the beast’s claws, but on the sleeping bench, beside the nurse.

The boy’s imagination was filled with strange phantoms; fear and anguish settled for a long time, perhaps forever, in his soul. He sadly looks around and sees harm and misfortune everywhere in life, always dreaming of that magical land where there is no evil, no worries, no sorrows, where Militrisa Kirbitievna lives, where they are so well-fed and dressed for free…

The fairy tale retains its power not only over children in Oblomovka, but also over adults until the end of their lives. Everyone in the house and in the village, from the master and his wife to the sturdy blacksmith Taras, trembles at something on a dark evening: every tree then turns into a giant, every bush into a den of robbers.

The rattling of a shutter and the howling of the wind in the chimney made men, women, and children alike turn pale. No one on Epiphany would go alone outside the gate after ten o’clock in the evening; everyone on Easter night would be afraid to go to the stable, fearing to find a house spirit there.

In Oblomovka, they believed everything: both werewolves and the dead. If they were told that a haycock was walking around the field, they would not hesitate and believe it; if someone spread a rumor that this was not a ram, but something else, or that such-and-such Marfa or Stepanida was a witch, they would fear both the ram and Marfa: it would not even occur to them to ask why the ram was no longer a ram, or why Marfa had become a witch, and they would even attack anyone who dared to doubt it—so strong was the belief in the miraculous in Oblomovka!

Ilya Ilyich would later learn that the world is simply arranged, that the dead do not rise from their graves, that giants, as soon as they appear, are immediately put in a booth, and robbers—in prison; but if the very belief in phantoms disappears, some residue of fear and unreasoning melancholy remains.

Ilya Ilyich learned that there were no misfortunes from monsters, and what misfortunes there were, he barely knew, and at every step he still expected something terrible and was afraid. And even now, left in a dark room or seeing a corpse, he trembles with the ominous longing instilled in his soul in childhood; laughing at his fears in the morning, he again pales in the evening.

Further on, Ilya Ilyich suddenly saw himself as a boy of thirteen or fourteen.

He was already studying in the village of Verkhlyovo, about five versts from Oblomovka, with the local steward, a German named Stolz, who had set up a small boarding house for the children of the neighboring gentry.

He had his own son, Andrey, almost the same age as Oblomov, and they had also given him another boy who almost never studied, but mostly suffered from scrofula, spent his entire childhood constantly with bandaged eyes or ears, and cried quietly all the time about not living with his grandmother, but in a strange house, among villains, that there was no one to caress him and no one would bake him his favorite pie.

Apart from these children, there were no other children in the boarding house yet.

There was nothing to be done, his father and mother sat their pampered Ilyusha down with a book. This caused tears, wails, tantrums. Finally, they took him away.

The German was a practical and strict man, like almost all Germans. Perhaps Ilyusha might have learned something thoroughly with him, if Oblomovka had been five hundred versts from Verkhlyovo. But how could he learn? The charm of the Oblomov atmosphere, way of life, and habits extended to Verkhlyovo; after all, it too was once Oblomovka; there, besides Stolz’s house, everything breathed the same primeval laziness, simplicity of manners, quietness, and immobility.

The child’s mind and heart were filled with all the images, scenes, and customs of this way of life before he saw his first book. And who knows how early the development of the intellectual seed begins in a child’s brain? How can one trace the birth of the first concepts and impressions in an infant’s soul?

Perhaps when the child could barely speak, or perhaps not at all, not even walk, but only looked at everything with that fixed, silent childlike gaze that adults call dull, he already saw and guessed the meaning and connection of the phenomena of his surrounding sphere, but simply did not admit it to himself or to others.

Perhaps Ilyusha had long noticed and understood what was being said and done in his presence: how his father, in plush trousers, a brown cloth padded jacket, spent all day just walking from corner to corner, with his hands behind his back, sniffing snuff and blowing his nose, and his mother moved from coffee to tea, from tea to dinner; that his parent would never even think of checking how many haystacks were mowed or reaped, or to demand accountability for omissions, but just give him a handkerchief slowly, and he would shout about disorder and turn the whole house upside down.

Perhaps his childish mind had long decided that this was the way, and no other, to live, as the adults around him lived. And how else would you have him decide? And how did the adults in Oblomovka live?

Did they ask themselves: why is life given? God knows. And how did they answer it? Probably not at all: it seemed very simple and clear to them.

They had not heard of the so-called laborious life, of people carrying tormenting worries in their chests, scurrying for some reason from corner to corner on the face of the earth, or dedicating their lives to eternal, unending labor.

The Oblomovites had little faith in spiritual anxieties; they did not take the cycle of eternal aspirations somewhere, to something, for life; they feared, like fire, the allure of passions; and as elsewhere people’s bodies quickly burned out from the volcanic work of an inner, spiritual fire, so the souls of the Oblomovites peacefully, without hindrance, drowned in their soft bodies.

Life did not brand them, as it did others, with premature wrinkles, nor with moral destructive blows and ailments.

Good people understood it as nothing but an ideal of peace and inactivity, disturbed at times by various unpleasant incidents, such as illnesses, losses, quarrels, and, incidentally, labor.

They endured labor as a punishment imposed on our ancestors, but they could not love it, and wherever there was an opportunity, they always got rid of it, finding this possible and proper.

They never troubled themselves with any vague intellectual or moral questions; that is why they always flourished in health and cheerfulness, that is why they lived long there; men at forty resembled youths; old men did not struggle with a difficult, agonizing death, but, having lived to impossibility, died as if stealthily, quietly freezing and imperceptibly exhaling their last breath. That is why they say that people used to be stronger.

Yes, truly stronger: before, they didn’t rush to explain the meaning of life to a child and prepare him for it, as for something complicated and serious; they didn’t torment him with books that give rise to a multitude of questions in the head, and questions gnaw at the mind and heart and shorten life.

The norm of life was ready and handed down to them by their parents, and they received it, also ready, from their grandfather, and their grandfather from their great-grandfather, with the injunction to guard its integrity and inviolability, like the fire of Vesta. As things were done under grandfathers and fathers, so they were done under Ilya Ilyich’s father, and so, perhaps, they are still done in Oblomovka.

What then was there for them to ponder and worry about, what to learn, what goals to strive for?

Nothing was needed: life, like a calm river, flowed past them; they only had to sit on the bank of this river and observe the inevitable phenomena that, in turn, unbidden, appeared before each of them.

And so, to the imagination of the sleeping Ilya Ilyich, in turn, like living pictures, began to open first the three main acts of life, played out both in his family and among relatives and acquaintances: births, weddings, funerals.

Then followed a colorful procession of its joyful and sorrowful subdivisions: christenings, name days, family holidays, meat-fare, cheese-fare, noisy dinners, family gatherings, greetings, congratulations, official tears and smiles.

Everything was performed with such precision, so importantly and solemnly.

He even imagined familiar faces and their expressions during various rituals, their meticulousness and fuss. Give them any delicate matchmaking you wish, any solemn wedding or name day—they would carry it out according to all the rules, without the slightest omission. Where to seat whom, what and how to serve, who to ride with in the ceremony, whether to observe a custom—in all this, no one in Oblomovka ever made the slightest mistake.

Would they not know how to bring up a child there? One only needs to look at what rosy and weighty cupids the mothers there carry and lead around. They insist that children be plump, fair-skinned, and healthy.

They would renounce spring, refuse to acknowledge it, if they didn’t bake a lark at its beginning. How could they not know and not do this?

Here was their whole life and science, here all their sorrows and joys: that is why they drove away every other worry and sorrow and knew no other joys; their life swarmed exclusively with these fundamental and inevitable events, which provided endless food for their minds and hearts.

With hearts pounding with excitement, they awaited the ritual, the feast, the ceremony, and then, having baptized, married, or buried a person, they forgot the person himself and his fate and plunged into their usual apathy, from which a new similar occasion—a name day, a wedding, etc.—would rouse them.

As soon as a child was born, the parents’ first concern was to perform all the rituals required by decorum as precisely as possible, without the slightest omission, that is, to give a feast after the christening; then began the careful care for him.

The mother set herself and the nurse the task: to raise a healthy child, to protect him from colds, from the evil eye, and from other hostile circumstances. They diligently fussed to ensure the child was always cheerful and ate a lot.

As soon as the young man was on his feet, that is, when the nurse was no longer needed, a secret desire already crept into the mother’s heart to find him a companion—also healthier, rosier.

Again came an era of rituals, feasts, finally a wedding; on this the whole pathos of life was concentrated.

Then repetitions began: the birth of children, rituals, feasts, until a funeral changed the scenery; but not for long: some faces gave way to others, children became youths and at the same time grooms, married, produced their own kind—and so life according to this program stretched in a continuous monotonous fabric, imperceptibly breaking off at the very grave.

Other concerns, it is true, sometimes imposed themselves, but the Oblomovites mostly met them with stoic immobility, and the concerns, having hovered over their heads, rushed past, like birds that fly to a smooth wall and, finding no place to shelter, flutter their wings in vain near the hard stone and fly further.

So, for example, once a part of the gallery on one side of the house suddenly collapsed and buried a setting hen with chicks under its ruins; Aksinya, Antip’s wife, who had sat down under the gallery with her distaff, would also have suffered, but fortunately for her, she had gone for tow at that moment.

A commotion arose in the house: everyone rushed out, from small to large, and were horrified, imagining that instead of a setting hen with chicks, the mistress herself could have been walking there with Ilya Ilyich.

Everyone gasped and began to blame each other for how it hadn’t occurred to them long ago: one to remind, another to order repairs, a third to repair it.

Everyone was amazed that the gallery had collapsed, and the day before they had marveled at how it had held up for so long!

Concerns and discussions began about how to fix the matter; they pitied the setting hen with chicks and slowly dispersed to their places, strictly forbidding Ilya Ilyich from approaching the gallery.

Then, about three weeks later, Andryushka, Petrushka, and Vaska were ordered to drag the collapsed planks and railings to the sheds, so that they wouldn’t lie in the way. There they lay until spring.

Old Oblomov, every time he saw them from the window, would be troubled by the thought of repairs: he would call the carpenter, begin to consult on how best to proceed—whether to build a new gallery or demolish it and the remnants; then he would dismiss him, saying: “Go, and I will think.”

This continued until Vaska or Motka reported to the master that, for instance, when Motka had climbed onto the remnants of the gallery that morning, the corners had completely come away from the walls and, at any moment, would collapse again.

Then the carpenter was called for a final consultation, as a result of which it was decided to temporarily prop up the remaining part of the intact gallery with old debris, which was done by the end of the same month.

“Eh! The gallery will be like new again!” the old man said to his wife. “Look how Fedot beautifully arranged the logs, just like columns at the marshal’s house! Now it’s good: it will last for a long time again!”

Someone reminded him that it would be opportune to fix the gate and repair the porch, as, they said, not only cats but even pigs could crawl into the cellar through the steps.

“Yes, yes, it needs to be done,” Ilya Ivanovich replied thoughtfully and immediately went to inspect the porch.

“Indeed, you see how it’s completely shaky,” he said, rocking the porch like a cradle with his feet.

“But it was shaky even when it was built,” someone remarked.

“So what if it was shaky?” Oblomov replied. “But it didn’t fall apart, even though it’s stood for sixteen years without repair. Luka did a splendid job back then!… Now there was a carpenter, a real carpenter… he died—God rest his soul! Nowadays they’re spoiled: they won’t do it like that.”

And he turned his eyes in another direction, and the porch, they say, still shakes to this day and has still not fallen apart.

It seems that Luka truly was a splendid carpenter.

One must, however, give the masters their due: sometimes in trouble or inconvenience, they would become very agitated, even heated and angry.

How, they would say, could one neglect or abandon this or that? Measures must be taken immediately. And they would only talk about how to repair a small bridge, for example, across a ditch, or fence off a part of the garden so that livestock would not damage the trees, because part of the wattle fence in one place lay completely on the ground.

Ilya Ivanovich extended his meticulousness even to the point that once, while walking in the garden, he personally, grunting and sighing, lifted the wattle fence and ordered the gardener to quickly put two poles: thanks to this resourcefulness of Oblomov, the wattle fence stood like that all summer, and only in winter did the snow knock it down again.

Finally, it even came to the point that three new boards were laid on the bridge, immediately after Antip fell from it, with his horse and barrel, into the ditch. He had not yet recovered from his bruises, but the bridge was already newly finished.

The cows and goats also didn’t take much after the new fall of the fence in the garden: they only ate the currant bushes and began to strip the tenth lime tree, and didn’t even reach the apple trees, when an order followed to properly bury the fence and even dig a ditch around it.

And the two cows and the goat caught in the act got their due: their sides were splendidly thrashed!

Ilya Ilyich still dreams of a large, dark living room in his parents’ house, with old ash armchairs, perpetually covered with slipcovers, with a huge, clumsy, and hard sofa upholstered in faded, spotted blue barracan, and one large leather armchair.

A long winter evening sets in.

His mother sits on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, lazily knitting a child’s stocking, yawning and occasionally scratching her head with a knitting needle.

Beside her sit Nastasya Ivanovna and Pelageya Ignatievna, their noses buried in their work, diligently sewing something for the holiday for Ilyusha, or for his father, or for themselves.

His father, with his hands behind his back, walks back and forth in the room, in complete satisfaction, or sits down in an armchair and, after sitting for a while, starts walking again, attentively listening to the sound of his own footsteps. Then he sniffs snuff, blows his nose, and sniffs again.

In the room, a single tallow candle burned dimly, and even that was allowed only on winter and autumn evenings. In the summer months, everyone tried to go to bed and get up without candles, by daylight.

This was partly out of habit, partly out of economy. For any item that was not produced at home but acquired by purchase, the Oblomovites were extremely stingy.

They would heartily kill an excellent turkey or a dozen chickens for a guest’s arrival, but they wouldn’t add an extra raisin to a dish and would turn pale if the same guest dared to pour himself a glass of wine without permission.

However, such depravity almost never happened there: only some scoundrel, a person ruined in public opinion, would do that; such a guest would not even be allowed into the yard.

No, such customs were not there: a guest there would not touch anything before being offered it three times. He knew very well that a single offer more often implied a request to refuse the offered dish or wine, rather than to taste it.

They would not light two candles for everyone: candles were bought in town with money and were carefully guarded, like all purchased items, under the mistress’s own key. Candle ends were carefully counted and hidden.

In general, they did not like to spend money, and no matter how necessary a thing was, money for it was always given out with great regret, and only if the expense was insignificant. A significant expense was accompanied by groans, wails, and curses.

The Oblomovites preferred to endure all sorts of inconveniences, even getting used to not considering them inconveniences, rather than spending money.

This is why the sofa in the living room has long been stained all over, which is why Ilya Ivanovich’s leather armchair is only called leather, but in reality it’s either bast or rope: there’s only a shred of leather left on the backrest, and the rest has fallen apart into pieces and peeled off for five years; perhaps that’s also why the gate is all crooked and the porch is wobbly. But to pay, for instance, two hundred, three hundred, five hundred rubles for something, even the most necessary thing, seemed to them almost like suicide.

Upon hearing that one of the neighboring young landowners had gone to Moscow and paid three hundred rubles for a dozen shirts, twenty-five rubles for boots, and forty rubles for a vest for his wedding, old Oblomov crossed himself and said, with an expression of horror, rapidly, that “such a young man should be put in the lockup.”

In general, they were deaf to political-economic truths about the necessity of rapid and lively circulation of capital, about increased productivity and exchange of products. In their simple-mindedness, they understood and implemented the only use of capital—to keep it in a chest.

On the armchairs in the living room, in various positions, the inhabitants or regular visitors of the house sit and snore.

Between the interlocutors, profound silence mostly reigns: everyone sees each other daily; intellectual treasures are mutually exhausted and explored, and little news is received from outside.

Quiet; only the heavy footsteps of Ilya Ivanovich’s homemade boots resound, and the wall clock in its case dully ticks with its pendulum, and a thread torn from time to time by the hand or teeth of Pelageya Ignatievna or Nastasya Ivanovna disturbs the profound silence.

So sometimes half an hour would pass, perhaps someone would yawn aloud and cross their mouth, adding: “Lord have mercy!”

After him, a neighbor yawns, then the next, slowly, as if on command, opens their mouth, and so on, the contagious play of air in the lungs goes around to everyone, and some might even shed a tear.

Or Ilya Ivanovich will go to the window, look out and say with some surprise: “It’s only five o’clock, and it’s already so dark outside!”

“Yes,” someone will answer, “it’s always dark around this time; long evenings are coming.”

And in spring, they will be surprised and pleased that long days are coming. But if you ask them why they need these long days, they themselves do not know.

And again they fall silent.

And then someone will take a wick from the candle and suddenly extinguish it—everyone will start: “An unexpected guest!” someone will certainly say.

Sometimes a conversation would begin from this.

“Who could this guest be?” the hostess would say. “Could it be Nastasya Faddeevna? Oh, God grant it! But no; she won’t come before the holiday. What joy that would be! How we’d hug and cry together! And we’d go to matins and mass together… But how can I keep up with her! I’m younger, but I couldn’t stand it for so long!”

“And when did she, you know, leave us?” Ilya Ivanovich asked. “It seems, after Elijah’s Day?”

“What are you saying, Ilya Ivanych! You always get confused!” his wife corrected him. “She didn’t even wait for Semik.”

“She, it seems, was here during Petrove Day,” Ilya Ivanovich objected.

“You’re always like that!” his wife would say with reproach. “You argue, you only make a fool of yourself…”

“Well, how wasn’t she here during Petrove Day? They were still baking pies with mushrooms then: she loves them…”

“That was Marya Onisimovna: she loves pies with mushrooms—how can you not remember! And Marya Onisimovna wasn’t here until Elijah’s Day, but until Prokhor and Nikanor.”

They kept track of time by holidays, by seasons, by various family and domestic events, never referring to months or dates. Perhaps this was partly because, except for Oblomov himself, everyone else confused both the names of the months and the order of the dates.

The defeated Ilya Ivanovich would fall silent, and again the whole company would sink into a doze. Ilyusha, having curled up behind his mother’s back, also dozes, and sometimes sleeps soundly.

“Yes,” some guest would then say with a deep sigh, “Marya Onisimovna’s husband, the late Vasily Fomich, how healthy he was, God rest his soul, and he died! He didn’t live to be sixty—such a man should have lived a hundred years!”

“We all die, when it’s God’s will!” Pelageya Ignatievna objected with a sigh. “Some die, but at the Khlopovs’, they can’t keep up with christenings: they say Anna Andreevna gave birth again—that’s already the sixth.”

“Is Anna Andreevna the only one!” said the hostess. “Just wait until her brother gets married and has children—how many more troubles there will be! And the younger ones are growing up, also looking for grooms; then you’ll have to marry off daughters, but where are the grooms here? Nowadays, you see, everyone wants a dowry, and all in money…”

“What are you saying?” Ilya Ivanovich asked, approaching those conversing.

“Well, we were saying that…”

And they repeat the story to him.

“Such is human life!” Ilya Ivanovich pronounced instructively. “One dies, another is born, a third marries, and we all grow old: not just year after year, but day after day is different! Why is that? Wouldn’t it be better if every day was like yesterday, yesterday like tomorrow!… It’s sad to think about…”

“The old grow old, and the young grow up!” someone said from the corner in a sleepy voice.

“We must pray to God more and think of nothing!” the hostess strictly remarked.

“True, true,” Ilya Ivanovich, who had thought of philosophizing, timidly and rapidly replied, and began to walk back and forth again.

They remain silent again for a long time; only the threads being passed back and forth by the needle creak. Sometimes the hostess would break the silence.

“Yes, it’s dark outside,” she’d say. “Well, God willing, when we celebrate Christmas, our relatives will come to visit, and it will be more cheerful, and we won’t even notice how the evenings pass. If Malanya Petrovna came, oh, what mischief there would be! What won’t she think up! Pouring lead, melting wax, running beyond the gates; she’ll lead all my girls astray. She’ll invent various games… truly, such a one!”

“Yes, a worldly lady!” one of the interlocutors remarked. “Three years ago, she even came up with the idea of sliding down hills, that’s how Luka Savich gashed his eyebrow…”

Suddenly, everyone perked up, looked at Luka Savich, and burst into laughter.

“How did that happen, Luka Savich? Come on, tell us!” Ilya Ivanovich said, dying with laughter.

And everyone continued to laugh, and Ilyusha woke up, and he laughed too.

“Well, what is there to tell!” said the embarrassed Luka Savich. “It was all Alexey Naumych’s invention: nothing really happened at all.”

“Eh!” everyone chorused. “How could nothing have happened? Are we dead or something? And your forehead, your forehead, the scar is still visible even now…”

And they burst out laughing.

“Why are you laughing?” Luka Savich tried to articulate between bursts of laughter. “I would have… not that… but it was all Vaska, the scoundrel… he slipped me an old sled… it fell apart under me… and I, you know…”

General laughter drowned out his voice. In vain did he try to finish the story of his fall: laughter spread throughout the company, reached the antechamber and the maids’ room, engulfed the entire house; everyone remembered the amusing incident, everyone laughed long, heartily, indescribably, like Olympian gods. Just as they began to quiet down, someone would pick it up again—and it would start all over.

Finally, with great difficulty, they somewhat calmed down.

“Well, are you going to slide down hills this Christmas, Luka Savich?” Ilya Ivanovich asked after a pause.

Again, a general burst of laughter, lasting about ten minutes.

“Shouldn’t I tell Antipka to build a hill during Lent?” Oblomov suddenly said again. “Luka Savich, they say, is a great enthusiast, he can’t wait…”

The laughter of the entire company prevented him from finishing.

“Are those… sleds… still intact?” one of the interlocutors barely managed to utter through laughter.

Laughter again.

Everyone laughed for a long time, finally gradually quieting down: one wiped away tears, another blew his nose, a third coughed furiously and spat, barely uttering:

“Oh, Lord! The phlegm has completely choked me… he was so funny then, by God! Such a sin! How he was on his back, and the tails of his caftan spread apart…”

Then followed the final, longest peal of laughter, and then everything fell silent. One sighed, another yawned aloud, with a proverb, and everything sank into silence.

As before, only the pendulum’s swing, Oblomov’s boot steps, and the slight crackle of a bitten thread could be heard.

Suddenly, Ilya Ivanovich stopped in the middle of the room with an anxious look, holding the tip of his nose.

“What’s this trouble? Look!” he said. “Someone’s going to die: the tip of my nose keeps itching…”

“Oh, Lord!” his wife exclaimed, clapping her hands. “What kind of deceased person is it if the tip itches? A deceased person is when the bridge of the nose itches. Well, Ilya Ivanych, how forgetful you are, God be with you! You’ll say something like that in public someday or in front of guests, and it will be shameful.”

“And what does it mean when the tip itches?” asked a confused Ilya Ivanovich.

“To look into a shot glass. How else could it be: a deceased person!”

“I always confuse everything!” Ilya Ivanovich said. “How can one remember all this: sometimes the side of the nose itches, sometimes the tip, sometimes the eyebrows…”

“The side,” Pelageya Ivanovna picked up, “means news; eyebrows itching—tears; forehead—bowing: if the right side itches—to a man, the left—to a woman; ears itching—means rain, lips—kissing, mustache—treats, elbow—sleeping in a new place, soles—a journey…”

“Well, Pelageya Ivanovna, bravo!” said Ilya Ivanovich. “And also when oil will be cheap, does the back of the head itch, or something…”

The ladies began to laugh and whisper; some of the men smiled; another burst of laughter was imminent, but at that moment, a sound like a dog’s growl and a cat’s hiss, as if they were about to pounce on each other, filled the room simultaneously. The clock chimed.

“Eh! It’s already nine o’clock!” Ilya Ivanovich exclaimed with joyful astonishment. “Look, you can’t even tell how time has passed. Hey, Vaska! Vanka, Motka!”

Three sleepy faces appeared.

“Why aren’t you setting the table?” Oblomov asked with surprise and annoyance. “Can’t you think about the masters? Well, what are you standing around for? Quickly, vodka!”

“That’s why the tip of my nose was itching!” Pelageya Ivanovna said animatedly. “You’ll drink vodka and look into the shot glass.”

After supper, smacking their lips and crossing themselves, everyone dispersed to their beds, and sleep reigned over their carefree heads.

Ilya Ilyich dreams not of one or two such evenings, but of entire weeks, months, and years of such days and evenings.

Nothing disturbed the monotony of this life, and the Oblomovites themselves were not burdened by it, because they couldn’t even imagine another way of life; and if they could have imagined it, they would have turned away from it in horror.

They wouldn’t want or love any other life. They would be sorry if circumstances brought any changes to their way of life, no matter what. Melancholy would gnaw at them if tomorrow wasn’t like today, and the day after tomorrow wasn’t like tomorrow.

Why would they need variety, changes, accidents, which others seek out? Let others bear that burden, but they, the Oblomovites, care for nothing. Let others live as they please.

After all, accidents, even if they bring some advantages, are troublesome: they require fuss, worries, running around, not sitting still, trading or writing—in short, getting busy, no joke!

For decades, they continued to snore, doze, and yawn, or burst into good-natured laughter from village humor, or, gathering in a circle, they would recount what they had seen in their dreams the previous night.

If the dream was frightening, everyone became thoughtful, genuinely afraid; if it was prophetic, everyone genuinely rejoiced or grieved, depending on whether the dream was sorrowful or comforting. If the dream required the observance of some omen, active measures were immediately taken.

If not that, then they played Durak, or their own trump games, and on holidays with guests, they played Boston, or laid out a grand solitaire, fortune-telling with a King of Hearts and a Queen of Clubs, predicting a marriage.

Sometimes, a Natalya Faddeevna would come to stay for a week or two. First, the old women would dissect the entire neighborhood, how everyone lived, what everyone was doing; they would penetrate not only into family life, into the behind-the-scenes existence, but into the hidden thoughts and intentions of everyone, delving into their souls, scolding and discussing the unworthy, most of all unfaithful husbands, then recounting various events: name days, christenings, births, who offered what, whom they invited, and whom they didn’t.

Tired of this, they would start showing off new clothes, dresses, wraps, even skirts and stockings. The hostess would boast of some homemade linens, threads, laces.

But even this would be exhausted. Then they would make do with coffees, teas, jams. Then they would simply lapse into silence.

They would sit for long periods, looking at each other, sighing heavily about something from time to time. Sometimes one of them would even cry.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” another would ask, alarmed.

“Oh, it’s sad, my dove!” the guest would reply with a heavy sigh. “We have angered the Lord God, accursed as we are. No good will come of it.”

“Ah, don’t scare me, don’t frighten me, dear!” the hostess would interrupt.

“Yes, yes,” the other continued. “The last days have come: nation will rise against nation, kingdom against kingdom… the end of the world will come!” Natalya Faddeevna finally articulated, and both wept bitterly.

Natalya Faddeevna had no basis for such a conclusion; no one was rising against anyone, there wasn’t even a comet that year, but old women sometimes have dark premonitions.

Occasionally, this way of passing time would be interrupted by some unexpected event, such as when everyone in the whole house, from smallest to largest, would be overcome by carbon monoxide poisoning.

Other illnesses were almost unheard of in the house and village; perhaps someone would stumble upon a stake in the dark, or fall from a hayloft, or a plank would fall from the roof and hit them on the head.

But all this happened rarely, and against such unexpected events, tested home remedies were used: the bruised spot would be rubbed with bodyaga or zarya, holy water would be given to drink, or incantations would be whispered—and everything would pass.

But carbon monoxide poisoning happened quite often. Then everyone would lie around in bed; groans and moans would be heard; one would place cucumbers on his head and tie it with a towel, another would put cranberries in his ears and sniff horseradish, a third would go out into the frost in only his shirt, a fourth would simply lie unconscious on the floor.

This happened periodically once or twice a month, because they didn’t like to let heat go to waste up the chimney and closed the stoves when there were still such little fires in them as in “Robert the Devil.” One couldn’t touch any sleeping bench or stove: a blister would immediately appear.

Only once was the monotony of their daily life genuinely broken by an unexpected event.

After resting from a heavy dinner, as everyone gathered for tea, an Oblomov peasant, who had just returned from town, suddenly appeared. He kept reaching into his bosom, and finally, with difficulty, pulled out a crumpled letter addressed to Ilya Ivanovich Oblomov.

Everyone was stunned; the hostess even changed slightly in the face; everyone’s eyes fixed and noses stretched in the direction of the letter.

“What a marvel! Who is it from?” the mistress finally said, regaining her composure.

Oblomov took the letter and, bewildered, turned it over in his hands, not knowing what to do with it.

“Where did you get it?” he asked the peasant. “Who gave it to you?”

“Well, in the courtyard where I stopped in town, you see,” the peasant replied, “two times they came from the post office asking if there were any Oblomov peasants: there’s a letter, you see, for the master.”

“Well, first I hid: the soldier left with the letter. But the Verkhlyovo deacon saw me, and he told him. He came a second time. When they came a second time, they started swearing and gave me the letter, and took a nickel. I asked what I should do with it, where should I put it? So they told me to give it to your grace.”

“You shouldn’t have taken it,” the mistress remarked angrily.

“I didn’t want to. Why do we need a letter—we don’t need it. They didn’t tell us to take letters—I don’t dare: off with you, with the letter! But the soldier started swearing terribly: he wanted to complain to the authorities; so I took it.”

“Fool!” said the mistress.

“Who could it be from?” Oblomov said thoughtfully, examining the address. “The handwriting looks familiar, truly!”

And the letter began to pass from hand to hand. Discussions and guesses began: who could it be from and what could it be about? Everyone finally came to a standstill.

Ilya Ivanovich ordered his glasses to be found: they were searched for about an hour and a half. He put them on and was about to open the letter.

“Stop, don’t open it, Ilya Ivanych,” his wife said with fear, settling him, “who knows what kind of letter it is? It might be something terrible, some misfortune. You see how people have become nowadays! You’ll have time tomorrow or the day after—it won’t run away from you.”

And the letter with the glasses was hidden under lock and key. Everyone occupied themselves with tea. It would have lain there for years if it hadn’t been too unusual a phenomenon and hadn’t stirred the minds of the Oblomovites. At tea and the next day, everyone talked only about the letter.

Finally, they couldn’t stand it, and on the fourth day, gathered in a crowd, they reluctantly opened it. Oblomov looked at the signature.

“Radishchev,” he read. “Eh! It’s from Philipp Matveich!”

“Ah! Eh! So that’s who it’s from!” rose from all sides. “How is he still alive? Go on, he’s not dead yet! Well, thank God! What does he write?”

Oblomov began to read aloud. It turned out that Philipp Matveich was asking for the recipe for a beer that was particularly well brewed in Oblomovka.

“Send it, send it to him!” everyone began to say. “We need to write a little letter.”

So two weeks passed.

“We must, we must write!” Ilya Ivanovich kept telling his wife. “Where’s the recipe?”

“Where is it?” his wife replied. “We still need to find it. But wait, why hurry? God willing, when the holiday comes, we’ll break the fast, then you’ll write; it won’t run away yet…”

“Indeed, I’ll write better on the holiday,” said Ilya Ivanovich.

At the holiday, the letter came up again. Ilya Ivanovich was entirely prepared to write. He retired to his study, put on his glasses, and sat down at the table.

A profound silence reigned in the house; the servants were forbidden to stomp or make noise. “The master is writing!” everyone said in such a timidly respectful voice, as one speaks when there is a deceased person in the house.

He had just managed to write: “Milostivyi Gosudar” (My Dear Sir), slowly, crookedly, with a trembling hand and with such caution, as if he were doing something dangerous, when his wife appeared.

“I searched and searched—the recipe isn’t there,” she said. “I need to look in the wardrobe in the bedroom. And how will we send the letter?”

“By post,” Ilya Ivanovich replied.

“And what does it cost?”

Oblomov pulled out an old calendar.

“Forty kopecks,” he said.

“There, forty kopecks thrown away for trifles!” she remarked. “It’s better to wait, perhaps there will be an opportunity to send it from town. Tell the peasants to find out.”

“Indeed, it’s better by occasion,” Ilya Ivanovich replied, and, tapping his pen on the table, dipped it into the inkwell and took off his glasses.

“Truly, it’s better,” he concluded, “it won’t run away yet: we’ll have time to send it.”

It is unknown whether Philipp Matveich ever received the recipe.

Ilya Ivanovich would sometimes pick up a book—any book, it didn’t matter which. He didn’t suspect that reading was an essential need, but considered it a luxury, something one could easily do without, just as one could have a painting on the wall or not, one could go for a walk or not: it didn’t matter to him what the book was; he looked at it as an object meant for entertainment, out of boredom and idleness.

“Haven’t read a book in a long time,” he would say, or sometimes change the phrase: “Let me read a book,” he would say, or simply passing by, he would accidentally see a small pile of books that had come into his possession after his brother, and he would take out whatever came to hand, without choosing. Whether it was Golikov, or the Newest Dream Interpreter, Kheraskov’s Rossiyada, or Sumarokov’s tragedies, or finally, three-year-old newspapers—he read everything with equal pleasure, occasionally remarking:

“See what he came up with! What a scoundrel! Oh, may you be empty!”

These exclamations were directed at authors—a title that, in his eyes, held no respect; he even adopted the half-contempt for writers that people of old held. He, like many others then, regarded a writer as nothing but a merry fellow, a reveler, a drunkard, and an entertainer, like a dancer.

Sometimes he would read from three-year-old newspapers aloud, for everyone, or simply share news with them.

“They write from The Hague,” he would say, “that His Majesty the King has been pleased to return safely to the palace from a short journey,” and at this, he would look over his glasses at all the listeners.

Or:

“In Vienna, such and such an envoy presented his credentials.”

“And here they write,” he would also read, “that Madame Genlis’s works have been translated into the Russian language.”

“This is all, I suppose, translated,” remarked one of the listeners, a small landowner, “to extract money from our brother, the gentry.”

And poor Ilyusha keeps going and going to study with Stolz. As soon as he wakes up on Monday, melancholy attacks him. He hears Vaska’s sharp voice shouting from the porch:

“Antipka! Harness the piebald: take the young master to the German!”

His heart trembles. He sadly comes to his mother. She knows why, and begins to gild the pill, secretly sighing herself at the thought of being separated from him for a whole week.

They don’t know what to feed him that morning; they bake him buns and pretzels, send him off with pickles, pastries, jams, various pastilles, and all sorts of other dry and wet delicacies, and even provisions. All this was sent with the understanding that the German didn’t feed them richly.

“You won’t get fat there,” the Oblomovites would say, “they’ll give you soup for dinner, and roast meat, and potatoes, butter for tea, but for supper it’s Morgen früh—wipe your nose.”

However, Ilya Ilyich mostly dreams of such Mondays when he doesn’t hear Vaska’s voice ordering the piebald to be harnessed, and when his mother meets him at tea with a smile and pleasant news:

“You won’t go today; Thursday is a big holiday: is it worth going back and forth for three days?”

Or sometimes she would suddenly announce to him: “Today is Parents’ Week—no studying: we’ll be baking pancakes.”

Or else, his mother would look intently at him on Monday morning and say:

“Your eyes look a bit dull today. Are you well?”—and she would shake her head.

The cunning boy was perfectly healthy, but kept silent.

“You stay at home this week,” she would say, “and then—God willing.”

And everyone in the house was convinced that studying and Parents’ Saturday should never coincide, or that a holiday on Thursday was an insurmountable obstacle to studying for the whole week.

Only occasionally would a servant or maid, who would get into trouble because of the young master, grumble:

“Ugh, spoiled brat! When will you finally disappear to your German?”

Another time, Antipka would suddenly appear at the German’s on the familiar piebald, in the middle or at the beginning of the week, for Ilya Ilyich.

“Marya Savishna or Natalya Faddeevna, they say, have come to visit, or the Kuzovkovs with their children, so please come home!”

And for three weeks, Ilyusha would visit at home, and then, you see, it’s not far to Holy Week, and then there’s a holiday, and then someone in the family for some reason decides that they don’t study during Fomin’s Week; there are two weeks left until summer—it’s not worth going, and in the summer the German himself rests, so it’s better to postpone until autumn.

You see, Ilya Ilyich would take half a year off, and how he would grow during that time! How he would put on weight! How splendidly he would sleep! They couldn’t get enough of him at home, noting, on the contrary, that when the child returned from the German’s on Saturday, he was thin and pale.

“How long till trouble strikes?” his father and mother would say. “Learning won’t go away, but you can’t buy health; health is the most valuable thing in life. Look, he comes back from studying as if from a hospital: all the fat is gone, he’s so thin… and he’s mischievous: he’d always be running around!”

“Yes,” his father would remark, “learning is no brother: it’ll twist anyone into a ram’s horn!”

And his tender parents continued to find excuses to keep their son at home. There was no shortage of excuses, even apart from holidays. In winter, it seemed cold to them, in summer, it was too hot to travel, and sometimes it would rain, or in autumn, the slush would hinder them. Sometimes Antipka would seem somewhat doubtful: not drunk, but looking strangely: may there be no trouble, he’ll get stuck or break something somewhere.

The Oblomovs tried, however, to give these excuses as much legitimacy as possible in their own eyes and especially in the eyes of Stolz, who spared no Donnerwetter (thunderstorm) for such indulgence, both to their faces and behind their backs.

The times of the Prostakovs and Skotinins had long passed. The proverb “learning is light, and the unlearned are darkness” was already wandering through villages and towns along with books distributed by booksellers.

The elders understood the benefit of enlightenment, but only its external benefit. They saw that everyone was beginning to make a career, that is, to acquire ranks, crosses, and money only through learning; that old scribes, old hands in service, grown old in long-standing habits, quotes, and tricks, were doing poorly.

Ominous rumors began to spread about the necessity not only of literacy, but also of other sciences, hitherto unheard of in that way of life. A chasm opened between a titular counselor and a collegiate assessor, bridged by some kind of diploma.

Old servants, children of habit and pupils of bribes, began to disappear. Many who had not yet died were expelled for unreliability, others were put on trial; the happiest were those who, waving their hand at the new order of things, safely retreated to their acquired corners.

The Oblomovs grasped this and understood the benefit of education, but only this obvious benefit. Of the inner need for learning, they still had a vague and distant notion, and therefore they wanted to secure some brilliant advantages for their Ilyusha for the time being.

They dreamed of an embroidered uniform for him, imagined him as a counselor in the chamber, and his mother even as a governor; but they would have liked to achieve all this somehow cheaply, with various tricks, secretly bypassing the stones and obstacles scattered along the path of enlightenment and honors, without bothering to jump over them, that is, for example, to study lightly, without exhausting soul and body, without losing the blessed fullness acquired in childhood, but just to observe the prescribed form and somehow obtain a certificate that would state that Ilyusha had mastered all sciences and arts.

This entire Oblomov system of upbringing met with strong opposition in Stolz’s system. The struggle was stubborn on both sides. Stolz directly, openly, and persistently attacked his rivals, while they evaded the blows with the aforementioned and other tricks.

Victory was by no means decided; perhaps German persistence would have overcome the stubbornness and ingrained habits of the Oblomovites, but the German encountered difficulties on his own side, and the victory was not destined to be decided on either side. The fact was that Stolz’s son pampered Oblomov, sometimes prompting him with lessons, sometimes doing translations for him.

Ilya Ilyich clearly sees his home life and his life at Stolz’s.

As soon as he wakes up at home, Zakhar, later his famous valet Zakhar Trofimych, is already standing by his bed.

Zakhar, as the nurse used to, pulls on his stockings, puts on his shoes, and Ilyusha, already a fourteen-year-old boy, only knows to present one leg after another to him while lying down; and if anything seems not right, he’ll kick Zakhar in the nose.

If the displeased Zakhar decides to complain, he’ll get another smack from the elders.

Then Zakhar scratches his head, pulls on his jacket, carefully threading Ilya Ilyich’s arms into the sleeves so as not to disturb him too much, and reminds Ilya Ilyich that he needs to do this or that: wash up after waking in the morning, and so on.

If Ilya Ilyich wants something, he only has to wink—three or four servants rush to fulfill his wish; if he drops something, needs to get something but can’t reach it, needs something brought, or someone to run for something: sometimes, like a lively boy, he wants to rush and do everything himself, but then suddenly his father and mother and three aunts in five voices would shout:

“Why? Where? And what are Vaska, and Vanka, and Zakhar for? Hey! Vaska! Vanka! Zakhar! What are you gaping at, slackers? I’ll show you!..”

And Ilya Ilyich would never succeed in doing anything for himself.

Later, he found it much more comfortable, and he himself learned to shout: “Hey, Vaska! Vanka! Hand me that, give me the other! I don’t want that, I want this! Run, bring it!”

Sometimes, the tender care of his parents even annoyed him.

If he ran down the stairs or across the yard, suddenly a chorus of ten desperate voices would ring out after him: “Oh, oh! Hold him, stop him! He’ll fall, he’ll hurt himself… stop, stop!”

If he decided to jump out into the porch in winter or open the window vent—again cries: “Ai, where are you going? How can you? Don’t run, don’t walk, don’t open it: you’ll kill yourself, you’ll catch a cold…”

And Ilyusha sadly remained at home, cherished like an exotic flower in a greenhouse, and just like the latter under glass, he grew slowly and sluggishly. His seeking forces turned inward and withered, fading away.

And sometimes he would wake up so vigorous, fresh, cheerful; he feels: something is playing in him, boiling, as if some imp had settled there, tempting him to climb onto the roof, or to sit on the roan horse and gallop to the meadows where hay is mown, or to sit astride a fence, or to tease the village dogs; or suddenly he would want to run through the village, then into the field, over ravines, into the birch grove, and in three leaps throw himself to the bottom of the ravine, or join the boys playing snowball fights, to test his strength.

The imp so tempts him: he holds on, holds on, finally can’t stand it and suddenly, without his cap, in winter, jumps from the porch into the yard, from there beyond the gate, grabs a handful of snow in both hands and rushes to a pile of boys.

The fresh wind cuts his face, the frost nips his ears, cold blows into his mouth and throat, and his chest is filled with joy—he rushes, as fast as his legs can carry him, squealing and laughing.

Here are the boys: he throws snow—misses: no skill; he was just about to grab more snow, when a whole lump of snow plastered his face: he fell; and it hurts him unaccustomed, and it’s fun, and he laughs, and tears are in his eyes…

And in the house, a clamor: Ilyusha is gone! Crying, noise. Zakhar jumped out into the yard, followed by Vaska, Mitka, Vanka—all running, bewildered, around the yard.

Behind them, two dogs, who, as is known, cannot indifferently see a running person, rushed, nipping at their heels.

People with shouts, with wails, dogs with barks rush through the village.

Finally, they caught up with the boys and began to administer justice: some by the hair, some by the ears, some a box on the ear; they also threatened their fathers.

Then they took possession of the young master, wrapped him in a captured sheepskin coat, then in his father’s fur coat, then in two blankets, and solemnly carried him home in their arms.

At home, they had despaired of seeing him, considering him lost; but at the sight of him, alive and unharmed, the parents’ joy was indescribable. They thanked the Lord God, then gave him mint, then elderberry, in the evening raspberry, and kept him in bed for three days, though only one thing would have been useful to him: to play snowball fights again…

X

As soon as Ilya Ilyich’s snoring reached Zakhar’s ears, he carefully, without a sound, jumped off the sleeping bench, tiptoed into the hallway, locked his master in, and went to the gate.

“Ah, Zakhar Trofimych: welcome! Haven’t seen you in a long time!” the coachman, footmen, women, and boys at the gate began to say in various voices.

“What about yours? Has he left the house, or what?” asked the doorman.

“He’s snoring,” Zakhar said gloomily.

“Why so?” asked the coachman. “Seems early for this time… unwell, perhaps?”

“Eh, what unwell! He’s drunk!” Zakhar said in a voice as if he himself were convinced of it. “Would you believe it? He alone drank a bottle and a half of Madeira, two pitchers of kvass, and now he’s passed out.”

“Wow!” said the coachman enviously.

“Why did he get so tipsy today?” asked one of the women.

“No, Tatyana Ivanovna,” Zakhar replied, casting his one-sided gaze upon her, “it’s not just today: he’s become completely useless—it’s sickening to even talk about!”

“Sounds like mine!” she remarked with a sigh.

“And, Tatyana Ivanovna, will she go anywhere today?” asked the coachman. “I’d like to go not far from here?”

“Where would she go!” Tatyana replied. “She sits with her beloved, and they can’t get enough of each other.”

“He comes to you often,” said the doorman, “he’s a nuisance at night, the damned fellow: everyone else leaves, and everyone else arrives: he’s always the last, and then he curses because the main entrance is locked… Am I going to stand here guarding the entrance for him!”

“What a fool, brothers,” said Tatyana, “you’d have to search for such a one! What, what doesn’t he give her! She dresses up like a peacock, and walks so importantly; but if anyone saw what skirts and what stockings she wears, it would be a disgrace to look! She doesn’t wash her neck for two weeks, but she smears her face… Sometimes you just sin, truly, and think: ‘Oh, you wretch! You should put a scarf on your head and go to a monastery, on a pilgrimage…'”

Everyone, except Zakhar, laughed.

“Oh, Tatyana Ivanovna, she never misses!” approving voices said.

“Truly!” Tatyana continued. “How do masters allow such a one with them?..”

“Where are you off to?” someone asked her. “What’s that bundle you have?”

“I’m taking a dress to the seamstress; my coquette sent it: see, it’s too wide! And when Dunyasha and I try to cinch the body, then for three days after, you can’t do anything with your hands: you’ll break everything! Well, it’s time for me to go. Goodbye for now.”

“Goodbye, goodbye!” some said.

“Goodbye, Tatyana Ivanovna,” said the coachman. “Come by this evening.”

“Well, I don’t know; maybe I’ll come, or else… goodbye!”

“Well, goodbye,” everyone said.

“Goodbye… farewell!” she replied as she left.

“Goodbye, Tatyana Ivanovna!” the coachman shouted after her again.

“Goodbye!” she responded brightly from afar.

When she left, Zakhar seemed to be waiting for his turn to speak. He sat on a cast-iron post by the gate and began to swing his legs, looking gloomily and distractedly at those passing by on foot and in carriages.

“Well, how’s yours today, Zakhar Trofimych?” asked the doorman.

“Same as always: he’s gone wild from overindulgence,” Zakhar said, “and it’s all because of you, through your kindness, that I’ve suffered so much grief: it’s all about the apartment! He’s gone wild: he really doesn’t want to move out…”

“How am I to blame?” said the doorman. “As for me, live as long as you like; am I the owner here? They order me… If I were the owner, but I’m not the owner…”

“So, is he swearing, or what?” asked someone’s coachman.

“He curses so much, that only God gives me the strength to bear it!”

“Well, so what? That’s a good master, if he always curses!” said one footman, slowly and creakily opening a round snuffbox, and the hands of the whole company, except Zakhar’s, reached for snuff. A general sniffing, sneezing, and spitting began.

“If he curses, it’s better,” the same man continued, “the more he curses, the better: at least he won’t beat you if he curses. But I once lived with a master: you don’t even know why, but then he’d be holding you by the hair.”

Zakhar waited contemptuously until the latter finished his tirade, and, turning to the coachman, continued:

“So to disgrace a person for no reason at all,” he said, “that’s nothing to him!”

“He’s hard to please, apparently?” asked the doorman.

“Hmph!” Zakhar wheezed significantly, closing his eyes. “So hard to please, it’s a disaster! This isn’t right, that isn’t right, you can’t walk, you don’t know how to serve, you break everything, and you don’t clean, and you steal, and you eat everything… Ugh, damn you!.. Today he attacked me—it’s shameful to listen! And for what? A piece of cheese left from last week—it would be shameful to throw it to a dog—but no, a human shouldn’t even think of eating it! He asked—’no,’ he said, and then he went on: ‘You, he says, should be hanged, you, he says, should be boiled in hot tar and torn with red-hot tongs; an aspen stake, he says, should be driven into you!’ And he just keeps coming at you, keeps coming… What do you think, brothers? The other day, I scalded his leg—who knows how—with boiling water, and he screamed so loud! If I hadn’t jumped back, he would have punched me in the chest… he just tries to! He would have really punched me…”

The coachman shook his head, and the doorman said: “See, what a lively master: he doesn’t allow any bad habits!”

“Well, if he still curses, then he’s a glorious master!” the same footman phlegmatically said. “Another is worse if he doesn’t curse: he looks, and looks, and then suddenly grabs you by the hair, and you haven’t even figured out why!”

“Yes, for nothing,” said Zakhar, again paying no attention to the words of the interrupting footman, “his leg hasn’t healed yet: he still smears it with ointment: let him be!”

“A master with character!” said the doorman.

“And God forbid!” Zakhar continued, “he’ll kill someone someday; by God, he’ll kill them to death! And for every trifle, he tries to curse me bald… I don’t even want to finish. But today he invented something new: ‘poisonous,’ he says! How does his tongue even turn!..”

“Well, what’s that?” the same footman kept saying. “If he curses, then thank God, God grant him health… But if he’s always silent; you walk by, and he looks and looks, and then grabs you, like that one I lived with. But if he curses, it’s nothing…”

“And serves you right,” Zakhar remarked to him angrily for his uninvited objections, “I would do even worse to you.”

“How does he curse ‘bald,’ Zakhar Trofimych,” asked a fifteen-year-old Cossack boy, “like a devil, or what?”

Zakhar slowly turned his head to him and fixed his murky gaze upon him.

“You watch out!” he then said sharply. “You’re young, brother, very sharp! I don’t care that you’re a general’s boy: I’ll grab you by the forelock! Go back to your place!”

The Cossack boy stepped back two paces, stopped, and looked at Zakhar with a smile.

“Why are you baring your teeth?” Zakhar wheezed furiously. “Wait, you’ll get caught, I’ll straighten your ears right away: then you’ll bare your teeth for me!”

At that moment, a huge footman in an unbuttoned livery coat, with epaulets and boots, ran out of the entrance. He approached the Cossack boy, first slapped him, then called him a fool.

“What, Matvey Moiseich, what was that for?” said the perplexed and confused Cossack boy, holding his cheek and blinking convulsively.

“Ah! You’re still talking?” the footman replied. “I’ve been running all over the house for you, and you’re here!”

He grabbed him by the hair with one hand, bent his head, and three times methodically, evenly, and slowly, punched him in the neck with his fist.

“The master rang five times,” he added as a moral lesson, “and I’m being cursed because of you, you puppy!” “Go!”

And he imperiously pointed him towards the stairs. The boy stood for a minute in some bewilderment, blinked once or twice, looked at the footman, and, seeing that there was nothing more to expect from him but a repetition of the same, shook his hair and went up the stairs disheveled.

What a triumph for Zakhar!

“Good for him, good for him, Matvey Moseich! More, more!” he muttered, maliciously rejoicing. “Eh, not enough! Oh, Matvey Moseich! Thank you! Otherwise, he’s too sharp… Here’s your ‘bald devil’! Will you bare your teeth again?”

The servants laughed, heartily sympathizing with both the footman who beat the Cossack boy and Zakhar, who maliciously rejoiced at it. Only the Cossack boy received no sympathy.

“Exactly like that, no more, no less, my previous master used to be,” the same footman who kept interrupting Zakhar began again. “You’d be thinking how to have fun, and he would suddenly, as if guessing what you were thinking, walk by, and then grab you like that, just like Matvey Moseich grabbed Andryushka. And what’s this, if he only curses! What’s the big deal: he’ll curse you ‘bald devil’!”

“Your master might have grabbed you too,” the coachman replied, pointing at Zakhar, “see what kind of felt you have on your head? But why would he grab Zakhar Trofimych? His head is like a pumpkin… Unless he grabs him by those two beards on his cheekbones: well, there’s something there!..”

Everyone burst out laughing, and Zakhar was struck as if by a blow by this outburst from the coachman, with whom he had been having a friendly conversation until then.

“But when I tell the master,” he began to wheeze furiously at the coachman, “he’ll find something to grab you for too: he’ll iron your beard for you: see, it’s all in icicles!”

“Your master is good for nothing if he’s going to iron other coachmen’s beards! No, you get your own, and then iron them, otherwise he’s too generous!”

“Shouldn’t I take you as a coachman, you rascal?” Zakhar wheezed. “You’re not even worthy for my master to harness you himself!”

“Well, what a master!” the coachman remarked sarcastically. “Where did you dig up such a one?”

He himself, and the doorman, and the barber, and the footman, and the defender of the cursing system—all burst out laughing.

“Laugh, laugh, but I’ll tell the master!” Zakhar wheezed.

“And you,” he said, turning to the doorman, “should stop these scoundrels, not laugh. Why are you stationed here? — To maintain order. And what are you doing? I’ll tell the master; just wait, you’ll get yours!”

“Well, enough, enough, Zakhar Trofimych!” said the doorman, trying to calm him down, “what did he do to you?”

“How dare he speak like that about my master?” Zakhar retorted hotly, pointing at the coachman. “Does he even know who my master is?” he asked reverently. “And you,” he said, turning to the coachman, “wouldn’t even dream of seeing such a master: kind, intelligent, handsome! And yours is like an unfed nag! It’s a shame to see you leave the yard on that brown mare: like beggars! You eat radishes with kvass. Look at your worn coat: you can’t count the holes!..”

It should be noted that the coachman’s coat had no holes at all.

“You won’t find another like him,” the coachman interrupted and deftly pulled out a piece of shirt that was sticking out from under Zakhar’s armpit.

“Enough, enough!” the doorman repeated, stretching his hands between them.

“Ah! You’re tearing my clothes!” Zakhar shouted, pulling even more of his shirt out. “Wait, I’ll show the master! Look, brothers, what he’s done: he’s torn my clothes!..”

“Yes, I did!” the coachman said, somewhat intimidated. “Looks like the master roughed him up…”

“Such a master would rough him up!” Zakhar said. “Such a kind soul; he’s gold—not a master, God grant him health! I’m with him as if in the kingdom of heaven: I know no need, he never called me a fool in my life; I live in comfort, in peace, I eat from his table, I go wherever I want—that’s it!.. And in the village, I have a separate house, a separate garden, free bread; the peasants all bow to me! I’m both manager and owner! And you with your…”

His anger choked his voice, preventing him from utterly destroying his opponent. He paused for a moment to gather his strength and think of a venomous, twisted word, but couldn’t, due to the excess of accumulated bile.

“Yes, just wait, how you’ll settle accounts for tearing my clothes: they’ll make you pay!” he finally uttered.

By offending his master, they had touched a raw nerve in Zakhar. Both his ambition and self-esteem were stirred: his loyalty awoke and expressed itself with full force. He was ready to spew venomous bile not only on his opponent but also on his master, and the master’s relatives, who didn’t even know if he had any, and his acquaintances. Here, he repeated with astonishing accuracy all the slanders and malicious gossip about masters that he had gleaned from previous conversations with the coachman.

“And you and your master are cursed paupers, Jews, worse than a German!” he said. “Your grandfather, I know who he was: a clerk from the rag market. Last night, guests left your house, and I thought, are these some swindlers who got into the house: it’s a pity to look! The mother also traded stolen and worn-out clothes at the rag market.”

“Enough, enough!” the doorman tried to calm him.

“Yes!” Zakhar said. “My master, thank God, is an old noble; his friends are generals, counts, and princes. He won’t even seat every count with him: some will come and just stand in the hallway… All sorts of writers come…”

“What kind of writers are these, my brother?” asked the doorman, wishing to end the quarrel. “Are they officials, or something?”

“No, these are gentlemen who invent whatever they need themselves,” Zakhar explained.

“What do they do at your place?” asked the doorman.

“What? One asks for a pipe, another for sherry…” Zakhar said and stopped, noticing that almost everyone was smiling mockingly.

“And all of you here are scoundrels, as many of you as there are!” he said rapidly, sweeping everyone with a one-sided glance. “They’ll let you tear someone else’s clothes! I’ll go tell the master!” he added and quickly went home.

“Stop it! Wait, wait!” shouted the doorman. “Zakhar Trofimych! Let’s go to the half-pint pub, please, let’s go in…”

Zakhar stopped in the road, quickly turned around and, without looking at the servants, rushed even faster into the street. He walked, without turning to anyone, to the door of the half-pint pub, which was opposite; there he turned, gloomily surveyed the entire company, and even more gloomily waved his hand for them to follow him, and disappeared into the doorway.

All the others also dispersed: some to the half-pint pub, some home; only one footman remained.

“Well, what’s the big deal if he tells the master?” he said phlegmatically to himself, in thought, slowly opening his snuffbox. “The master is kind, it’s clear from everything, he’ll only curse! What’s this, if he curses! But another one just looks and looks, and then grabs you by the hair…”

XI

At the beginning of the fifth hour, Zakhar cautiously, without a sound, unlocked the antechamber and tiptoed into his room. There, he approached the door of the master’s study and first put his ear to it, then knelt and pressed his eye to the keyhole.

A rhythmic snoring emanated from the study.

“He’s sleeping,” he whispered, “I need to wake him: it’s almost half past four.”

He coughed and entered the study.

“Ilya Ilyich! Ah, Ilya Ilyich!” he began softly, standing at Oblomov’s head.

The snoring continued.

“My, how he sleeps!” Zakhar said, “like a stonemason. Ilya Ilyich!”

Zakhar lightly touched Oblomov’s sleeve.

“Get up: it’s half past four.”

Ilya Ilyich only grunted in response, but didn’t wake up.

“Get up then, Ilya Ilyich! What a disgrace!” Zakhar said, raising his voice.

There was no answer.

“Ilya Ilyich!” Zakhar repeated, touching his master’s sleeve again.

Oblomov turned his head slightly and with difficulty opened one eye at Zakhar, from which a look of paralysis seemed to peer out.

“Who’s there?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“It’s me. Get up.”

“Go away!” Ilya Ilyich grumbled and plunged back into a heavy sleep.

Instead of snoring, a whistling from his nose began. Zakhar pulled him by the tail of his dressing gown.

“What do you want?” Oblomov asked menacingly, suddenly opening both eyes.

“You told me to wake you.”

“Well, I know. You’ve done your duty and now go away! The rest concerns me…”

“I won’t go,” Zakhar said, touching his sleeve again.

“Well, don’t touch me!” Ilya Ilyich spoke meekly and, burying his head in the pillow, began to snore.

“You can’t, Ilya Ilyich,” Zakhar said, “I’d be perfectly happy to, but I simply can’t!”

And he himself touched his master.

“Well, do me this favor, don’t bother me,” Oblomov said persuasively, opening his eyes.

“Yes, I’ll do you a favor, and then you yourself will be angry that I didn’t wake you…”

“Oh, my God! What kind of man is this!” Oblomov exclaimed. “Well, just let me doze for a minute; what’s one minute? I know myself…”

Ilya Ilyich suddenly fell silent, abruptly overcome by sleep.

“You really know how to sleep!” Zakhar said, confident that his master couldn’t hear him. “Look, he’s sleeping like an aspen log! Why were you even born?”

“Get up then! They’re telling you…” Zakhar began to roar.

“What? What?” Oblomov spoke menacingly, lifting his head.

“Why, sir, aren’t you getting up?” Zakhar responded softly.

“No, what did you say—huh? How dare you—huh?”

“How?”

“Speak rudely?”

“You must have dreamed it… honestly, in a dream.”

“You think I’m sleeping? I’m not sleeping, I hear everything…”

And he was already asleep again.

“Well,” Zakhar said in despair, “oh, dear me! Why are you lying there like a log? It’s sickening to look at you. Look, good people!.. Ugh!”

“Get up, get up!” he suddenly said in a frightened voice. “Ilya Ilyich! Look what’s happening around you.”

Oblomov quickly lifted his head, looked around, and lay down again, with a deep sigh.

“Leave me alone!” he said gravely. “I told you to wake me, and now I cancel the order—do you hear? I’ll wake up when I feel like it.”

Sometimes Zakhar would give up, saying: “Well, sleep, devil take you!” But other times he would insist, and this time he did.

“Get up, get up!” he shouted at the top of his voice and grabbed Oblomov with both hands by the tail of his dressing gown and his sleeve.

Oblomov suddenly, unexpectedly, sprang to his feet and lunged at Zakhar.

“Just wait, I’ll teach you how to disturb your master when he wants to rest!” he said.

Zakhar ran away from him at full speed, but on the third step, Oblomov completely sobered up from sleep and began to stretch, yawning.

“Give… kvass…” he said between yawns.

Just then, from behind Zakhar’s back, someone burst into loud laughter. Both looked around.

“Stolz! Stolz!” Oblomov cried in delight, rushing towards the guest.

“Andrey Ivanych!” Zakhar said, grinning.

Stolz continued to roll with laughter: he had seen the entire scene unfold.

PART TWO

I

Stolz was only half German, on his father’s side; his mother was Russian. He professed the Orthodox faith. His native tongue was Russian: he learned it from his mother and from books, in the university lecture hall and in games with village boys, in conversations with their fathers, and in Moscow markets. The German language he inherited from his father and from books.

He grew up and was educated in the village of Verkhlyovo, where his father was a manager. From the age of eight, he sat with his father over a geographical map, deciphering Herder, Wieland, biblical verses syllable by syllable, and summing up the illiterate accounts of peasants, townsfolk, and factory workers. With his mother, he read sacred history, learned Krylov’s fables, and deciphered Télémaque syllable by syllable.

Breaking away from the pointer, he would run off to raid bird nests with the boys, and often, in the middle of a class or during prayer, the chirping of jackdaws would be heard from his pocket.

It also happened that his father would sit under a tree in the garden during the afternoon, smoking his pipe, while his mother knitted a jersey or embroidered on canvas. Suddenly, a noise and shouts would erupt from the street, and a whole crowd of people would burst into the house.

“What’s going on?” the frightened mother would ask.

“It must be Andrey again,” the father would say calmly.

The doors would swing open, and a crowd of peasants, women, and boys would invade the garden. Indeed, Andrey had been brought—but in what state: without boots, with torn clothes, and with a broken nose, either his own or another boy’s.

His mother always watched with anxiety as Andryusha disappeared from the house for half a day, and if not for his father’s strict prohibition against interfering with him, she would have kept him close.

She would wash him, change his linen and clothes, and Andryusha would walk around for half a day as a clean, well-behaved boy, but by evening, sometimes even by morning, someone would bring him back again, soiled, disheveled, unrecognizable, or the peasants would bring him on a hay cart, or, finally, he would arrive with the fishermen by boat, having fallen asleep on the net.

His mother would cry tears, but his father would say nothing, even laughing.

“He’ll be a good lad, a good lad!” he would sometimes say.

“Have mercy, Ivan Bogdanovich,” she would complain, “not a day passes that he doesn’t return with a blue mark, and the other day he broke his nose until it bled.”

“What kind of child never breaks his or someone else’s nose?” the father would say with a laugh.

His mother would cry and cry, then sit down at the piano and get lost in Hertz: tears would plop one after another onto the keys. But then Andryusha would arrive or be brought in; he would begin to recount so briskly, so vividly, that he would make her laugh too, and besides, he was so quick-witted! Soon he began to read Télémaque, just like her, and play duets with her.

One time he disappeared for a whole week: his mother cried her eyes out, but his father did nothing—he walked around the garden and smoked.

“Now, if Oblomov’s son disappeared,” he said when his wife suggested going to look for Andrey, “I would raise the whole village and the zemstvo police, but Andrey will come. Oh, a good lad!”

The next day, Andrey was found calmly sleeping in his bed, and under the bed lay someone’s rifle and a pound of gunpowder and shot.

“Where were you? Where did you get the rifle?” his mother bombarded him with questions. “Why are you silent?”

“Just because!” was the only answer.

His father asked if his German translation from Cornelius Nepos was ready.

“No,” he replied.

His father took him by the collar with one hand, led him outside the gate, put his cap on his head, and kicked him from behind so that he fell.

“Go back where you came from,” he added, “and come back with the translation, two chapters instead of one, and teach your mother her part from the French comedy she assigned: don’t show your face without it!”

Andrey returned a week later and brought both the translation and had learned the part.

As he grew older, his father would seat him next to him on a spring cart, give him the reins, and tell him to drive to the factory, then to the fields, then to the town, to the merchants, to government offices, then to inspect some clay, which he would take on his finger, sniff, sometimes lick, and give his son to sniff, explaining what it was like and what it was good for. Otherwise, they would go to see how potash or tar was extracted, or how fat was rendered.

At fourteen or fifteen, the boy often went alone, in the cart or on horseback, with a bag at his saddle, on errands from his father to the town, and it never happened that he forgot anything, changed anything, overlooked anything, or made a mistake.

“Recht gut, mein lieber Junge!” his father would say, listening to the report, and, patting him on the shoulder with his broad palm, would give him two or three rubles, depending on the importance of the errand.

His mother would then spend a long time washing soot, dirt, clay, and grease off Andryusha.

She didn’t entirely like this hardworking, practical upbringing. She feared that her son would become the same kind of German burgher from whom his father had descended. She viewed the entire German nation as a crowd of licensed petty bourgeois, disliking the rudeness, independence, and arrogance with which the German masses everywhere presented their age-old bourgeois rights, like a cow wears its horns, unable, incidentally, to hide them.

In her view, there was not and could not be a single gentleman in the entire German nation. She noticed no softness, delicacy, condescension in the German character, nothing of what makes life so pleasant in a good light, with which one can circumvent some rule, violate a common custom, or not submit to a statute.

No, these boors just push and push what’s prescribed for them, what they get into their heads; they’re ready to break through a wall with their forehead, just to act according to the rules.

She had lived as a governess in a wealthy house and had the opportunity to travel abroad, traversing all of Germany and lumping all Germans into one crowd of short-pipe-smoking and spitting-through-their-teeth clerks, artisans, merchants, officers as straight as sticks with soldierly faces, and officials with mundane faces, capable only of drudgery, of toiling for money, of vulgar order, boring regularity of life, and pedantic performance of duties: all these burghers, with angular manners, with large, rough hands, with a bourgeois freshness in their faces and with coarse speech.

“No matter how you dress a German,” she thought, “what fine and white shirt he puts on, let him wear patent leather boots, even yellow gloves, he’s still cut as if from shoe leather; from under the white cuffs, stiff and reddish hands always stick out, and from under an elegant suit, if not a baker, then a buffet server peeks out. These stiff hands just beg to take up an awl or, at most, a bow in an orchestra.”

And in her son, she envisioned the ideal of a barin, though an upstart, from common stock, from a burgher father, but still the son of a Russian noblewoman, still a fair-skinned, perfectly built boy, with such small hands and feet, with a clean face, with a clear, lively gaze; the kind she had seen in a rich Russian house, and also abroad, certainly not among Germans.

And suddenly, he would be almost single-handedly turning millstones at the mill, returning home from factories and fields, like his father: covered in grease, in manure, with red-dirty, toughened hands, with a wolf’s appetite!

She rushed to trim Andryusha’s nails, curl his hair, sew elegant collars and shirtfronts; she ordered jackets from the city; she taught him to listen to the thoughtful sounds of Hertz, sang to him about flowers, about the poetry of life, whispered about the brilliant calling of either a warrior or a writer, dreamed with him of the high role that falls to some…

And all this prospect was to be crushed by the clicking of abacuses, by sorting out the greasy receipts of peasants, by dealing with factory workers!

She even came to hate the cart on which Andryusha traveled to town, and the oilskin cloak his father had given him, and the green suede gloves—all the coarse attributes of a life of labor.

Unfortunately, Andryusha studied excellently, and his father made him a tutor in his small boarding house.

Well, so be it; but he paid him a salary, like a craftsman, completely in the German way: ten rubles a month, and made him sign in a ledger.

Take comfort, good mother: your son grew up on Russian soil—not in the mundane crowd, with burgher’s cow-horns, with hands turning millstones. Nearby was Oblomovka: there, it was an eternal holiday! There, work was cast off like a yoke; there, the master didn’t rise with the dawn and didn’t walk through factories near wheels and springs smeared with grease and oil.

And even in Verkhlyovo itself stands, though empty and locked for most of the year, a house where the mischievous boy often ventures, and there he sees long halls and galleries, dark portraits on the walls, not with a coarse freshness, not with stiff, large hands—he sees languid blue eyes, powdered hair, white, pampered faces, full chests, delicate hands with blue veins in fluttering cuffs, proudly placed on the hilt of a sword; he sees a series of nobly uselessly pampered generations, in brocade, velvet, and lace.

In the faces, he traces the history of glorious times, battles, names; he reads there a tale of old, not like the one his father, spitting through his pipe, told him a hundred times about life in Saxony, between rutabagas and potatoes, between the market and the garden…

Every three years, this castle would suddenly fill with people, teeming with life, holidays, balls; in the long galleries, lights would shine at night.

The Prince and Princess would arrive with their family: the Prince, a gray-haired old man, with a faded parchment face, dull bulging eyes, and a large bald forehead, with three stars, with a golden snuffbox, with a cane with a ruby pommel, in velvet boots; the Princess—a woman of majestic beauty, stature, and volume, whom, it seemed, no one ever approached closely, never embraced, never kissed her, not even the Prince himself, though she had five children.

She seemed above the world into which she descended once every three years; she spoke to no one, went nowhere, but sat in a corner green room with three old women, and through the garden, on foot, along a covered gallery, she would go to church and sit on a chair behind screens.

But in the house, besides the Prince and Princess, there was a whole, such a cheerful and lively world, that Andryusha, with his childish green eyes, suddenly looked into three or four different spheres, eagerly and unconsciously observing, with his quick mind, the types of this heterogeneous crowd, like colorful phenomena of a masquerade.

Here were Princes Pierre and Michel, the former of whom immediately taught Andryusha how to beat the reveille in cavalry and infantry, what kind of sabers and spurs hussars and dragoons wore, what colors of horses were in each regiment, and where one absolutely had to go after studying, so as not to disgrace oneself.

The other, Michel, as soon as he met Andryusha, put him in a stance and began to perform amazing tricks with his fists, hitting Andryusha either in the nose or in the stomach, then said that it was English boxing.

Three days later, Andrey, solely on the basis of village freshness and with the help of his muscular hands, broke his nose both the English and Russian way, without any science, and gained authority with both princes.

There were also two princesses, girls of eleven and twelve, tall, slender, elegantly dressed, who spoke to no one, bowed to no one, and were afraid of peasants.

There was their governess, M-lle Ernestine, who came to drink coffee with Andrey’s mother and taught him how to curl his hair. She would sometimes take his head, place it on her knees, and curl it in paper until it hurt intensely, then take his white hands, hold both his cheeks, and kiss him so affectionately!

Then there was a German who sharpened snuffboxes and buttons on a lathe, then a music teacher who got drunk from Sunday to Sunday, then a whole gang of maids, and finally a pack of dogs and puppies.

All this filled the house and the village with noise, clamor, thumping, shouts, and music.

On one side, Oblomovka, on the other—the princely castle, with the broad expanse of aristocratic life, met the German element, and Andrey turned out to be neither a good lad nor even a Philistine.

Andryusha’s father was an agronomist, technologist, and teacher. From his own father, a farmer, he took practical lessons in agronomy; in Saxon factories, he studied technology; and at the nearest university, where there were about forty professors, he received a calling to teach what the forty wise men had somehow managed to explain to him.

He did not go further but stubbornly turned back, deciding that he needed to do work, and returned to his father. The latter gave him a hundred thalers, a new satchel, and sent him off into the world.

Since then, Ivan Bogdanovich had seen neither his homeland nor his father. He traveled for six years through Switzerland, Austria, and has lived for twenty years in Russia, blessing his fate.

He had been to university and decided that his son should also be there—it mattered not that it would not be a German university, it mattered not that the Russian university would have to bring about a revolution in his son’s life and lead him far away from the path that his father had mentally laid out for his son’s life.

And he did it very simply: he took the path from his grandfather and extended it, as if with a ruler, to his future grandson and was at peace, not suspecting that Hertz’s variations, his mother’s dreams and stories, the gallery and boudoir in the princely castle would turn the narrow German path into such a wide road as neither his grandfather, nor his father, nor he himself had ever dreamed of.

However, he was not a pedant in this case and would not have insisted on his own way; he simply would not have been able to draw another path for his son in his mind.

He cared little about this. When his son returned from university and lived at home for three months, the father said that there was nothing more for him to do in Verkhlyovo, that even Oblomov had already been sent to St. Petersburg, and that, consequently, it was time for him too.

And why he needed to go to St. Petersburg, why he couldn’t stay in Verkhlyovo and help manage the estate—the old man didn’t ask himself about this; he only remembered that when he himself finished his studies, his father sent him away.

And he was sending his son away—such was the custom in Germany. His mother was no longer alive, and there was no one to contradict him.

On the day of departure, Ivan Bogdanovich gave his son one hundred rubles in assignats.

“You will ride horseback to the provincial town,” he said. “There, get three hundred and fifty rubles from Kalinnikov, and leave the horse with him. If he’s not there, sell the horse; there’s a fair soon: they’ll give four hundred rubles, and not even to a hunter. To reach Moscow will cost you about forty rubles, from there to St. Petersburg—seventy-five; enough will remain. After that—as you wish. You’ve done business with me, so you know I have some capital; but don’t count on it before my death, and I’ll probably live another twenty years, unless a stone falls on my head. The lamp burns brightly, and there’s plenty of oil in it. You are well educated: all careers are open to you; you can serve, trade, even write, perhaps—I don’t know what you will choose, what you are more inclined to…”

“But I’ll see if I can do all of them at once,” Andrey said.

His father burst out laughing with all his might and began to pat his son on the shoulder so hard that even a horse wouldn’t have withstood it. Andrey said nothing.

“Well, and if you lack skill, if you can’t find your way all at once, if you need advice, ask—go to Reinhold: he will teach you. Oh!” he added, raising his fingers and shaking his head. This… this (he wanted to praise and couldn’t find the word)… We came from Saxony together. He has a four-story house. I’ll tell you the address…”

“No need, don’t tell me,” Andrey objected, “I’ll go to him when I have a four-story house, but for now I’ll manage without him…”

Another pat on the shoulder.

Andrey jumped onto the horse. Two bags were tied to the saddle: in one lay an oilskin cloak and thick, nail-studded boots, and a few shirts made of Verkhlyovo linen—items bought and taken at his father’s insistence; in the other lay an elegant tailcoat of fine cloth, a shaggy coat, a dozen fine shirts, and boots ordered in Moscow, in memory of his mother’s instructions.

“Well!” said the father.

“Well!” said the son.

“All?” asked the father.

“All!” replied the son.

They looked at each other in silence, as if piercing each other with their gaze.

Meanwhile, a small group of curious neighbors gathered to watch, with open mouths, as the manager sent his son to a foreign land.

Father and son shook hands. Andrey rode off at a brisk pace.

“What a pup: not a tear!” the neighbors said. “Look, two crows are cawing their hearts out on the fence: they’ll caw something bad for him—just you wait!..”

“What do crows matter to him? He wanders alone in the forest at night on Ivan Kupala: that sort of thing doesn’t bother them, brothers. A Russian wouldn’t get away with it!..”

“And the old heathen is a good one!” one mother remarked. “He threw him out like a kitten into the street: didn’t hug him, didn’t howl!”

“Stop! Stop, Andrey!” the old man shouted.

Andrey stopped the horse.

“Ah! His heart must have spoken!” the crowd said approvingly.

“Well?” Andrey asked.

“The girth is loose, it needs tightening.”

“I’ll get to Shamshevka, I’ll fix it myself. No need to waste time, I need to arrive before dark.”

“Well!” said the father, waving his hand.

“Well!” the son repeated, nodding his head, and, bending slightly, he was just about to spur his horse.

“Oh, you dogs, truly dogs! Like strangers!” the neighbors said.

But suddenly, a loud cry broke out in the crowd: some woman couldn’t hold back.

“My dear, my light!” she murmured, wiping her eyes with the corner of her headscarf. “Poor orphan! You have no dear mother, no one to bless you… Let me at least cross you, my handsome one!..”

Andrey rode up to her, dismounted, embraced the old woman, then wanted to leave—and suddenly cried as she crossed and kissed him. In her warm words, he seemed to hear his mother’s voice, her tender image briefly rising.

He hugged the woman tightly again, hastily wiped away his tears, and jumped onto the horse. He struck its sides and disappeared in a cloud of dust; behind him, three mongrels desperately rushed in pursuit from two sides and burst into barking.

II

Stolz was the same age as Oblomov: he, too, was already over thirty. He had served, retired, taken up his own affairs, and indeed acquired a house and money. He was involved in some company that shipped goods abroad.

He was constantly in motion: if society needed to send an agent to Belgium or England—they sent him; if a project needed to be written or a new idea adapted to a business—he was chosen. Meanwhile, he also went out into society and read: how he managed to do it all, God knows.

He was composed entirely of bones, muscles, and nerves, like a thoroughbred English horse. He was lean; he had almost no cheeks at all, that is, there was bone and muscle, but no sign of fatty roundness; his complexion was even, somewhat dark, and without any blush; his eyes, though a little greenish, were expressive.

He had no superfluous movements. If he sat, he sat quietly; if he acted, he used only as much mimicry as was necessary.

Just as there was nothing superfluous in his organism, so too in the moral operations of his life did he seek a balance between practical aspects and the subtle needs of the spirit. The two sides ran parallel, intersecting and intertwining along the way, but never getting tangled in heavy, insoluble knots.

He walked firmly, briskly; he lived by a budget, striving to spend each day, like each ruble, with a constant, never-sleeping control over the expended time, labor, and spiritual and emotional strength.

It seemed he managed both sorrows and joys, like the movement of his hands, like the steps of his feet, or like he dealt with bad and good weather.

He opened his umbrella while it rained, meaning he suffered while sorrow lasted, and he suffered not with timid submission, but more with vexation, with pride, and bore it patiently only because he attributed the cause of all suffering to himself, rather than hanging it, like a caftan, on someone else’s peg.

And he enjoyed joy like a flower plucked on the road, until it withered in his hands, never drinking the cup down to that drop of bitterness that lies at the end of every pleasure.

A simple, that is, direct, genuine view of life—that was his constant task, and gradually arriving at its solution, he understood its full difficulty and was internally proud and happy whenever he happened to notice a crookedness in his path and take a straight step.

“It’s cunning and hard to live simply!” he often said to himself, and with hurried glances, he looked where it was crooked, where it was askew, where the thread of life’s cord began to twist into an irregular, complex knot.

Most of all, he feared imagination, that two-faced companion, with a friendly face on one side and an enemy face on the other, a friend—the less you believe it, and an enemy—when you trustingly fall asleep under its sweet whisper.

He feared any dream, or if he entered its realm, he entered it as one enters a grotto with the inscription: ma solitude, mon hermitage, mon repos (my solitude, my hermitage, my rest), knowing the hour and minute when he would leave.

Dream, the enigmatic, the mysterious, had no place in his soul. That which was not subject to the analysis of experience, of practical truth, was in his eyes an optical illusion, one or another reflection of rays and colors on the retina of the organ of sight, or finally, a fact that had not yet been reached by experience.

He also lacked that dilettantism that loves to roam in the realm of the miraculous or play Quixote in the field of guesses and discoveries a thousand years ahead. He stubbornly stopped at the threshold of mystery, showing neither the faith of a child nor the doubt of a fatalist, but awaited the appearance of a law, and with it, the key to it.

Just as subtly and cautiously as he watched over his imagination, he watched over his heart. Here, often stumbling, he had to confess that the sphere of heart’s intoxications was still terra incognita (unknown territory).

He fervently thanked fate if, in this unknown region, he managed to timely distinguish rouged lies from pale truth; he no longer complained when he stumbled, but did not fall, from a deception skillfully covered with flowers, if only his heart beat feverishly and intensely, and he was perfectly happy if it did not bleed, if cold sweat did not appear on his forehead, and then a long shadow did not lie on his life for a long time.

He considered himself fortunate simply because he could maintain a consistent level and, riding the hobbyhorse of feeling, not overshoot the thin line separating the world of feeling from the world of lies and sentimentality, the world of truth from the world of the ridiculous, or, riding back, not land on the sandy, dry ground of harshness, cleverness, distrust, pettiness, or emasculation of the heart.

Even amidst enthusiasm, he felt the earth beneath his feet and enough strength within him to break free and be liberated in an emergency. He was not blinded by beauty and therefore did not forget or demean a man’s dignity, was not a slave, “did not lie at the feet” of beauties, although he did not experience fiery joys.

He had no idols, but he preserved his strength of soul, his bodily vigor; he was chastely proud; an aura of freshness and strength emanated from him, before which even immodest women involuntarily felt abashed.

He knew the value of these rare and precious qualities and spent them so sparingly that he was called an egoist, unfeeling. His restraint from impulses, his ability not to exceed the bounds of a natural, free state of mind, were marked with reproach and at the same time justified, sometimes with envy and surprise, by others who rushed headlong into the mire and ruined their own and others’ existence.

“Passions, passions justify everything,” they said around him, “but you, in your egoism, only protect yourself: let’s see for whom.”

“I am protecting myself for someone,” he said thoughtfully, as if gazing into the distance, and continued not to believe in the poetry of passions, not to admire their turbulent manifestations and destructive traces, but always wanted to see the ideal of human existence and aspirations in a strict understanding and conduct of life.

And the more they challenged him, the deeper he “persisted” in his stubbornness, even falling, at least in arguments, into puritanical fanaticism. He said that “the normal purpose of man is to live through the four seasons, that is, the four ages, without leaps, and to carry the vessel of life to the last day, without spilling a single drop in vain, and that a steady and slow burning fire is better than raging conflagrations, no matter what poetry blazed in them.” In conclusion, he added that he “would be happy if he succeeded in justifying his conviction in himself, but that he did not hope to achieve this, because it was very difficult.”

And he himself kept stubbornly walking along his chosen path. He was never seen pondering anything morbidly and painfully; apparently, he was not consumed by the remorse of a weary heart; he did not suffer spiritually, never lost his way in complex, difficult, or new circumstances, but approached them as if they were old acquaintances, as if he were living a second time, passing through familiar places.

Whatever he encountered, he immediately used the approach that was needed for that phenomenon, just as a housekeeper immediately chooses from a bunch of keys hanging on her belt precisely the one needed for this or that door.

Above all, he valued persistence in achieving goals: this was a sign of character in his eyes, and he never denied respect to people with such persistence, however insignificant their goals might be.

“These are people!” he would say.

Need it be added that he himself pursued his goals, bravely stepping over all obstacles, and only abandoned a task when a wall arose in his path or an impassable abyss opened up.

But he was not capable of arming himself with the kind of courage that, closing its eyes, would leap across an abyss or throw itself against a wall on a whim. He would measure the abyss or the wall, and if there was no sure way to overcome it, he would step away, no matter what might be said about him.

For such a character to form, perhaps such mixed elements, from which Stolz was composed, were necessary. Doers had long been cast in our country into five or six stereotypical molds, lazily, half-heartedly looking around, putting their hand to the social machine and drowsily moving it along the usual track, stepping into the footprint left by a predecessor. But now, eyes have awakened from slumber, brisk, broad steps and lively voices are heard… How many Stolzes must appear under Russian names!

How could such a man be close to Oblomov, in whom every trait, every step, his entire existence was a blatant protest against Stolz’s life? This, it seems, is an already settled question: if opposing extremes do not serve as a reason for sympathy, as was once thought, then they certainly do not hinder it.

Moreover, they were bound by childhood and school—two strong springs; then the Russian, kind, abundant caresses lavishly bestowed on the German boy in Oblomov’s family; then the role of the strong one that Stolz occupied with Oblomov both physically and morally; and finally, and most of all, at the foundation of Oblomov’s nature lay a pure, bright, and good principle, filled with deep sympathy for all that was good and that only opened and responded to the call of this simple, guileless, eternally trusting heart.

Whoever only accidentally or intentionally looked into this bright, childlike soul—be he gloomy, evil—could no longer deny him reciprocity or, if circumstances hindered closeness, then at least a good and lasting memory.

Andrey often, breaking away from affairs or from the social crowd, from an evening event, from a ball, would go to sit on Oblomov’s wide sofa and, in lazy conversation, relieve and calm his agitated or tired soul, and always experienced that comforting feeling that a person experiences when returning from magnificent halls to his own modest roof or from the beauties of southern nature to a birch grove where he used to walk as a child.

III

“Hello, Ilya. How glad I am to see you! Well, how are you? Are you healthy?” Stolz asked.

“Oh, no, badly, brother Andrey,” Oblomov said with a sigh, “what health!”

“And what, are you ill?” Stolz asked solicitously.

“Styes have overcome me: just last week one left my right eye, and now another is settling in.”

Stolz laughed.

“Only that?” he asked. “You’ve slept that one onto yourself.”

“What ‘only’: heartburn torments me. You should have heard what the doctor said a while ago. ‘Go abroad,’ he says, ‘otherwise it’ll be bad: you might have a stroke.'”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“I won’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Good heavens! Listen to what he said: ‘live somewhere on a mountain, go to Egypt or America…'”

“So what?” Stolz said calmly. “You’ll be in Egypt in two weeks, in America in three.”

“Well, brother Andrey, you too! There was only one sensible person, and he’s gone mad. Who goes to America and Egypt! Englishmen: well, they’re just made that way by God; and they have no place to live in their own country. But who among us would go? Only some desperate soul who values life for nothing.”

“Indeed, what feats: get in a carriage or on a ship, breathe fresh air, look at foreign countries, cities, customs, all the wonders… Ah, you! Well, tell me, how are your affairs, what’s happening in Oblomovka?”

“Ah!..” Oblomov uttered, waving his hand.

“What happened?”

“What: life is bothering me!”

“Thank God!” said Stolz.

“How, thank God! If it always patted me on the head, but no, it sticks to me, like bullies used to pester a quiet student at school: one would pinch him stealthily, then suddenly pounce straight on his forehead and sprinkle sand… I can’t bear it!”

“You’re too—meek. So what happened?” Stolz asked.

“Two misfortunes.”

“What are they?”

“Completely ruined.”

“How so?”

“Here, I’ll read you what the elder writes… where’s the letter? Zakhar, Zakhar!”

Zakhar found the letter. Stolz skimmed it and laughed, probably at the elder’s style.

“What a rogue this elder is!” he said. “He’s let the peasants run wild, and now he complains! Better to give them passports and let them go wherever they please.”

“Good heavens, then everyone might want to leave,” Oblomov objected.

“Let them!” Stolz said carelessly. “Whoever is well off and finds it profitable where they are, won’t leave; and if it’s unprofitable for them, it’s unprofitable for you too: why hold them?”

“Look what you’ve thought up!” Ilya Ilyich exclaimed. “In Oblomovka, the peasants are quiet, homebodies; why should they wander?..”

“But you don’t know,” Stolz interrupted, “they want to build a pier in Verkhlyovo and plan to lay a highway, so Oblomovka will be near the main road, and they’re establishing a fair in town…”

“Oh, my God!” Oblomov said. “That’s all we needed! Oblomovka was in such quiet solitude, off to the side, and now a fair, a main road! The peasants will get used to going to town, merchants will come bothering us—all is lost! Disaster!”

Stolz laughed.

“How is it not a disaster?” Oblomov continued. “The peasants were just so-so, nothing heard, neither good nor bad, doing their work, not striving for anything; and now they’ll be corrupted! They’ll go for teas, coffees, velvet trousers, accordions, greased boots… no good will come of it!”

“Yes, if that’s the case, of course, little good will come of it,” Stolz remarked… “But you should set up a school in the village…”

“Isn’t it too early?” Oblomov said. “Literacy is harmful to a peasant: teach him, and he might not even want to plow…”

“But the peasants will read about how to plow, you eccentric! However, listen: seriously, you need to visit the village yourself this year.”

“Yes, true; only my plan isn’t quite finished yet…” Oblomov timidly remarked.

“And you don’t need any!” Stolz said. “Just go: on the spot, you’ll see what needs to be done. You’ve been fussing with this plan for a long time: is it really still not ready? What are you doing?”

“Ah, brother! As if my only business is with the estate. And the other misfortune?”

“What is it?”

“They’re driving me out of my apartment.”

“Driving you out how?”

“Just like that: move out, they say, and that’s it.”

“Well, so what?”

“How—so what? I’ve worn out my back and sides from twisting and turning with these troubles. And I’m alone: this needs doing, and that, settling accounts here, paying there, and then moving! The money is simply dreadful, and I don’t even know where it’s going! Any minute now, I’ll be left without a penny…”

“This man is utterly spoiled: it’s hard for him to move out of an apartment!” Stolz said with surprise. “Speaking of money: do you have a lot? Give me about five hundred rubles: I need to send it right away; I’ll take it from our office tomorrow…”

“Wait! Let me remember… They just sent a thousand from the village, and now there’s… wait… here…”

Oblomov began rummaging through drawers.

“Here… ten, twenty, here’s two hundred rubles… and here’s twenty. There were also coppers here… Zakhar, Zakhar!” Zakhar, in his usual manner, jumped off the sleeping bench and entered the room.

“Where were those two hryvnias on the table? I put them there yesterday…”

“What is it, Ilya Ilyich, are those two hryvnias so important to you! I already reported to you that there were no two hryvnias lying here…”

“How ‘no’! They gave me change from the oranges…”

“You gave them to someone and forgot,” Zakhar said, turning towards the door.

Stolz laughed.

“Ah, you Oblomovs!” he reproached. “They don’t know how much money they have in their pockets!”

“And what money did you give to Mikhey Andreich a while ago?” Zakhar reminded him.

“Oh, yes, Tarantyev took another ten rubles,” Oblomov turned lively to Stolz, “I forgot.”

“Why do you let that animal near you?” Stolz remarked.

“Let him in for what!” Zakhar interjected. “He comes in as if it’s his own house or a tavern. He took the master’s shirt and waistcoat, and now he’s gone for good! Just now he came for the tailcoat: ‘let me wear it!’ If only you, dear Andrey Ivanych, would restrain him…”

“It’s not your business, Zakhar. Go to your room!” Oblomov strictly remarked.

“Give me a sheet of writing paper,” Stolz asked, “to write a note.”

“Zakhar, give me paper: Andrey Ivanych needs some…” Oblomov said.

“But there isn’t any! We looked for it a while ago,” Zakhar replied from the antechamber and didn’t even come into the room.

“Give me some scrap!” Stolz insisted.

Oblomov searched on the table: there wasn’t even a scrap.

“Well, give me at least a business card.”

“I haven’t had any of those, business cards, for a long time,” Oblomov said.

“What’s wrong with you?” Stolz retorted with irony. “And you’re going to do business, writing a plan. Tell me, please, do you go anywhere, where do you spend your time? Who do you see?”

“Where do I spend my time! I rarely go anywhere, I just sit at home: this plan bothers me, and then there’s the apartment… Thank you, Tarantyev wanted to try to find one…”

“Does anyone visit you?”

“Yes, they do… there’s Tarantyev, and Alekseev. The doctor stopped by a while ago… Penkin was here, Sudbinsky, Volkov.”

“I don’t even see any books at your place,” Stolz said.

“Here’s a book!” Oblomov remarked, pointing to a book lying on the table.

“What’s that?” Stolz asked, looking at the book. “‘Journey to Africa.’ And the page you stopped on is moldy. I don’t see any newspapers… Do you read newspapers?”

“No, the print is too small, it hurts my eyes… and there’s no need: if there’s anything new, you hear about it from all sides all day long.”

“Good heavens, Ilya!” Stolz said, casting an astonished gaze at Oblomov. “What are you doing yourself? You’re like a lump of dough, curled up and lying there.”

“True, Andrey, like a lump,” Oblomov replied sadly.

“But is consciousness justification?”

“No, it’s just an answer to your words; I’m not justifying myself,” Oblomov remarked with a sigh.

“You need to get out of this sleep.”

“I tried before, it didn’t work, and now… why? Nothing calls me, my soul doesn’t yearn, my mind sleeps peacefully!” he concluded with barely perceptible bitterness. “Enough of this… Tell me instead, where are you from now?”

“From Kyiv. In about two weeks, I’m going abroad. You should come too…”

“Alright; perhaps…” Oblomov decided.

“Then sit down, write a petition, and you’ll submit it tomorrow…”

“Already tomorrow!” Oblomov began, catching himself. “What a hurry they’re in, as if someone’s chasing them! Let’s think, talk it over, and then whatever God wills! Perhaps first to the village, and abroad… later…”

“Why later? The doctor ordered it, didn’t he? You first shed the fat, the weight of your body, then the sleep of your soul will fly away. You need both physical and spiritual exercise.”

“No, Andrey, all that will tire me out: my health is poor. No, you’d better leave me, go by yourself…”

Stolz looked at the reclining Oblomov, Oblomov looked at him.

Stolz shook his head, and Oblomov sighed.

“It seems you’re even too lazy to live?” Stolz asked.

“And what, that’s true: lazy, Andrey.”

Andrey pondered how to hit a nerve and where his nerve was, meanwhile silently examining him and suddenly burst out laughing.

“Why is one of your stockings cotton, and the other paper?” he suddenly remarked, pointing at Oblomov’s feet. “And your shirt is on inside out?”

Oblomov looked at his feet, then at his shirt.

“Indeed,” he confessed, embarrassed. “This Zakhar was sent to punish me! You won’t believe how much I’ve suffered with him! He argues, he’s rude, and don’t ask about his work!”

“Ah, Ilya, Ilya!” Stolz said. “No, I won’t leave you like this. In a week, you won’t recognize yourself. This evening, I’ll give you a detailed plan of what I intend to do with myself and with you, and now get dressed. Wait, I’ll shake you up. Zakhar!” he shouted. “Dress Ilya Ilyich!”

“Where, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing? Tarantyev and Alekseev are coming for dinner right now. Then they wanted to…”

“Zakhar,” Stolz said, not listening to him, “get him dressed.”

“Yes, sir, Andrey Ivanych, I’ll just polish the boots,” Zakhar said eagerly.

“What? Your boots aren’t polished by five o’clock?”

“They are polished, they were polished last week, but the master didn’t go out, so they dulled again…”

“Well, just bring them as they are. Bring my suitcase into the living room; I’ll stay with you. I’ll get dressed now, and you be ready, Ilya. We’ll have dinner somewhere on the go, then we’ll go home by two, three, and…”

“But you… how can this be so sudden… wait… let me think… I haven’t shaved…”

“No time to think and scratch your head… You’ll shave on the way: I’ll take you.”

“To what houses will we still go?” Oblomov exclaimed sorrowfully. “To strangers? What an idea! I’ll go, rather, to Ivan Gerasimych’s; I haven’t been there for three days.”

“Who is this Ivan Gerasimych?”

“The one who served with me before…”

“Ah! That old gray-haired executor: what did you find there? What a passion for killing time with that blockhead!”

“How sharply you sometimes speak about people, Andrey, God only knows. But he’s a good man: he just doesn’t wear Dutch shirts…”

“What do you do at his place? What do you talk about with him?” Stolz asked.

“At his place, you know, it’s somehow proper, cozy. The rooms are small, the sofas are so deep: you can sink in completely, and no one will see you. The windows are completely covered with ivy and cacti, more than a dozen canaries, three dogs, so kind! Snacks are always on the table. The engravings all depict family scenes. You come, and you don’t want to leave. You sit, carefree, not thinking about anything, you know there’s a person near you… of course, not wise, no point in exchanging ideas with him, but on the other hand, not cunning, kind, hospitable, unpretentious, and he won’t wound you behind your back!”

“So what do you do?”

“What? I come, we sit opposite each other on the sofas, with our feet up; he smokes…”

“Well, and you?”

“I also smoke, listen to the canaries chirping. Then Marfa brings the samovar.”

“Tarantyev, Ivan Gerasimych!” Stolz said, shrugging. “Well, get dressed quickly,” he urged. “And tell Tarantyev, when he comes,” he added, turning to Zakhar, “that we’re not dining at home and that Ilya Ilyich won’t be dining at home all summer, and in autumn he’ll have a lot of work, and that we won’t be able to see him…”

“I’ll tell him, I won’t forget, I’ll tell him everything,” Zakhar replied, “and what about dinner?”

“Eat it with someone else, enjoy it.”

“Yes, sir.”

About ten minutes later, Stolz emerged dressed, shaved, and combed, while Oblomov sat melancholically on the bed, slowly buttoning the front of his shirt and missing the buttonhole. In front of him, on one knee, stood Zakhar with an unpolished boot, as if it were a dish, ready to put it on and waiting for his master to finish buttoning his shirt.

“You haven’t even put on your boot yet!” Stolz exclaimed in astonishment. “Come on, Ilya, quicker, quicker!”

“But where are we going? And why?” Oblomov said with anguish. “What haven’t I seen there? I’m behind, I don’t want to…”

“Quicker, quicker!” Stolz urged.

IV

Although it was already late, they managed to go somewhere on business, then Stolz took a gold miner with him for dinner, then they went to the latter’s dacha for tea, found a large company, and Oblomov, from complete solitude, suddenly found himself in a crowd of people. They returned home late at night.

The next day, and the day after, it was the same, and a whole week flew by unnoticed. Oblomov protested, complained, argued, but was carried away and accompanied his friend everywhere.

One time, returning late from somewhere, he especially rebelled against this fuss.

“All day,” Oblomov grumbled, putting on his dressing gown, “you don’t take off your boots: my feet are itching! I don’t like this Petersburg life of yours!” he continued, lying down on the sofa.

“What kind of life do you like?” Stolz asked.

“Not like it is here.”

“What exactly didn’t you like here?”

“Everything, the constant rat race, the eternal game of petty passions, especially greed, tripping each other up, gossip, slander, jabbing each other, that looking at each other from head to toe; if you listen to what they talk about, your head spins, you go numb. People seem so intelligent, with such dignity on their faces, and all you hear is: ‘They gave this to so-and-so, that one got a lease.’ — ‘Good heavens, for what?’ someone shouts. ‘This one lost at the club yesterday; that one is taking three hundred thousand!’ Boredom, boredom, boredom!.. Where is the human being here? Where is his wholeness? Where did he disappear, how did he break himself into such trifles?”

“Something must occupy society,” Stolz said, “everyone has their own interests. That’s life…”

“Society! You, surely, Andrey, deliberately send me into this society to make me even less inclined to be there. Life: what a life! What is there to seek? Interests of the mind, of the heart? Look where the center is, around which all this revolves: there is none, nothing deep, nothing that touches the quick. They are all corpses, sleeping people, worse than me, these members of society! What drives them in life? They don’t lie down, but scurry back and forth every day like flies, and what’s the use? You enter a room and can’t help but admire how symmetrically the guests are seated, how quietly and thoughtfully they sit—at cards. Nothing to say, a glorious task in life! An excellent example for a mind seeking movement! Aren’t they dead? Don’t they sleep all their lives sitting? How am I more to blame than them, lying at home and not contaminating my head with threes and jacks?”

“That’s all old stuff, it’s been said a thousand times,” Stolz remarked. “Isn’t there anything newer?”

“And our best youth, what are they doing? Aren’t they sleeping, walking, riding along Nevsky, dancing? A daily empty shuffling of days! And look, with what pride and unknown dignity, with a repellent gaze, they look at those who are not dressed like them, do not bear their name and rank. And the unfortunate ones imagine that they are still above the crowd: ‘We, they say, serve where no one else serves but us; we are in the first row of seats, we are at Prince N’s ball, where only we are allowed’… And when they meet, they drink too much and fight, just like savages! Are these living, unsleeping people? And not only the youth: look at the adults. They gather, feed each other, no hospitality… no kindness, no mutual attraction! They gather for dinner, for an evening, as if for duty, without cheer, coldly, to boast about the cook, the salon, and then secretly ridicule, trip each other up. The day before yesterday, at dinner, I didn’t know where to look, I wanted to crawl under the table, when the tearing apart of absent reputations began: ‘That one is stupid, this one is low, another is a thief, the third is ridiculous’—a real hounding! Saying this, they look at each other with the same eyes: ‘just leave the door, and the same will happen to you’… Why do they gather if they are like that? Why do they shake hands so firmly? No sincere laughter, no glimmer of sympathy! They try to lure a high rank, a name. ‘So-and-so was at my place, and I was at so-and-so’s,’ they boast afterwards… What kind of life is this? I don’t want it. What will I learn there, what will I gain?”

“You know what, Ilya?” Stolz said. “You reason like an ancient: in old books, they wrote everything like that. But, anyway, that’s good too: at least you’re reasoning, not sleeping. Well, what else? Continue.”

“What’s there to continue? Look: no one here has a fresh, healthy face…”

“The climate is like that,” Stolz interrupted. “Even your face is wrinkled, and you don’t even run, you just lie there.”

“No one has a clear, peaceful gaze,” Oblomov continued, “everyone is infected by each other with some agonizing worry, anguish, they search for something sickly. And if it were for truth, for good for themselves and others—no, they pale at a comrade’s success. One’s worry: tomorrow to go to the office, a case has been dragging on for five years, the opposing side is winning, and for five years he carries one thought in his head, one desire: to knock the other off his feet and build the edifice of his welfare on his fall. Five years walking, sitting, and sighing in the reception room—that’s the ideal and goal of life! Another suffers because he is condemned to go to work every day and sit until five o’clock, and another sighs heavily that he has no such grace…”

“You’re a philosopher, Ilya!” Stolz said. “Everyone else bustles about, only you need nothing!”

“This yellow gentleman in glasses,” Oblomov continued, “stuck to me: had I read the speech of some deputy, and his eyes bugged out at me when I said I don’t read newspapers. And he went on about Louis Philippe, as if he were his own father. Then he pressed me about what I thought: why did the French ambassador leave Rome? How, to doom one’s whole life to a daily charging with worldwide news, shouting for a week until one has shouted oneself out? Today Mehmet Ali sent a ship to Constantinople, and he racks his brain: why? Tomorrow Don Carlos failed—and he is in terrible alarm. There they are digging a canal, here a detachment of troops has been sent to the East; good heavens, it’s flared up! He has no face, runs, shouts, as if an army is coming for him himself. They reason, they consider crookedly and askew, but they themselves are bored—it doesn’t interest them; through these shouts, an unbroken sleep is visible! This is alien to them; they walk in someone else’s hat. They have no business of their own, so they are scattered in all directions, not directed at anything. Under this comprehensiveness lies emptiness, an absence of sympathy for everything! But to choose a modest, laborious path and follow it, to dig a deep rut—that’s boring, unnoticeable; omniscience won’t help there, and there’s no one to throw dust in anyone’s eyes.”

“Well, you and I haven’t scattered, Ilya. Where is our modest, laborious path?” Stolz asked.

Oblomov suddenly fell silent.

“Well, I’ll just finish… the plan…” he said. “And to hell with them!” he added with annoyance afterwards. “I don’t bother them, I don’t seek anything; I just don’t see normal life in this. No, this isn’t life, but a distortion of the norm, of the ideal of life that nature set as a goal for man…”

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

Oblomov did not answer.

“Well, tell me, what kind of life would you imagine for yourself?” Stolz continued to ask.

“I have already imagined it.”

“What is it? Please tell me, how?”

“How?” Oblomov said, turning onto his back and looking at the ceiling. “How? I would go to the village.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“The plan isn’t finished. Then I wouldn’t go alone, but with my wife.”

“Ah! That’s it! Well, God bless you. What are you waiting for? In another three or four years, no one will marry you…”

“What to do, it’s not fate!” Oblomov said with a sigh. “My financial situation doesn’t allow it!”

“Good heavens, what about Oblomovka? Three hundred souls!”

“So what? How will I live there, with a wife?”

“The two of you, how will you live!”

“And what if children come?”

“You’ll raise the children, they’ll provide for themselves; just know how to guide them…”

“No, what kind of noblemen would make craftsmen!” Oblomov interrupted dryly. “And besides children, where are the two of us? It’s just a saying—’with a wife, the two of us,’ but in reality, as soon as you get married, some women will crawl into your house. I look into any family: relatives, not relatives, and not housekeepers; if they don’t live there, they come every day for coffee, for dinner… How can you feed such a boarding house with three hundred souls?”

“Well, alright; what if they gave you another three hundred thousand, what would you do?” Stolz asked with greatly piqued curiosity.

“Right into the pawnshop,” Oblomov said, “and I’d live off the interest.”

“There’s little interest there; why wouldn’t you put it into a company, like ours, for instance?”

“No, Andrey, you won’t trick me.”

“What: you wouldn’t even trust me?”

“No way; not that I don’t trust you, but anything can happen: what if it goes bust, then I’m penniless. Better the bank, isn’t it?”

“Well, alright; what would you do then?”

“Well, I’d arrive at a new, comfortably arranged house… In the vicinity, good neighbors would live, you, for example… But no, you wouldn’t stay in one place…”

“And would you always stay in one place? Would you never go anywhere?”

“Never!”

“Why then are they bothering to build railways and steamboats everywhere, if the ideal of life is to sit still? Let’s submit a proposal, Ilya, to stop them; we won’t be traveling anyway.”

“There are plenty without us; aren’t there many managers, clerks, merchants, officials, idle travelers who have no corner of their own? Let them travel!”

“And who are you then?”

Oblomov was silent.

“To what social class do you assign yourself?”

“Ask Zakhar,” Oblomov said.

Stolz literally fulfilled Oblomov’s wish.

“Zakhar!” he shouted.

Zakhar came, with sleepy eyes.

“Who is this lying here?” Stolz asked.

Zakhar suddenly woke up and, sideways, looked suspiciously at Stolz, then at Oblomov.

“Who? Don’t you see?”

“I don’t see,” Stolz said.

“What a wonder? It’s the master, Ilya Ilyich.”

He smiled faintly.

“Good, go.”

“Master!” Stolz repeated and burst into laughter.

“Well, a gentleman,” Oblomov corrected with annoyance.

“No, no, you are a master!” Stolz continued to laugh.

“What’s the difference?” Oblomov said. “A gentleman is also a master.”

“A gentleman is a master,” Stolz defined, “who puts on his own stockings and takes off his own boots.”

“Yes, an Englishman does it himself, because they don’t have many servants, but a Russian…”

“Continue to paint me the ideal of your life… Well, good friends around; what then? How would you spend your days?”

“Well, I’d get up in the morning,” Oblomov began, putting his hands behind his head, and an expression of peace spread across his face: he was mentally already in the village. “The weather is beautiful, the sky is deep blue, not a single cloud,” he said, “one side of the house in my plan faces east with a balcony, towards the garden, towards the fields, the other—towards the village. While waiting for my wife to wake up, I would put on my dressing gown and walk in the garden to breathe the morning vapors; there I would find the gardener, we would water the flowers together, trim the bushes, the trees. I would compose a bouquet for my wife. Then I would go to the bath or swim in the river, return—the balcony is already open; my wife in a blouse, in a light cap that barely stays on, ready to fly off her head any minute… She waits for me. ‘Tea is ready,’ she says. ‘What a kiss! What tea! What a comfortable armchair!’ I sit by the table; on it are rusks, cream, fresh butter…”

“Then?”

“Then, putting on a spacious frock coat or some jacket, embracing my wife around the waist, we would delve with her into the endless, dark alley; walk quietly, thoughtfully, silently, or think aloud, dream, count minutes of happiness like the beating of a pulse; listen to how the heart beats and stops; seek sympathy in nature… and imperceptibly come out to the river, to the field… The river barely splashes; the ears of corn sway from the breeze, the heat… sit in a boat, my wife rows, barely lifts the oar…”

“You’re a poet, Ilya!” Stolz interrupted.

“Yes, a poet in life, because life is poetry. It’s up to people to distort it! Then we could go into the orangery,” Oblomov continued, himself reveling in the ideal of the happiness he was painting.

He drew from his imagination ready-made, long-since-conceived pictures, and so he spoke with animation, without stopping.

“To look at the peaches, the grapes,” he said, “to say what to serve for dinner, then return, have a light breakfast, and wait for guests… And then there’s a note for my wife from some Marya Petrovna, with a book, with sheet music, or they sent a pineapple as a gift, or a monstrous watermelon ripened in my own hothouse—you send it to a good friend for tomorrow’s dinner and go there yourself… And in the kitchen at that time, it’s buzzing; the cook in a white, snow-white apron and cap scurries about; he puts one pot on, takes another off, stirs here, starts rolling dough there, splashes out water here… the knives clatter… chopping greens… there they’re churning ice cream… Before dinner, it’s pleasant to peek into the kitchen, open a pot, smell, watch how they fold pies, whip cream. Then lie on the couch; my wife reads something new aloud; we stop, argue… But guests are coming, for example, you and your wife.”

“Bah, you’re marrying me off too?”

“Absolutely! And two or three other friends, always the same faces. We’ll start yesterday’s unfinished conversation; jokes will begin, or an eloquent silence will fall, thoughtfulness—not from losing a position, not from a Senate case, but from the fullness of satisfied desires, the contemplation of pleasure… You won’t hear a philippic with foam at the mouth about someone absent, you won’t notice a glance thrown at you with the promise of the same for you, as soon as you step out the door. You won’t dip bread in the salt shaker with someone you don’t like, someone who isn’t good. In the eyes of your interlocutors, you’ll see sympathy, in a joke, sincere, good-natured laughter… Everything to your liking! What’s in the eyes, in the words, is also in the heart! After dinner, mocha, a Havana cigar on the terrace…”

“You’re painting me the same thing that happened with our grandfathers and fathers.”

“No, not that,” Oblomov replied, almost offended, “where is that? Would my wife sit around with preserves and mushrooms? Would she count bolts of fabric and sort village linen? Would she hit the maids on the cheeks? You hear: notes, books, a piano, elegant furniture?”

“Well, and you yourself?”

“And I myself wouldn’t read last year’s newspapers, wouldn’t ride in a decrepit carriage, wouldn’t eat noodles and goose, but would teach a cook from an English club or an ambassador.”

“Well, then?”

“Then, when the heat subsides, we’d send a cart with a samovar, with dessert, to the birch grove, or if not, then to the field, to the mown grass, spread carpets between the haystacks and just revel there until it was time for okroshka and steak. Peasants walk from the field, scythes on their shoulders; there, a hay cart creeps by, covering the whole cart and horse; up above, from the pile, a peasant’s cap with flowers and a child’s head stick out; there, a crowd of barefoot women, with sickles, wailing… Suddenly they spot the masters, quiet down, bow low. One of them, with a tanned neck, bare elbows, with timidly lowered but cunning eyes, just barely, for show, fends off the master’s affection, but she herself is happy… shh!.. so the wife doesn’t see, God forbid!”

Both Oblomov and Stolz burst into laughter.

“It’s damp in the field,” Oblomov concluded, “dark; fog, like an overturned sea, hangs over the rye; horses shrug their shoulders and paw the ground: time to go home. Lights are already lit in the house; in the kitchen, five knives are clattering; a frying pan of mushrooms, cutlets, berries… then music… Casta Diva… Casta Diva!” Oblomov sang. “I cannot recall Casta Diva with indifference,” he said, having sung the beginning of the cavatina, “how that woman cries out her heart! What sorrow is embedded in those sounds!.. And no one around knows anything… She is alone… A secret weighs on her; she entrusts it to the moon…”

“You love that aria? I’m very glad; Olga Ilyinskaya sings it beautifully. I’ll introduce you—what a voice, what singing! And she herself, what a charming child! However, perhaps I’m biased: I have a weakness for her… But don’t get distracted, don’t get distracted,” Stolz added, “tell me!”

“Well,” Oblomov continued, “what else?.. That’s all!.. Guests disperse to the annexes, to the pavilions; and tomorrow they scatter: some to fish, some with a rifle, and some just sit around…”

“Just sitting, nothing in their hands?” Stolz asked.

“What do you need? Well, a handkerchief, perhaps. So, wouldn’t you want to live like that?” Oblomov asked. “Eh? Is that not life?”

“And like that for your whole life?” Stolz asked.

“Until gray hairs, until the grave. That’s life!”

“No, that’s not life!”

“How is it not life? What’s missing here? Think about it, you wouldn’t see a single pale, suffering face, no worries, not a single question about the Senate, about the stock exchange, about shares, about reports, about an audience with the minister, about ranks, about increases in living allowances. And all conversations are heartfelt! You would never need to move from an apartment—that alone is worth something! And that’s not life?”

“That’s not life!” Stolz repeated stubbornly.

“What is it, in your opinion?”

“It’s… (Stolz pondered and searched for how to name this life.) Some kind of… Oblomovism,” he finally said.

“O-blo-movism!” Ilya Ilyich slowly pronounced, surprised by this strange word and dissecting it syllable by syllable. “Ob-lo-mov-ism!”

He looked strangely and intently at Stolz.

“Where is the ideal of life, in your opinion? Why isn’t it Oblomovism?” he asked without enthusiasm, timidly. “Don’t all people strive for the same thing I dream of? Good heavens!” he added more boldly. “Isn’t the goal of all your hustling, passions, wars, trade, and politics the creation of peace, the striving for this ideal of a lost paradise?”

“Even your utopia is Oblomovian,” Stolz objected.

“Everyone seeks rest and peace,” Oblomov defended himself.

“Not everyone, and you yourself, for ten years, didn’t seek that in life.”

“What did I seek?” Oblomov asked in bewilderment, immersing his thoughts in the past.

“Remember, think. Where are your books, your translations?”

“Zakhar put them somewhere,” Oblomov replied, “they’re somewhere in the corner here.”

“In the corner!” Stolz said reproachfully. “In that same corner lie your intentions to ‘serve as long as I have strength, because Russia needs hands and heads to develop inexhaustible resources (your words); to work so that I can rest more sweetly, and to rest means to live another, artistic, elegant side of life, the life of artists, poets.’ Did Zakhar put all these intentions in the corner too? Do you remember, you wanted to travel to foreign lands after your books, to better know and love your own? ‘All life is thought and labor,’ you insisted then, ‘labor, though unknown, obscure, but continuous, and to die with the consciousness that one has done one’s duty.’ Eh? In what corner does that lie in you?”

“Yes… yes…” Oblomov said, anxiously following every word of Stolz, “I remember that I really… it seems… How so,” he said, suddenly remembering the past, “didn’t we, Andrey, first plan to travel all over Europe, to hike through Switzerland, to burn our feet on Vesuvius, to descend into Herculaneum? We almost went mad! How many foolish things!..”

“Foolish things!” Stolz repeated reproachfully. “Didn’t you, with tears in your eyes, speak, looking at engravings of Raphael’s Madonnas, Correggio’s Night, the Apollo Belvedere: ‘My God! Will I never manage to gaze upon the originals and be struck dumb with awe that I stand before a work of Michelangelo, Titian, and tread the soil of Rome? Am I to spend my life seeing these myrtles, cypresses, and orange trees in hothouses, and not in their homeland? Not breathe the air of Italy, not drink in the blueness of the sky!’ And how many magnificent fireworks you launched from your head! Foolish things!”

“Yes, yes, I remember!” Oblomov said, pondering the past. “You even took my hand and said: ‘Let’s promise not to die without seeing all this…'”

“I remember,” Stolz continued, “how you once brought me a translation from Say, with a dedication to me for my nameday; the translation is still with me. And how you locked yourself in with the math teacher, wanting to absolutely figure out why you needed to know circles and squares, but halfway through you gave up and didn’t succeed? You started learning English… and didn’t finish! And when I made a plan for a trip abroad, invited you to look into German universities, you jumped up, hugged me, and solemnly offered your hand: ‘I’m yours, Andrey, with you everywhere’—those were all your words. You were always a bit of an actor. So what, Ilya? I’ve been abroad twice, after our wisdom, humbly sat on student benches in Bonn, in Jena, in Erlangen, then learned Europe like my own estate. But, let’s say, a voyage is a luxury, and not everyone is able or obliged to use this means; what about Russia? I have seen Russia far and wide. I work…”

“You’ll stop working someday, won’t you?” Oblomov remarked.

“I will never stop. For what?”

“When you double your capital,” Oblomov said.

“When I quadruple it, and even then I won’t stop.”

“So why,” he said after a pause, “do you struggle if your goal isn’t to secure yourself forever and then retire to rest?”

“Village Oblomovism!” Stolz said.

“Or to achieve significance and position in society through service and then, in honorable idleness, enjoy well-deserved rest…”

“Petersburg Oblomovism!” Stolz objected.

“So when is one to live?” Oblomov retorted with annoyance at Stolz’s remarks. “Why suffer one’s whole life?”

“For the sake of labor itself, for nothing else. Labor is the image, content, element, and goal of life, at least mine. You, however, have cast labor out of your life: what does it resemble? I will try to lift you up, perhaps for the last time. If you still sit here with Tarantyevs and Alekseevs after this, then you will be completely lost, you will even become a burden to yourself. Now or never!” he concluded.

Oblomov listened to him, looking at him with anxious eyes. His friend seemed to hold up a mirror to him, and he was frightened, recognizing himself.

“Don’t scold me, Andrey, but rather really help me!” he began with a sigh. “I myself am tormented by this; and if you had seen and heard me, even just today, as I dig my own grave and mourn myself, reproach would not have left your tongue. I know everything, I understand everything, but I have no strength and no will. Give me your will and your mind, and lead me wherever you want. I might follow you, but alone, I won’t move from this spot. You speak the truth: ‘Now or never again.’ Another year—it will be too late!”

“Is that really you, Ilya?” Andrey said. “And I remember you as a thin, lively boy, how you walked every day from Prechistenka to Kudrino; there, in the little garden… haven’t you forgotten the two sisters? Haven’t you forgotten Rousseau, Schiller, Goethe, Byron, whom you brought to them and took away Cottin’s, Genlis’s novels from them… did you put on airs before them, wanted to refine their taste?..”

Oblomov jumped out of bed.

“What, you remember that too, Andrey? How could I! I dreamed with them, whispered hopes for the future, developed plans, thoughts and… feelings too, quietly from you, so you wouldn’t make fun of me. All that died there, it never happened again! And where did it all go—why did it fade away? Incomprehensible! After all, I had no storms, no upheavals; I lost nothing; no yoke weighs on my conscience: it is clear as glass; no blow killed my self-esteem, but just like that, God knows why, everything disappears!”

He sighed:

“Do you know, Andrey, in my life, no fire, neither saving nor destructive, has ever ignited? It was not like a morning on which colors, fire gradually fall, which then turns into day, like with others, and burns hotly, and everything boils, moves in the bright midday, and then everything is quieter and quieter, paler and paler, and everything naturally and gradually fades towards evening. No, my life began with fading. Strange, but it’s true! From the first moment I became conscious, I felt that I was already fading! I began to fade over writing papers in the office; then I faded while reading truths in books, with which I didn’t know what to do in life; I faded with friends, listening to chatter, gossip, mimicking, evil and cold chatter, emptiness, looking at friendships maintained by gatherings without purpose, without sympathy; I faded and wasted my strength with Mina: I paid her more than half of my income and imagined that I loved her; I faded in a dull and lazy walk along Nevsky Prospekt, amidst raccoon furs and beaver collars—at evening parties, on reception days, where they showed me hospitality as an acceptable suitor; I faded and wasted life and mind on trifles, moving from the city to the dacha, from the dacha to Gorokhovaya Street, defining spring by the arrival of oysters and lobsters, autumn and winter—by fixed days, summer—by promenades, and my whole life—by a lazy and peaceful slumber, like others… Even self-esteem—what was it spent on? To order clothes from a famous tailor? To get into a famous house? For Prince P* to shake my hand? But self-esteem is the salt of life! Where did it go? Either I didn’t understand this life, or it’s good for nothing, and I knew nothing better, saw nothing better, no one pointed it out to me. You appeared and disappeared like a comet, brightly, quickly, and I forgot all this and faded…”

Stolz no longer responded with careless mockery to Oblomov’s speech. He listened and remained sullenly silent.

“You said earlier that my face isn’t quite fresh, that it’s wrinkled,” Oblomov continued, “yes, I’m a flimsy, worn-out, threadbare caftan, but not from the climate, not from labors, but from the fact that for twelve years a light was locked within me that sought an exit, but only burned its prison, never broke free, and extinguished. So, twelve years, my dear Andrey, have passed: I no longer wanted to wake up.”

“Why didn’t you break free, run away somewhere, but silently perish?” Stolz asked impatiently.

“Where?”

“Where? Even with your peasants to the Volga: there’s more movement there, some interests, a goal, labor. I would have gone to Siberia, to Sitka.”

“See, you always prescribe such strong remedies!” Oblomov remarked gloomily. “But am I the only one? Look: Mikhailov, Petrov, Semenov, Alekseev, Stepanov… you can’t count them all: our name is legion!”

Stolz was still under the influence of this confession and remained silent. Then he sighed.

“Yes, a lot of water has flowed under the bridge!” he said. “I won’t leave you like this, I’ll take you away from here, first abroad, then to the village: you’ll lose some weight, stop being melancholic, and then we’ll find some business…”

“Yes, let’s go somewhere from here!” Oblomov burst out.

“Tomorrow we’ll start fussing about a passport for abroad, then we’ll begin to gather… I won’t give up—do you hear, Ilya?”

“You’re always ‘tomorrow’!” Oblomov objected, as if descending from the clouds.

“And you would like ‘not to put off until tomorrow what can be done today’?” What alacrity! It’s late now,” Stolz added, “but in two weeks we’ll be far away…”

“What is this, brother, in two weeks, for heaven’s sake, all of a sudden like that!..” Oblomov said. “Let me think it over carefully and prepare… I’ll need some kind of tarantass… maybe in three months.”

“A tarantass, what an idea! To the border, we’ll go in a post-chaise or by steamboat to Lübeck, whichever is more convenient; and there are railways in many places there.”

“And the apartment, and Zakhar, and Oblomovka? I need to make arrangements,” Oblomov defended himself.

“Oblomovism, Oblomovism!” Stolz said, laughing, then took a candle, wished Oblomov good night, and went to bed. “Now or never—remember!” he added, turning to Oblomov and closing the door behind him.

V

“Now or never!” the ominous words appeared to Oblomov as soon as he woke up in the morning.

He got out of bed, walked three times around the room, and looked into the living room: Stolz was sitting and writing.

“Zakhar!” he called.

No jump from the stove could be heard—Zakhar didn’t come: Stolz had sent him to the post office.

Oblomov approached his dusty desk, sat down, took a pen, dipped it into the inkwell, but there was no ink. He looked for paper—also none.

He became pensive and mechanically began to trace with his finger in the dust, then looked at what he had written: Oblomovism.

He quickly erased what he had written with his sleeve. This word had appeared to him in a dream the previous night, written in fire on the walls, like for Belshazzar at the feast.

Zakhar came and, finding Oblomov not in bed, looked dimly at his master, surprised to see him on his feet. In that dull gaze of surprise, it was written: “Oblomovism!”

“One word,” Ilya Ilyich thought, “and yet so… poisonous!..”

Zakhar, as usual, took the comb, brush, and towel and approached to comb Ilya Ilyich’s hair.

“Go to hell!” Oblomov said angrily and knocked the brush out of Zakhar’s hands, and Zakhar himself had already dropped the comb on the floor.

“Aren’t you going to lie down again?” Zakhar asked. “Then I’d make the bed.”

“Bring me ink and paper,” Oblomov replied.

Oblomov pondered the words: “Now or never!”

Listening to this desperate appeal of reason and strength, he recognized and weighed what remnants of will he still possessed and where he would carry, into what he would place, this meager remnant.

After agonizing thought, he seized a pen, pulled a book from the corner, and in one hour wanted to read, write, and rethink everything he hadn’t read, written, or rethought in ten years.

What should he do now? Go forward or stay? This Oblomovian question was deeper for him than Hamlet’s. To go forward—that meant suddenly throwing off the wide dressing gown not only from his shoulders, but also from his soul, from his mind; along with the dust and cobwebs from the walls, sweep the cobwebs from his eyes and gain insight!

What first step should he take towards that? Where to begin? I don’t know, I can’t… no… I’m being cunning, I know and… And Stolz is here, right beside me; he’ll tell me right now.

And what will he say? “In a week,” he’ll say, “draw up detailed instructions for the agent and send him to the village, mortgage Oblomovka, buy some land, send a building plan, rent out the apartment, get a passport and go abroad for six months, shed the excess fat, throw off the heaviness, refresh your soul with that air you once dreamed of with your friend, live without a dressing gown, without Zakhar and Tarantyev, put on your own stockings and take off your own boots, sleep only at night, go where everyone goes, by railways, on steamboats, then… Then… settle in Oblomovka, know what sowing and threshing are, why a peasant is poor or rich; go to the field, go to elections, to the factory, to the mills, to the pier. At the same time read newspapers, books, worry about why the English sent a ship to the East…”

That’s what he’ll say! That means going forward… And like that for the rest of your life! Farewell, poetic ideal of life! This is some kind of forge, not life; here it’s eternally flame, clatter, heat, noise… when can one live? Wouldn’t it be better to stay?

To stay means to wear a shirt inside out, to listen to Zakhar’s feet jumping from the sleeping bench, to have dinner with Tarantyev, to think less about everything, not to finish reading “Journey to Africa,” to grow old peacefully in Tarantyev’s godmother’s apartment…

“Now or never!” “To be or not to be!” Oblomov half-rose from his armchair, but didn’t get his foot into his slipper right away and sat down again.

Two weeks later, Stolz had already left for England, having obtained Oblomov’s promise to come directly to Paris. Ilya Ilyich even had his passport ready, he had even ordered a travel coat, bought a cap. That’s how things progressed.

Zakhar was already profoundly arguing that it was enough to order just one pair of boots, and for the other, simply put new soles on. Oblomov bought a blanket, a woollen vest, a travel toiletry bag, wanted a provision bag—but ten people said that provisions are not carried abroad.

Zakhar rushed around to artisans, to shops, all in a sweat, and although he pocketed many hryvnias and five-kopeck pieces from the change in the shops, he cursed both Andrey Ivanovich and everyone who invented travel.

“What will he do there alone?” he said in the shop. “There, I hear, all the maids serve the gentlemen. How can a maid take off boots? And how will she pull stockings onto the master’s bare feet?..”

He even smiled, so that his sideburns lifted to the side, and shook his head. Oblomov was not lazy; he wrote down what to take with him and what to leave at home. The furniture and other things were entrusted to Tarantyev to take to his godmother’s apartment, on the Vyborg side, to lock them in three rooms and store them until his return from abroad.

Oblomov’s acquaintances, some with distrust, others with laughter, and still others with a kind of fright, said: “He’s going; imagine, Oblomov has moved from his spot!”

But Oblomov did not leave, neither a month later, nor three months later.

On the eve of his departure, his lip swelled up during the night. “A fly bit me, I can’t go to sea with a lip like that!” he said and began to wait for another steamboat. It was already August, Stolz was long since in Paris, writing furious letters to him, but receiving no reply.

Why? Probably because the ink dried up in the inkwell and there’s no paper? Or perhaps because, in Oblomov’s style, “which” and “what” often collide, or finally, Ilya Ilyich, in the ominous cry: now or never, stopped at the latter, put his hands behind his head—and Zakhar wakes him in vain.

No, his inkwell is full of ink, letters and paper, even stamped paper, lie on the table, moreover, written in his hand.

Having written several pages, he never used “which” twice; his style flowed freely and in places expressively and eloquently, as in “those days” when he dreamed with Stolz of a life of labor, of travel.

He gets up at seven o’clock, reads, carries books somewhere. There’s no sleep, no fatigue, no boredom on his face. He even has some color, a sparkle in his eyes, something like courage or at least self-confidence. His dressing gown is nowhere to be seen: Tarantyev took it with him to his godmother’s with the other things.

Oblomov sits with a book or writes in a house coat; a light kerchief is around his neck; his shirt collars are released over his tie and gleam like snow. He goes out in a perfectly tailored frock coat, a stylish hat… He is cheerful, humming… Why is this?..

Here he sits by the window of his dacha (he lives at a dacha, a few versts from the city), a bouquet of flowers lies beside him. He is quickly writing something, constantly glancing through the bushes, at the path, and then hurrying to write again.

Suddenly, sand crunched under light steps on the path; Oblomov dropped his pen, grabbed the bouquet, and ran to the window.

“Is that you, Olga Sergeyevna? Right now, right now!” he said, grabbed his cap, his walking stick, ran out the gate, offered his hand to a beautiful woman, and disappeared with her into the forest, in the shade of enormous fir trees…

Zakhar came out from behind some corner, looked after him, locked the room, and went to the kitchen.

“He’s gone!” he said to Anisya.

“Will he have dinner?”

“Who knows?” Zakhar replied drowsily.

Zakhar was still the same: the same enormous sideburns, unshaven beard, the same gray waistcoat and hole in his frock coat, but he was married to Anisya, either due to a break with his godmother or simply from the conviction that a man should be married; he got married and, contrary to the proverb, did not change.

Stolz had introduced Oblomov to Olga and her aunt. When Stolz first brought Oblomov to Olga’s aunt’s house, there were guests. Oblomov felt uncomfortable and, as usual, awkward.

“It would be good to take off my gloves,” he thought, “it’s warm in the room. How unaccustomed I’ve become to everything!..”

Stolz sat beside Olga, who was sitting alone, under a lamp, a little way from the tea table, leaning back in an armchair, and paying little attention to what was happening around her.

She was very glad to see Stolz; although her eyes didn’t sparkle, her cheeks didn’t blush, a calm, even light spread over her entire face and a smile appeared.

She called him friend, loved him because he always made her laugh and kept her from being bored, but also feared him a little, because she felt too much like a child compared to him.

When a question or bewilderment arose in her mind, she didn’t immediately decide to trust him: he was too far ahead of her, too superior to her, so that her self-esteem sometimes suffered from this immaturity, from the distance in their minds and ages.

Stolz, however, preferred to talk to her more often than with other women, because she, though unconsciously, followed a simple, natural path of life and, by a fortunate nature and sound, un-overthought upbringing, did not deviate from the natural manifestation of thought, feeling, will, even to the slightest, barely perceptible movement of eyes, lips, hand.

Perhaps it was because she stepped so confidently along this path that she sometimes heard beside her other, even more confident steps of her “friend,” whom she trusted, and measured her own steps by them.

Be that as it may, it is rare to find such simplicity and natural freedom of gaze, word, and deed in a young woman. You would never read in her eyes: “now I will purse my lips a little and ponder—I am not so bad. I will look there and be startled, let out a slight cry, they will immediately rush to me. I will sit at the piano and subtly display the tip of my foot”…

No affectation, no coquetry, no falsehood, no tinsel, no ulterior motive! That is why almost only Stolz valued her, which is why she sat alone for more than one mazurka, not hiding her boredom; that is why, looking at her, even the most charming young men were taciturn, not knowing what or how to say to her…

Some considered her simple, not far-sighted, not deep, because no wise maxims about life or love, no quick, unexpected, and bold retorts, no read or overheard judgments about music and literature tumbled from her tongue: she spoke little, and that was her own, insignificant—and the intelligent and lively “cavaliers” avoided her; the less lively, on the contrary, considered her too complicated and were a little afraid. Only Stolz talked to her non-stop and made her laugh.

She loved music, but sang more often quietly, or for Stolz, or for some boarding school friend; and she sang, according to Stolz, like no other singer sings.

No sooner had Stolz seated himself beside her than her laughter rang out in the room, so resonant, so sincere and infectious that whoever heard it would inevitably laugh themselves, without knowing the reason.

But Stolz did not always make her laugh: half an hour later she listened to him with curiosity and with doubled curiosity shifted her gaze to Oblomov, and Oblomov, from these gazes, wished he could sink through the floor.

“What are they saying about me?” he thought, glancing at them uneasily. He already wanted to leave, but Olga’s aunt called him to the table and seated him beside her, under the crossfire of all the interlocutors’ glances.

He timidly turned to Stolz—he was no longer there; he looked at Olga and met her gaze still fixed on him, filled with curiosity, but at the same time so kind…

“Still looking!” he thought, looking around his clothes in confusion.

He even wiped his face with a handkerchief, wondering if his nose was dirty, touched his tie, checking if it had come undone: this sometimes happened to him; no, everything seemed to be in order, but she was still looking!

But the servant handed him a cup of tea and a tray of pretzels. He wanted to suppress his embarrassment, to be relaxed, and in this relaxation, he took such a heap of rusks, biscuits, and pretzels that the little girl sitting next to him laughed. Others looked at the heap with curiosity.

“My God, she’s looking too!” Oblomov thinks. “What will I do with this heap?”

Without even looking, he saw Olga get up from her seat and go to another corner. A weight lifted from his heart.

And the girl sharpened her eyes at him, waiting to see what he would do with the rusks.

“I’ll eat them quickly,” he thought and began to quickly put away the biscuits; fortunately, they just melted in his mouth.

Only two rusks remained; he sighed freely and decided to look where Olga had gone…

My God! She was standing by a bust, leaning on the pedestal, and watching him. She had left her corner, it seemed, to look at him more freely: she had noticed his awkwardness with the rusks.

At dinner, she sat at the other end of the table, talking, eating, and seemingly not interested in him at all. But as soon as Oblomov timidly turned in her direction, hoping she wasn’t looking, he met her gaze, full of curiosity, but also so kind…

After dinner, Oblomov hurriedly began to say goodbye to his aunt: she invited him to dinner the next day and asked him to convey the invitation to Stolz. Ilya Ilyich bowed and, without raising his eyes, walked across the entire hall. Now, behind the piano, there were screens and a door. He looked—Olga was sitting behind the piano and looking at him with great curiosity. It seemed to him that she was smiling.

“Surely, Andrey told her that I was wearing mismatched stockings yesterday or my shirt inside out!” he concluded and went home in a bad mood, both from this supposition and even more from the dinner invitation, to which he had replied with a bow: meaning, he had accepted.

From that moment, Olga’s persistent gaze did not leave Oblomov’s mind. In vain did he lie flat on his back, in vain did he assume the laziest and most comfortable poses—he simply couldn’t sleep. And his dressing gown seemed repugnant to him, and Zakhar stupid and unbearable, and the dust and cobwebs intolerable.

He ordered several shabby paintings, which some patron of poor artists had foisted upon him, to be taken out; he himself fixed the curtain that had not been raised for a long time, called Anisya, and told her to wipe the windows, brushed away the cobwebs, and then lay on his side and thought for about an hour—about Olga.

He first intently focused on her appearance, continuously drawing her portrait in his memory.

Olga, strictly speaking, was not a beauty; that is, there was no whiteness in her, no bright coloring in her cheeks and lips, and her eyes did not glow with rays of inner fire; there were no corals on her lips, no pearls in her mouth, no miniature hands like a five-year-old child’s, with fingers like grapes.

But if she were to be turned into a statue, she would be a statue of grace and harmony. Her somewhat tall stature was perfectly matched by the size of her head, and the size of her head by the oval and dimensions of her face; all of this, in turn, harmonized with her shoulders, and her shoulders with her figure…

Whoever met her, even the distracted, paused for a moment before this so strictly and thoughtfully, artistically created being.

Her nose formed a barely perceptible, gracefully convex line; her lips were thin and mostly compressed: a sign of thought continuously directed at something. The same presence of speaking thought shone in her keen, always alert, all-observing gaze of dark, gray-blue eyes. Her eyebrows gave a special beauty to her eyes: they were not arched, they did not round her eyes with two thin, plucked threads—no, these were two light-brown, bushy, almost straight lines that rarely lay symmetrically: one was a line higher than the other, and because of this, a small crease lay above the eyebrow, in which something seemed to speak, as if a thought rested there.

Olga walked with her head slightly inclined forward, resting so gracefully and nobly on her slender, proud neck; she moved her whole body smoothly, stepping lightly, almost imperceptibly…

“Why was she staring at me so intently yesterday?” Oblomov thought. “Andrey swears he hasn’t talked about the stockings or the shirt yet, but he talked about his friendship with me, about how we grew up, studied—everything good, and meanwhile (and he told her this), how unhappy Oblomov is, how everything good perishes from lack of participation, activity, how faintly life flickers and how…”

“Why smile?” Oblomov continued to think. “If she has any heart at all, it should have stopped, bled with pity, and she… well, God be with her! I’ll stop thinking! I’ll just go today, have dinner—and then not a foot there again.”

Days passed: he was there with both feet, and hands, and head.

One fine morning, Tarantyev moved all of his belongings to his godmother’s, to a lane on the Vyborg Side, and Oblomov spent three days as he hadn’t in a long time: without a bed, without a sofa, having dinner at Olga’s aunt’s.

Suddenly it turned out that there was a free dacha opposite theirs. Oblomov rented it sight unseen and lived there. He was with Olga from morning till night; he read with her, sent her flowers, walked by the lake, in the mountains… he, Oblomov.

What doesn’t happen in the world! How could this have happened? This is how.

When they were having dinner with Stolz at her aunt’s, Oblomov, during dinner, experienced the same torture as the day before, chewing under her gaze, speaking, knowing, feeling that above him, like the sun, was this gaze, burning him, disturbing him, stirring his nerves, his blood. Only with difficulty, on the balcony, with a cigar, with smoke, did he manage to hide for a moment from this silent, persistent gaze.

“What is this?” he said, turning in all directions. “This is torture! Did I make myself a laughingstock to her? She doesn’t look at anyone else like that: she wouldn’t dare. I’m quieter, so she… I’ll talk to her!” he decided, “and I’ll tell her in words what she’s trying to extract from my soul with her eyes.”

Suddenly, she appeared before him on the balcony threshold; he offered her a chair, and she sat beside him.

“Is it true that you are very bored?” she asked him.

“True,” he replied, “but not very… I have things to do.”

“Andrey Ivanych said you’re writing some kind of plan?”

“Yes, I want to go live in the country, so I’m preparing little by little.”

“And will you go abroad?”

“Yes, absolutely, as soon as Andrey Ivanych gets ready.”

“Are you eager to go?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m very eager…”

He glanced: a smile crawled across her face, now lighting up her eyes, now spreading over her cheeks, only her lips were pressed together, as always. He didn’t have the courage to lie calmly.

“I’m a little… lazy…” he said, “but…”

He felt both annoyed that she had so easily, almost silently, extracted from him an admission of laziness. “What is she to me? Am I afraid of her?” he thought.

“Lazy!” she countered with barely perceptible cunning. “Can that be? A man lazy—I don’t understand that.”

“What’s not to understand?” he thought, “it seems simple enough.”

“I just stay at home more, that’s why Andrey thinks I’m…”

“But you probably write a lot,” she said, “you read. — Have you read?… “

She looked at him so intently.

“No, I haven’t!” he blurted out in sudden fright, lest she try to quiz him.

“What?” she asked, laughing.

And he laughed…

“I thought you wanted to ask me about some novel: I don’t read them.”

“You guessed wrong; I wanted to ask about travels…”

He looked at her keenly: her whole face was laughing, but her lips were not…

“Oh! She… I need to be careful with her…” Oblomov thought.

“What do you read then?” she asked with curiosity.

“I, actually, prefer travels…”

“To Africa?” she asked slyly and quietly.

He blushed, guessing, not without reason, that she knew not only what he read, but also how he read.

“Are you a musician?” she asked, to relieve his embarrassment.

At that moment, Stolz approached.

“Ilya! I told Olga Sergeyevna that you passionately love music, and I asked her to sing something… Casta Diva.”

“Why are you slandering me?” Oblomov replied. “I don’t passionately love music at all…”

“What do you mean?” Stolz interrupted. “He acts as if he’s offended! I recommend him as a decent person, and he rushes to disappoint about himself!”

“I’m only avoiding the role of an amateur: it’s a dubious, and difficult, role!”

“What kind of music do you like best?” Olga asked.

“It’s hard to answer that question! All kinds! Sometimes I enjoy listening to a hoarse hurdy-gurdy, some tune that has stuck in my memory; another time I’ll leave in the middle of an opera; then Meyerbeer will stir me; even a barge song: depending on my mood! Sometimes even Mozart will make me cover my ears…”

“So, you truly love music.”

“Please sing something, Olga Sergeyevna,” Stolz requested.

“And what if Monsieur Oblomov is in such a mood now that he’ll cover his ears?” she said, turning to him.

“One should say some compliment here,” Oblomov replied. “I don’t know how, and even if I did, I wouldn’t dare…”

“Why not?”

“What if you sing badly!” Oblomov remarked naively. “I would then feel so awkward…”

“Like yesterday with the rusks…” she suddenly blurted out, and she herself blushed and would have given anything not to have said it. “Forgive me—it’s my fault!..” she said.

Oblomov had not expected this at all and was at a loss.

“That’s a malicious betrayal!” he said under his breath.

“No, just a small revenge, and even that, by God, unintentional, because you didn’t even have a compliment for me.”

“Perhaps I’ll find one when I hear you.”

“And do you want me to sing?” she asked.

“No, he wants it,” Oblomov replied, pointing at Stolz.

“And you?”

Oblomov shook his head negatively:

“I cannot want what I do not know.”

“You’re a boor, Ilya!” Stolz remarked. “That’s what comes from lying around at home and putting on stockings…”

“Good heavens, Andrey,” Oblomov interrupted quickly, not letting him finish, “it costs me nothing to say: ‘Ah! I would be very glad, happy, you, of course, sing excellently…'” he continued, turning to Olga, ” ‘this will give me…’ etc. But is that really necessary?”

“But you could have at least wished for me to sing… even out of curiosity.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Oblomov replied, “you are not an actress…”

“Well, I’ll sing for you,” she said to Stolz.

“Ilya, prepare a compliment.”

Meanwhile, evening fell. The lamp was lit, which, like the moon, shone through the trellis with ivy. The twilight concealed the outlines of Olga’s face and figure and cast a veil over her; her face was in shadow: only a soft, but strong voice, with a nervous tremor of feeling, was heard.

She sang many arias and romances, at Stolz’s suggestion; in some, suffering with a vague premonition of happiness was expressed, in others—joy, but in these sounds, the germ of sadness already lurked.

From the words, from the sounds, from this pure, strong girlish voice, his heart pounded, his nerves trembled, his eyes sparkled and welled up with tears. At one and the same moment, he wanted to die, not to awaken from the sounds, and then immediately again his heart yearned for life…

Oblomov flushed, grew weak, barely held back tears, and it was even harder for him to stifle the joyful cry ready to burst from his soul. He had not felt such vigor, such strength, which, it seemed, had all risen from the depths of his soul, ready for a feat, for a long time.

At that moment, he would even have gone abroad if he only had to sit down and go.

In conclusion, she sang Casta Diva: all the raptures, the lightning-fast thoughts in his head, the trembling, like needles, running through his body—all this annihilated Oblomov: he was overcome.

“Are you pleased with me today?” Olga suddenly asked Stolz, ceasing to sing.

“Ask Oblomov what he will say?” Stolz said.

“Ah!” Oblomov blurted out.

He suddenly grabbed Olga’s hand and immediately let go, becoming greatly embarrassed.

“Excuse me…” he mumbled.

“Do you hear?” Stolz said to her. “Tell me honestly, Ilya: how long has it been since this happened to you?”

“This could have happened this morning, if a hoarse hurdy-gurdy was passing by the windows…” Olga intervened with kindness, so softly that she removed the sting from the sarcasm.

He looked at her reproachfully.

“His windows haven’t been opened to this day: he can’t hear what’s happening outside,” Stolz added.

Oblomov looked at Stolz reproachfully.

Stolz took Olga’s hand…

“I don’t know what to attribute it to, but you sang today as you’ve never sung, Olga Sergeyevna, at least I haven’t heard it in a long time. Here’s my compliment!” he said, kissing each of her fingers.

Stolz left. Oblomov also prepared to leave, but Stolz and Olga detained him.

“I have business,” Stolz remarked, “but you’ll just go lie down… it’s still early…”

“Andrey! Andrey!” Oblomov spoke with pleading in his voice. “No, I can’t stay today, I’m leaving!” he added and left.

He didn’t sleep all night: sad, pensive, he walked back and forth in his room; at dawn, he left the house, walked along the Neva, along the streets, God knows what he was feeling, what he was thinking about…

Three days later, he was there again, and in the evening, when the other guests sat down to cards, he found himself by the piano, alone with Olga. Her aunt had a headache; she was sitting in the study and sniffing spirits.

“Do you want me to show you the collection of drawings Andrey Ivanych brought me from Odessa?” Olga asked. “He didn’t show them to you?”

“You, it seems, are trying to occupy me out of hostess duty?” Oblomov asked. “In vain!”

“Why in vain? I want you not to be bored, for you to feel at home here, for you to be comfortable, free, light, and not leave… to lie down.”

“She is a malicious, mocking creature!” Oblomov thought, admiring, against his will, her every movement.

“You want me to be light, free, and not bored?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she replied, looking at him as she had yesterday, but with even greater expression of curiosity and kindness.

“For that, firstly, don’t look at me as you are now, and as you looked the other day…”

The curiosity in her eyes doubled.

“It’s precisely because of that gaze that I become very awkward… Where’s my hat?..”

“Why awkward?” she asked softly, and her gaze lost its expression of curiosity. It became only kind and gentle.

“I don’t know; it just seems to me that with that gaze you extract from me everything that I don’t want others to know, especially you…”

“Why so? You are Andrey Ivanych’s friend, and he is my friend, therefore…”

“Therefore, there’s no reason for you to know everything about me that Andrey Ivanych knows,” he finished.

“There’s no reason, but there’s a possibility…”

“Thanks to my friend’s frankness—a poor service on his part!..”

“Do you have secrets?” she asked. “Perhaps crimes?” she added, laughing and moving away from him.

“Perhaps,” he replied with a sigh.

“Yes, that’s a serious crime,” she said timidly and quietly, “wearing mismatched stockings.”

Oblomov grabbed his hat.

“No strength left!” he said. “And you want me to be comfortable! I’ll stop loving Andrey… Did he tell you that too?”

“He made me laugh terribly with that today,” Olga added, “he’s always making me laugh. Forgive me, I won’t, I won’t, and I’ll try to look at you differently…”

She put on a cunningly serious expression.

“All this is just the first point,” she continued, “well, I’m not looking at you as I did yesterday, so now you’re free, light. Next: secondly, what needs to be done so that you don’t get bored?”

He looked directly into her gray-blue, gentle eyes.

“Now you yourself are looking at me somewhat strangely…” she said.

He was indeed looking at her as if not with his eyes, but with his mind, with his entire will, like a mesmerist, but he looked involuntarily, unable to stop looking.

“My God, how pretty she is! There really are such people in the world!” he thought, looking at her with almost frightened eyes. “This whiteness, these eyes, where, as in an abyss, it’s dark and yet something sparkles… a soul, it must be! A smile can be read like a book; behind the smile are these teeth and her whole head… how gently it rests on her shoulders, as if swaying, like a flower, breathing fragrance…”

“Yes, I am extracting something from her,” he thought, “something is passing from her into me. At my heart, right here, it seems to begin to boil and beat… Here I feel something extra, which, it seems, wasn’t there before… My God, what happiness to look at her! It’s even hard to breathe.”

These thoughts rushed through him in a whirlwind, and he continued to look at her, as one looks into an infinite distance, into a bottomless abyss, with self-forgetfulness, with languor.

“Oh, come now, Monsieur Oblomov, now you yourself are looking at me strangely!” she said, shyly turning her head away, but curiosity overcame her, and she did not take her eyes off his face.

He heard nothing.

He was indeed still looking and did not hear her words and silently verified what was happening within him; he touched his head—something there was also agitated, rushing with speed. He couldn’t catch his thoughts: they flitted like a flock of birds, and at his heart, in his left side, it felt as if it hurt.

“Don’t look at me so strangely,” she said, “I feel awkward too… And you, surely, want to extract something from my soul…”

“What can I extract from you?” he asked mechanically.

“I also have plans, started and unfinished,” she replied.

He snapped out of it at this hint of his unfinished plan.

“Strange!” he remarked. “You are malicious, and yet your gaze is kind. No wonder they say that women cannot be trusted: they lie both intentionally—with their tongues, and unintentionally—with their gaze, a smile, a blush, even fainting spells…”

She did not let the impression intensify, quietly took his hat, and sat down in a chair herself.

“I won’t, I won’t,” she repeated animatedly. “Oh! Forgive me, my unbearable tongue! But, by God, it’s not mockery!” she almost sang, and feeling trembled in the singing of this phrase.

Oblomov calmed down.

“That Andrey!..” he uttered reproachfully.

“Well, secondly, tell me, what should be done so that you don’t get bored?” she asked.

“Sing!” he said.

“Here it is, the compliment I was waiting for!” she interrupted, flushing with joy. “Do you know,” she continued with vivacity afterwards, “if you hadn’t said that ‘ah’ the day before yesterday after my singing, I think I wouldn’t have slept that night, maybe I would have cried.”

“Why?” Oblomov asked in surprise.

She became pensive.

“I don’t know myself,” she said then.

“You are self-absorbed; that’s why.”

“Yes, of course, that’s why,” she said, pondering and running one hand over the keys, “but self-esteem is everywhere, and a lot of it. Andrey Ivanych says that it’s almost the only motivator that controls the will. You, for instance, probably don’t have it, that’s why you’re all…”

She didn’t finish.

“What?” he asked.

“No, nothing,” she stammered. “I love Andrey Ivanych,” she continued, “not only because he makes me laugh, sometimes he speaks—I cry, and not because he loves me, but, it seems, because… he loves me more than others: you see where self-esteem crept in!”

“Do you love Andrey?” Oblomov asked her and plunged a tense, scrutinizing gaze into her eyes.

“Yes, of course, if he loves me more than others, I love him all the more,” she replied seriously.

Oblomov looked at her silently; she returned his gaze with a simple, silent look.

“He also loves Anna Vasilyevna and Zinaida Mikhailovna, but it’s not the same,” she continued. “He won’t sit with them for two hours, he doesn’t make them laugh, and he doesn’t tell them anything from the heart. He talks about business, about the theatre, about the news, but with me he talks like a sister… no, like a daughter,” she added hastily. “Sometimes he even scolds me if I don’t understand something right away, or if I don’t obey, or don’t agree with him. But he doesn’t scold them, and I think I love him even more for that. Self-esteem!” she added thoughtfully. “But I don’t know how that got into my singing. People have told me good things about it for a long time, and you didn’t even want to listen to me; you were almost forced. And if you had left after that, without saying a word to me, if I hadn’t noticed anything on your face… I think I would have fallen ill… yes, truly, it’s self-esteem!” she concluded decisively.

“Did you really notice anything on my face?” he asked.

“Tears, although you hid them. That’s a bad trait in men – to be ashamed of their heart. That’s also self-esteem, but a false one. It would be better if they were sometimes ashamed of their minds; they make mistakes more often. Even Andrey Ivanych, he’s shy at heart. I told him this, and he agreed with me. And you?”

“How could one disagree, looking at you!” he said.

“Another compliment! But what a…”

She struggled for a word.

“Trivial!” Oblomov finished, not taking his eyes off her.

She confirmed the word’s meaning with a smile.

“That’s what I was afraid of when I didn’t want to ask you to sing… What can you say when listening for the first time? And you have to say something. It’s hard to be intelligent and sincere at the same time, especially in feeling, under the influence of an impression like that…”

“And I really did sing then as I haven’t sung in a long time, perhaps never, it seems… Don’t ask me to sing; I won’t sing like that anymore… Wait, I’ll sing one more…” she said, and at that very moment her face seemed to flush, her eyes lit up, she sank onto the chair, struck two or three strong chords, and began to sing.

My God, what was heard in that singing! Hopes, an unclear fear of storms, the storms themselves, surges of happiness – everything resonated, not in the song, but in her voice.

She sang for a long time, occasionally glancing at him, childishly asking, “Enough? No, here’s this one too,” and sang again.

Her cheeks and ears glowed with emotion; sometimes on her fresh face, a play of heartfelt lightning suddenly flashed, a ray of such mature passion flared up, as if her heart was experiencing a distant future period of life, and then, suddenly, this momentary ray faded again, and her voice sounded fresh and silvery again.

And in Oblomov, the same life played; it seemed to him that he lived and felt all this – not for an hour, not for two, but for whole years…

Both of them, outwardly motionless, were torn apart by an inner fire, trembling with the same tremor; tears stood in their eyes, brought on by the same mood. All these were symptoms of those passions which, it seemed, were destined to play out someday in her young soul, now still subject only to temporary, fleeting hints and flashes of dormant life forces.

She finished with a long, melodious chord, and her voice vanished into it. She suddenly stopped, placed her hands on her knees and, herself moved and agitated, looked at Oblomov: What was he thinking?

On his face shone the dawn of awakened happiness, risen from the depths of his soul; his tear-filled gaze was fixed on her.

Now she, like him, also involuntarily took his hand.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “What a look you have! Why?”

But she knew why his face looked that way, and secretly triumphed modestly, admiring this expression of her power.

“Look in the mirror,” she continued, smiling as she pointed out his own face in the mirror. “Your eyes are sparkling, my God, tears in them! How deeply you feel music!”

“No, I feel… not music… but… love!” Oblomov said softly.

She instantly released his hand and her face changed. Her gaze met his, fixed on her: this gaze was unwavering, almost insane; it was not Oblomov looking, but passion.

Olga understood that the word had escaped him, that he was not in control of it, and that it was the truth.

He recovered himself, grabbed his hat, and, without looking back, ran out of the room. She no longer followed him with a curious gaze; she stood for a long time, motionless, by the piano, like a statue, and stubbornly looked down; only her chest rose and fell with effort…

VI

Amidst his lazy reclining in languid poses, amidst dull slumber and inspired bursts, Oblomov’s dreams were always primarily of a woman as a wife, and sometimes—as a mistress.

In his dreams, he envisioned a tall, slender woman, with hands calmly folded on her chest, with a quiet but proud gaze, sitting carelessly amidst ivy in a bosquet, treading lightly on a carpet, on the sandy path of an alley, with a swaying waist, a head gracefully resting on her shoulders, with a thoughtful expression—as an ideal, as the embodiment of an entire life filled with tenderness and solemn tranquility, as peace itself.

He first dreamt of her entirely in flowers, at the altar, with a long veil, then at the head of a conjugal bed, with bashfully downcast eyes, and finally—as a mother, amidst a group of children.

He dreamt of a smile on her lips, not passionate, eyes not moist with desire, but a smile sympathetic to him, to her husband, and condescending to all others; a gaze favorable only to him and bashful, even stern, towards others.

He never wished to see trembling in her, to hear ardent dreams, sudden tears, languor, exhaustion, and then a frantic transition to joy. No moon, no sadness. She should not suddenly pale, faint, or experience shattering explosions…

“Such women have lovers,” he used to say, “and a lot of fuss: doctors, baths, and a host of different whims. You can’t sleep peacefully!”

But next to a proudly modest, tranquil companion, a man sleeps carefree. He falls asleep with the assurance of waking to meet the same gentle, sympathetic gaze. And after twenty, thirty years, in response to his warm gaze, he would meet in her eyes the same gentle, softly flickering ray of sympathy. And so, until the grave!

“Is this not the secret aim of everyone, man and woman alike: to find in their companion an unchanging countenance of peace, an eternal and even flow of feeling? After all, this is the norm of love, and as soon as something deviates from it, changes, cools—we suffer: therefore, is my ideal a universal ideal?” he thought. “Is this not the pinnacle of development, of clarifying the mutual relations of both sexes?”

To give passion a lawful outlet, to indicate its orderly flow, like a river, for the good of an entire region—that is a universal human task, the summit of progress that all these George Sands strive for, only to go astray. With its resolution, there are no longer any betrayals or coolings, but an eternally even beating of a peacefully happy heart, consequently an eternally fulfilled life, the eternal sap of life, eternal moral health.

There are examples of such bliss, but they are rare; they are pointed to as phenomena. One must be born for it, they say. But God knows, perhaps one should be educated for it, consciously strive towards it?…

Passion! All this is fine in poetry and on stage, where actors in cloaks and with knives parade around, and then, both the slain and the murderers, go to dinner together…

It would be good if passions ended like that, but afterwards, what remains is smoke, stench, and no happiness! Only shame and hair-pulling memories.

Finally, if such a misfortune—passion—should befall you, it’s like stumbling onto a beaten, mountainous, insufferable road where horses fall and the rider collapses from exhaustion, and yet your native village is in sight: you mustn’t lose sight of it, and you must get out of the dangerous place as quickly as possible…

Yes, passion must be limited, strangled, and drowned in marriage…

He would run away in horror from a woman if she suddenly pierced him with her eyes, or groaned herself, falling onto his shoulder with closed eyes, then reviving and wrapping her arms around his neck until he choked… That’s a fireworks display, an explosion of a powder keg; and what then? Deafness, blindness, and singed hair!

But let’s see what kind of woman Olga is!

A Difficult Encounter

For a long time after his confession slipped out, they didn’t see each other alone. He hid like a schoolboy, as soon as he caught sight of Olga. She had changed with him, but she didn’t run away, wasn’t cold; she just became more thoughtful.

It seemed to her a pity that something had happened that prevented her from tormenting Oblomov with her curious gaze fixed on him, and good-naturedly hurting him with jests about his lying around, his laziness, his awkwardness…

A comedic element played out in her, but it was the comedy of a mother who cannot help but smile, looking at her son’s funny outfit. Stolz had left, and she was bored with no one to sing for; her piano was closed—in short, constraint, fetters, had fallen upon them both, and both felt awkward.

And how good it had been before! How simply they had met! How freely they had become acquainted! Oblomov was simpler than Stolz and kinder than him, though he didn’t make her laugh in the same way, or perhaps made her laugh at himself, and he forgave jests so easily.

Then, when Stolz left, he had bequeathed Oblomov to her, asked her to look after him, to prevent him from sitting at home. In her clever, pretty little head, a detailed plan had already developed on how she would break Oblomov of his habit of sleeping after dinner; not just sleeping—she wouldn’t even let him lie down on the sofa during the day: she’d make him promise.

She dreamed of how she would “order him to read the books” Stolz had left, then to read newspapers every day and tell her the news, to write letters to the village, to finish the plan for managing the estate, to prepare to go abroad—in short, he wouldn’t doze off with her; she would give him a purpose, make him love again everything he had fallen out of love with, and Stolz wouldn’t recognize him upon his return.

And she, so timid, so silent, whom no one had obeyed until now, who hadn’t even begun to live, would accomplish all this miracle! She was the cause of such a transformation!

It had already begun: as soon as she sang, Oblomov was not the same…

He would live, act, bless life and her. To return a man to life—how much glory to a doctor when he saves a hopeless patient! And to save a morally perishing mind, a soul?…

She even trembled with a proud, joyful tremor; she considered it a lesson ordained from above. She mentally made him her secretary, her librarian.

And suddenly, all this was to end! She didn’t know how to act, and that’s why she remained silent when she met Oblomov.

Oblomov was tormented by the thought that he had frightened, offended her, and he expected lightning glances, cold severity, and trembled at the sight of her, turning aside.

Meanwhile, he had already moved to the dacha and for three days he wandered alone over hummocks, across the swamp, into the forest, or went to the village and idly sat by peasant gates, watching children run about, calves, and ducks splashing in the pond.

Near the dacha there was a lake, a huge park; he was afraid to go there lest he meet Olga alone.

“I was compelled to blurt it out!” he thought, and he didn’t even ask himself if the truth had truly escaped him or if it was just a momentary effect of the music on his nerves.

The feeling of awkwardness, shame, or “disgrace,” as he put it, that he had caused, prevented him from figuring out what kind of impulse it had been; and in general, what was Olga to him? He no longer analyzed what extra something, some lump that hadn’t been there before, had been added to his heart. All his feelings had curled up into one lump—shame.

But when she momentarily appeared in his imagination, that image also arose, that ideal of embodied peace, of the happiness of life: that ideal was precisely—Olga! Both images converged and merged into one.

“Oh, what have I done!” he said. “I’ve ruined everything! Thank God Stolz left: she didn’t have time to tell him, otherwise I’d want the earth to swallow me whole! Love, tears—are they fitting for me? And Olga’s aunt doesn’t send for me, doesn’t invite me over: she must have told her… My God!”

So he thought, venturing deeper into the park, into a side alley.

Olga was only concerned with how she would meet him, how this event would unfold: with silence, as if nothing had happened, or should she say something to him?

And what to say? Should she put on a stern face, look at him proudly, or even not look at all, but haughtily and dryly remark that she “never expected such behavior from him: whom does he take her for, that he allowed himself such audacity?..” That’s how Sonechka responded to some cornet during a mazurka, though she herself had tried with all her might to turn his head.

“But what’s so audacious about it?” she asked herself. “Well, if he really feels it, why not say it?… But how could it be, suddenly, having just met… No one else would ever say such a thing after seeing a woman a second or third time; and no one would feel love so quickly. Only Oblomov could…”

But she remembered that she had heard and read how love sometimes comes suddenly.

“And he had an impulse, an infatuation; now he won’t show his face: he’s ashamed; therefore, it’s not audacity. And whose fault is it?” she thought further. “Andrey Ivanych’s, of course, because he made her sing.”

But Oblomov initially didn’t want to listen—she was annoyed, and she… tried… She blushed deeply—yes, she tried with all her might to stir him.

Stolz had said of him that he was apathetic, that nothing interested him, that everything had died within him… So she wanted to see if everything had died, and she sang, sang… like never before…

“My God! But I am to blame: I’ll ask his forgiveness… But for what?” she then asked. “What will I say to him: Monsieur Oblomov, I am to blame, I lured you… What shame! That’s not true!” she said, flushing and stamping her foot. “Who dares to think that?… Did I know what would happen? And if it hadn’t happened, if it hadn’t slipped out of him… what then?…” she asked. “I don’t know…” she thought.

Since that day, her heart had felt strangely… she must have been very hurt… it even made her feel feverish, two pink spots glowed on her cheeks…

“Irritation… a slight fever,” the doctor had said.

“What has this Oblomov done! Oh, he needs to be taught a lesson, so this doesn’t happen again! I’ll ask ma tante to forbid him from the house: he mustn’t forget himself… How dare he!” she thought, walking through the park; her eyes blazed…

Suddenly, she heard someone coming.

“Someone’s coming…” Oblomov thought.

And they met face to face.

“Olga Sergeyevna!” he said, trembling like an aspen leaf.

“Ilya Ilyich!” she replied timidly, and both stopped.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” she said.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Just… anywhere,” she said, not raising her eyes.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Oh, not at all…” she replied, glancing at him quickly and curiously.

“May I join you?” he asked suddenly, giving her an inquisitive look.

They walked silently along the path. Neither from a teacher’s ruler nor from a director’s frown had Oblomov’s heart ever pounded so hard as it did now. He wanted to say something, he forced himself, but the words wouldn’t come; only his heart beat incredibly fast, as if anticipating disaster.

“Have you received a letter from Andrey Ivanych?” she asked.

“I have,” Oblomov replied.

“What does he write?”

“He invites me to Paris.”

“And you?”

“I’ll go.”

“When?”

“Soon… no, tomorrow… when I get ready.”

“Why so soon?” she asked.

He remained silent.

“Don’t you like the dacha, or… tell me, why do you want to leave?”

“Audacious! He still wants to go!” she thought.

“For some reason, it hurts, it’s awkward, it burns me,” Oblomov whispered, not looking at her.

She remained silent, plucked a lilac branch, and smelled it, covering her face and nose.

“Smell how nice it smells!” she said and covered his nose too.

“And here are lilies of the valley! Wait, I’ll pick some,” he said, bending down to the grass. “They smell better: of fields, of the grove; more natural. But lilac always grows near houses, the branches just reach into the windows, the scent is cloying. Look, the dew hasn’t even dried on the lilies of the valley.”

He offered her a few lilies of the valley.

“And do you like mignonette?” she asked.

“No: it smells too strong; I don’t like mignonette or roses. In general, I don’t care much for flowers; in the field, they’re fine, but indoors—so much trouble with them… mess…”

“And do you like your rooms to be clean?” she asked, looking at him cunningly. “You don’t tolerate mess?”

“Yes; but my servant is like that…” he mumbled. “Oh, you wicked woman!” he added to himself.

“Are you going straight to Paris?” she asked.

“Yes; Stolz has been waiting for me for a long time.”

“Take a letter to him; I’ll write one,” she said.

“Then give it to me today; I’ll move to the city tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” she asked. “Why so soon? As if someone is chasing you.”

“Someone is.”

“Who?”

“Shame…” he whispered.

“Shame!” she repeated mechanically. “Now I’ll tell him: Monsieur Oblomov, I never expected…”

“Yes, Olga Sergeyevna,” he finally forced himself to say, “you, I imagine, are surprised… angry…”

“Well, it’s time… this is the right moment. Her heart was pounding so hard. I can’t, my God!”

He tried to look into her face, to understand her; but she was smelling the lilies of the valley and lilacs and didn’t know herself what she was… what to say, what to do.

“Oh, Sonechka would have come up with something right away, but I’m so stupid! I can’t do anything… it’s agonizing!” she thought.

“I completely forgot…” she said.

“Believe me, it was involuntary… I couldn’t help myself…” he began, gradually gathering courage. “If thunder had roared then, if a stone had fallen on me, I would still have said it. It couldn’t be held back by any force… For God’s sake, don’t think that I wanted to… I myself, a minute later, would have given anything to take back that careless word…”

She walked, her head bowed, smelling the flowers.

“Forget it,” he continued, “forget it, especially since it’s not true…”

“Not true?” she suddenly repeated, straightened up, and dropped the flowers.

Her eyes suddenly opened wide and shone with astonishment.

“How is it not true?” she repeated again.

“Yes, for God’s sake, don’t be angry and forget it. I assure you, it was just a momentary infatuation… from the music.”

“Only from the music!…”

Her face changed: the two pink spots vanished, and her eyes dulled.

“So there’s nothing! He took back the careless word, and there’s no need to be angry!.. That’s good… now I’m at peace… I can talk and joke as before…” she thought, and roughly tore a branch from a tree as she passed, tore off one leaf with her lips, and then immediately threw both the branch and the leaf onto the path.

“You’re not angry? You’ve forgotten?” Oblomov said, leaning towards her.

“What is it? What are you asking for?” she replied with agitation, almost annoyance, turning away from him. “I’ve forgotten everything… I’m so absent-minded!”

He fell silent and didn’t know what to do. He only saw her sudden annoyance and couldn’t see the reason.

“My God!” she thought. “Everything’s back in order; it’s as if that scene never happened, thank God! Well… Oh, my God! What is this? Oh, Sonechka, Sonechka! How happy you are!”

“I’m going home,” she suddenly said, quickening her pace and turning into another alley.

Tears welled in her throat. She was afraid to cry.

“Not that way, it’s closer here,” Oblomov remarked. “Fool,” he told himself gloomily, “I should have explained myself! Now I’ve offended her even more. I shouldn’t have reminded her; it would have passed, it would have been forgotten on its own. Now, there’s nothing to do but beg for forgiveness.”

“I must have gotten annoyed,” she thought, “because I didn’t get to tell him: Monsieur Oblomov, I never expected you to allow yourself… He forestalled me… ‘Not true’! Just listen to him, he even lied! How dare he?”

“Have you truly forgotten?” he asked quietly.

“Forgotten, forgotten everything!” she said quickly, hurrying home.

“Give me your hand, as a sign that you’re not angry…”

Without looking at him, she offered him her fingertips, and as soon as he touched them, she instantly pulled her hand back.

“No, don’t be angry!” he said with a sigh. “How can I convince you that it was an infatuation, that I wouldn’t have allowed myself to forget?… No, of course, I won’t listen to your singing anymore…”

“Don’t try to convince me; I don’t need your assurances…” she said with animation. “And I won’t sing myself!”

“Alright, I’ll be silent,” he said, “only, for God’s sake, don’t leave like this, or a heavy stone will remain on my soul.”

She walked more slowly and began to listen intently to his words.

“If it’s true that you would have cried if you hadn’t heard me gasp from your singing, then now, if you leave like this, without smiling, without offering your hand in friendship, I… have pity, Olga Sergeyevna! I’ll be unwell, my knees are trembling, I can barely stand…”

“Why?” she suddenly asked, looking at him.

“I don’t know myself,” he said. “My shame has passed now: I’m not ashamed of my words… it seems to me, in them…”

Again, goosebumps crawled over his heart; again, something extra appeared there; again, her gentle and curious gaze began to burn him. She turned to him so gracefully, waiting for an answer with such anxiety.

“What’s in them?” she asked impatiently.

“No, I’m afraid to say: you’ll get angry again.”

“Speak!” she said imperatively.

He remained silent.

“I want to cry again, looking at you… You see, I have no self-esteem, I’m not ashamed of my heart…”

“Why cry then?” she asked, and two pink spots appeared on her cheeks.

“I keep hearing your voice… I feel again…”

“What?” she said, and tears receded from her chest; she waited intently.

They approached the porch.

“I feel…” Oblomov hastened to finish, and stopped.

She slowly, as if with difficulty, ascended the steps.

“The same music… the same… emotion… the same… feel… forgive me, forgive me—by God, I can’t control myself…”

“M-r Oblomov…” she began sternly, then suddenly her face lit up with a ray of a smile. “I’m not angry, I forgive you,” she added softly, “only in the future…”

Without turning, she extended her hand back to him; he seized it, kissed her palm; she quietly squeezed his lips and instantly fluttered through the glass door, and he remained rooted to the spot.

VII

For a long time, he gazed after her with wide eyes, his mouth agape; for a long time, his gaze swept over the bushes…

Strangers passed by, a bird flew past. A peasant woman, walking by, asked if he needed berries—his stupor continued.

He then walked slowly along the same alley, covering half its length quietly. He stumbled upon the lilies of the valley that Olga had dropped, and the lilac branch she had plucked and thrown away in annoyance.

“Why did she do that?” he began to ponder, trying to recall…

“Fool, fool!” he suddenly exclaimed aloud, grabbing the lilies of the valley and the branch, and almost ran down the alley. “I asked for forgiveness, and she… ah, really?… What a thought!”

Happy, radiant, exactly “with the moon on his brow,” as his nanny used to say, he came home, sat in the corner of the sofa, and quickly traced “Olga” in large letters in the dust on the table.

“Ah, what dust!” he noted, coming out of his rapture. “Zakhar! Zakhar!” he called for a long time, because Zakhar was sitting with the coachmen by the gate that faced the alley.

“Go on!” Anisya whispered menacingly, tugging his sleeve. “The master’s been calling you for ages.”

“Look, Zakhar, what is this?” Ilya Ilyich said, but softly, with kindness; he was unable to be angry now. “You want to create the same mess here: dust, cobwebs? No; forgive me, I won’t allow it! Olga Sergeyevna already gives me no peace: ‘You love mess,’ she says.”

“Yes, it’s easy for them to talk: they have five servants,” Zakhar remarked, turning towards the door.

“Where are you going? Take it and sweep it: you can’t sit here, or lean on anything… It’s disgusting, it’s… Oblomovism!”

Zakhar pouted and looked sideways at his master.

“Aha!” he thought. “He’s even invented some pathetic new word! And a familiar one at that!”

“Well, sweep then, why are you standing there?” Oblomov said.

“Sweep what? I swept today!” Zakhar replied stubbornly.

“Then where’s the dust, if you swept? Look, there, there! Don’t let there be any! Sweep it up now!”

“I swept,” Zakhar insisted. “I can’t sweep ten times a day! And the dust comes in from the street… it’s a field here, a dacha; there’s a lot of dust on the street.”

“But you, Zakhar Trofimyich,” Anisya began, suddenly peering from the other room, “you mistakenly sweep the floor first, and then dust the tables: the dust will just settle again… You should first…”

“Why are you here telling me what to do?” Zakhar wheezed furiously. “Go back to your place!”

“Where is it ever heard of – sweeping the floor first, and then cleaning the tables?… That’s why the master is angry…”

“Now, now, now!” he shouted, swinging his elbow at her chest.

She smiled and hid. Oblomov waved him away with his hand. He lay his head on an embroidered pillow, placed his hand on his heart, and listened to it beat.

“This is unhealthy,” he said to himself. “What to do? If I consult a doctor, he’ll probably send me to Abyssinia!”

As long as Zakhar and Anisya were not married, each of them attended to their own part and did not interfere with the other’s, meaning Anisya knew the market and the kitchen and only participated in cleaning the rooms once a year, when the floors were washed.

But after the wedding, her access to the master’s quarters became freer. She helped Zakhar, and the rooms became cleaner, and in general, she took on some of her husband’s duties, partly voluntarily, partly because Zakhar despotically imposed them on her.

“Here, go beat this carpet,” he would wheeze imperiously, or: “You should sort out what’s piled up there in the corner, and take the excess to the kitchen,” he would say.

Thus, he enjoyed bliss for about a month: the rooms were clean, the master didn’t grumble, didn’t utter “pathetic words,” and he, Zakhar, did nothing. But this bliss passed—and here’s why.

As soon as he and Anisya began to manage the master’s rooms together, everything Zakhar did turned out to be foolish. Every step he took was wrong, or done incorrectly. For fifty-five years, he had walked this earth confident that whatever he did could not be done differently or better.

And suddenly now, in two weeks, Anisya proved to him that he was—well, hopeless; and what’s more, she did it with such an offensive condescension, so quietly, as one would only do with children or complete idiots, and she even smiled while looking at him.

“You, Zakhar Trofimyich,” she would say kindly, “it’s pointless to close the flue first and then open the vents: you’ll just make the rooms cold again.”

“And what do you think?” he asked with a husband’s rudeness. “When should I open them?”

“When you light the stove: the air will draw out, and then it will warm up again,” she replied softly.

“What a fool!” he said. “I’ve been doing it that way for twenty years, and now I’m going to change for you…”

On the cupboard shelf, he kept tea, sugar, lemon, silverware, and right there, shoe polish, brushes, and soap.

One day, he came in and suddenly saw that the soap was on the washstand, the brushes and shoe polish were on the kitchen window, and the tea and sugar were in a separate drawer of the dresser.

“Why are you stirring everything up here your own way—huh?” he asked menacingly. “I purposely put everything in one corner so it would be at hand, and you’ve scattered everything in different places?”

“So the tea wouldn’t smell of soap,” she gently remarked.

Another time, she pointed out two or three moth holes on the master’s clothes and said that clothes absolutely had to be shaken and cleaned once a week.

“Let me beat it with a whisk broom,” she concluded kindly.

He snatched the whisk broom and the frock coat she had taken, and put them back in their place.

When he once again, as usual, began to complain to the master that he scolded him for cockroaches for no reason, saying that “he didn’t invent them,” Anisya silently picked up pieces and forgotten crumbs of black bread from the shelf, swept and washed the cupboards and dishes—and the cockroaches almost completely disappeared.

Zakhar still didn’t quite understand what was happening, and attributed it only to her diligence. But when he once carried a tray with cups and glasses, broke two glasses, and, as usual, began to swear and was about to throw the entire tray on the floor, she took the tray from his hands, put other glasses on it, also a sugar bowl, bread, and arranged everything so that not a single cup moved. Then she showed him how to hold the tray with one hand, how to hold it firmly with the other, then walked twice around the room, turning the tray right and left, and not a single spoon stirred on it. It suddenly became clear to Zakhar that Anisya was smarter than him!

He snatched the tray from her, scattered the glasses, and from that moment on, he could not forgive her for it.

“See how it’s done!” she added softly.

He looked at her with dull arrogance, and she smiled.

“Oh, you woman, you soldier’s wife, you want to be clever! But did we have such a house in Oblomovka? Everything depended on me alone: fifteen footmen, with the boys! And your kind, womenfolk, you don’t even know their names… And you here… Oh, you!…”

“I only want what’s good…” she began.

“Now, now, now!” he wheezed, making a threatening gesture with his elbow to her chest. “Get out of here, out of the master’s rooms, to the kitchen… stick to your women’s business!”

She smiled and left; he watched her darkly, from the side.

His pride suffered, and he treated his wife grimly. When, however, it happened that Ilya Ilyich asked for something and it wasn’t there or it was broken, and generally, when there was disorder in the house and a storm was gathering over Zakhar’s head, accompanied by “pathetic words,” Zakhar would wink at Anisya, nod his head towards the master’s study, and, pointing there with his thumb, say in an imperative whisper: “Go to the master: what does he need there?”

Anisya would enter, and the storm always resolved itself with a simple explanation. And Zakhar himself, as soon as “pathetic words” began to slip into Oblomov’s speech, would suggest that he call Anisya.

Thus, everything would have again fallen into disarray in Oblomov’s rooms, were it not for Anisya: she had already assigned herself to Oblomov’s household, unconsciously sharing her husband’s inseparable life with Ilya Ilyich’s life, house, and person, and her woman’s eye and caring hand kept watch in the neglected rooms.

As soon as Zakhar turned away somewhere, Anisya would dust the tables, the sofas, open the vent, straighten the curtains, put back the boots thrown in the middle of the room, the trousers hung on the ceremonial chairs, sort through all the clothes, even the papers, pencils, penknife, pens on the table—she would put everything in order; fluff up the rumpled bed, straighten the pillows—all in three swift movements; then she would cast a quick glance over the entire room, move a chair, close a half-open dresser drawer, snatch the napkin from the table, and quickly slip into the kitchen upon hearing Zakhar’s creaking boots.

She was a lively, nimble woman, about forty-seven, with a caring smile, eyes that darted quickly in all directions, a strong neck and chest, and red, tenacious, never-tiring hands.

She had almost no face at all: only her nose was noticeable; although it was small, it seemed to stand out from her face or was awkwardly attached, and its lower part was upturned, so her face was unnoticeable behind it: it was so drawn, faded, that you would get a clear idea of her nose long before you noticed her face.

There are many husbands in the world like Zakhar. Sometimes a diplomat will casually listen to his wife’s advice, shrug—and then secretly write based on her suggestion.

Sometimes an administrator, whistling, will respond with a grimace of regret to his wife’s chatter about an important matter—and tomorrow will gravely report this chatter to the minister.

These gentlemen treat their wives either grimly or lightly, barely deigning to speak, considering them, if not as mere women, like Zakhar, then as flowers, for entertainment from their busy, serious lives…

The Dawn of Hope and Doubt

It was long past noon, and the sun shone brightly on the park paths. Everyone sat in the shade, under canvas awnings; only nannies with children, in groups, bravely walked and sat on the grass under the midday sun.

Oblomov still lay on the sofa, believing and disbelieving the meaning of his morning conversation with Olga.

“She loves me; her feelings for me are stirring. Is it possible? She dreams of me; she sang so passionately for me, and the music infected us both with sympathy.”

Pride stirred in him; life, its magical distance, all the colors and rays that had not been there until recently, shone brightly. He already saw himself abroad with her, in Switzerland on the lakes, in Italy, walking among the ruins of Rome, riding in a gondola, then getting lost in the crowds of Paris, London, then… then in his earthly paradise—Oblomovka.

She was a goddess, with that sweet babble, with that elegant, fair little face, thin, delicate neck…

The peasants had never seen anything like it; they would fall prostrate before this angel. She would tread softly on the grass, walk with him in the shade of the birch grove; she would sing to him…

And he would feel life, its quiet flow, its sweet currents, its splashing… he would fall into reverie from satisfied desires, from the fullness of happiness…

Suddenly, his face clouded.

“No, it cannot be!” he exclaimed aloud, getting up from the sofa and pacing the room. “To love me, a ridiculous man, with a sleepy gaze, with flabby cheeks… She always laughs at me…”

He stopped before the mirror and examined himself for a long time, at first unfavorably, then his gaze cleared; he even smiled.

“I look somewhat better, fresher, than I did in the city,” he said. “My eyes aren’t dull… A stye had appeared, but it’s gone… It must be the air here; I walk a lot, don’t drink wine at all, don’t lie around… No need to go to Egypt.”

A servant arrived from Marya Mikhailovna, Olga’s aunt, to invite him to dinner.

“Coming, coming!” Oblomov said.

The servant left.

“Wait! Here you go.”

He gave him some money.

He felt cheerful, light. Nature was so clear. Everyone was kind, everyone was enjoying themselves; everyone had happiness on their face. Only Zakhar was gloomy, constantly looking sideways at his master; but Anisya smiled so good-naturedly. “I’ll get a dog,” Oblomov decided, “or a cat… a cat is better: cats are affectionate, they purr.”

He ran to Olga.

“But still… Olga loves me!” he thought on his way. “This young, fresh creature! The most poetic sphere of life is now open to her imagination: she should dream of youths with black curls, slender, tall, with thoughtful, hidden strength, with courage on their faces, with a proud smile, with that sparkle in their eyes that drowns and trembles in their gaze and so easily reaches the heart, with a soft and fresh voice that sounds like a metallic string. After all, people also love not youths, not courage on the face, not dexterity in a mazurka, not riding a horse… Let’s say Olga is not an ordinary girl whose heart can be tickled by a mustache, whose ear can be moved by the sound of a saber; but then something else is needed… strength of mind, for example, so that a woman would humble herself and bow her head before this mind, so that society would bow to it… Or a renowned artist… And what am I? Oblomov—nothing more. Stolz is another matter: Stolz is mind, strength, the ability to control himself, others, fate. Wherever he goes, whomever he meets—you look, he’s already taken over, playing as if on an instrument… And I?… I can’t even manage Zakhar… or myself… I am Oblomov! Stolz! God… She loves him, after all,” he thought in horror. “‘Like a friend,’ she says; but that’s a lie, perhaps an unconscious one… There’s no friendship between a man and a woman…”

He walked slower, and slower, and slower, overcome by doubts.

“What if she’s flirting with me?… What if…”

He stopped completely, stunned for a moment.

“What if there’s treachery, a conspiracy?… And what made me think she loves me? She didn’t say it: it’s the satanic whisper of self-esteem! Andrey! Really?… It can’t be: she’s such a, such a… Look at her!” he suddenly said joyfully, seeing Olga walking towards him.

Olga, with a cheerful smile, extended her hand to him.

“No, she’s not like that, she’s not a deceiver,” he decided. “Deceivers don’t look with such an affectionate gaze; they don’t have such a sincere laugh: they all squeak… But… she still didn’t say she loves me!” he suddenly thought again in fright. “He interpreted it that way himself… And why the annoyance?… Lord! What a mess I’ve gotten into!”

“What’s that you have?” she asked.

“A branch.”

“What branch?”

“You see: a lilac one.”

“Where did you get it? There’s no lilac here. Where were you walking?”

“You picked it earlier and threw it away.”

“Why did you pick it up?”

“Just because; I like that you… threw it away in annoyance.”

“You like annoyance—that’s new! Why?”

“I won’t say.”

“Please tell me, I ask you…”

“Never, for any riches!”

“I implore you.”

He shook his head negatively.

“What if I sing?”

“Then… perhaps…”

“So only music affects you?” she said with a furrowed brow. “Is that true then?”

“Yes, music, conveyed by you…”

“Well, I’ll sing… Casta diva, Casta di…” she began to sing Norma’s invocation and stopped.

“Well, speak now!” she said.

He struggled with himself for some time.

“No, no!” he concluded even more decisively than before. “Never… never! What if it’s not true, what if I only imagined it?… Never, never!”

“What is it? Something terrible,” she said, her thoughts fixed on this question, and her inquisitive gaze on him.

Then her face gradually filled with understanding: a ray of thought, of conjecture, penetrated every feature, and suddenly her entire face was illuminated with understanding… The sun sometimes, emerging from behind a cloud, similarly illuminates one bush, then another, a roof, and then suddenly bathes an entire landscape in light. She already knew Oblomov’s thought.

“No, no, I couldn’t bring myself to say it…” Oblomov insisted, “and don’t ask.”

“I’m not asking you,” she replied indifferently.

“But why? Just now you…”

“Let’s go home,” she said seriously, not listening to him. “Ma tante is waiting.”

She walked ahead, left him with her aunt, and went straight to her room.

VIII

This entire day was a day of gradual disappointment for Oblomov. He spent it with Olga’s aunt, a very intelligent, proper woman, always impeccably dressed in a new silk dress that fit her perfectly, always wearing elegant lace collars; her cap was also tastefully made, and the ribbons were coquettishly arranged to frame her almost fifty-year-old but still fresh face. A golden lorgnette hung from a chain.

Her poses and gestures were full of dignity; she draped a rich shawl very skillfully, leaned her elbow on an embroidered cushion at just the right moment, and stretched out majestically on the sofa. You would never see her working: bending over, sewing, busying herself with trifles didn’t suit her face or her important figure. She gave commands to servants in a careless, curt, and dry tone.

She sometimes read, never wrote, but spoke well, mostly in French. However, she immediately noticed that Oblomov was not entirely fluent in French and switched to Russian speech from the second day.

In conversation, she neither dreamed nor pretended to be clever; she seemed to have a strict line drawn in her mind, which her intellect never crossed. It was clear that emotion, any sympathy, including love, entered or had entered her life on par with other elements, whereas with other women, you immediately see that love, if not in deed, then in words, participates in all questions of life, and everything else enters incidentally, only to the extent that there is room left over from love.

For this woman, the primary thing was the ability to live, to manage herself, to maintain a balance between thought and intention, and intention and execution. You could never catch her unprepared, off guard, like a vigilant enemy whom, no matter when you stalk, you will always meet with a gaze fixed on you, expecting.

Her element was society, and therefore tact and caution preceded every thought, every word, and every movement.

She never revealed the secret movements of her heart to anyone, never confided her soul’s secrets to anyone; you wouldn’t see a close friend, an old woman, with whom she would whisper over a cup of coffee. Only with Baron von Langwagen did she often remain alone; in the evenings, he sometimes stayed until midnight, but almost always with Olga present; and even then, they mostly remained silent, but their silence was somehow significantly intelligent, as if they knew something that others didn’t, but that was all.

They evidently enjoyed being together—that was the only conclusion one could draw by observing them; she treated him as she did others: kindly, with goodness, but just as evenly and calmly.

Malicious tongues had taken advantage of this and hinted at some old friendship, at traveling abroad together: but in her relations with him, there was not a shadow of any hidden special sympathy, and that would have certainly broken through.

Meanwhile, he was the guardian of Olga’s small estate, which had somehow ended up as collateral in a contract and then remained so.

The Baron was conducting the lawsuit, that is, he had some official write papers, read them through his lorgnette, signed them, and sent the same official with them to government offices, while he himself, through his connections in society, ensured the lawsuit proceeded satisfactorily. He gave hope for a speedy and successful conclusion. This put an end to the malicious gossip, and the Baron became accustomed to being seen in the house, like a relative.

He was under fifty, but very fresh, only dyeing his mustache and limping slightly on one leg. He was exquisitely polite, never smoked in the presence of ladies, never crossed his legs, and strongly criticized young men who allowed themselves to lean back in chairs in company and raise their knees and boots to the level of their nose. He even sat in the room with gloves on, removing them only when he sat down to dinner.

He was dressed in the latest fashion and wore many ribbons in his frock coat buttonhole. He always traveled in a carriage and was extremely careful with horses: before getting into the carriage, he would first walk around it, inspect the harness, even the horses’ hooves, and sometimes take out a white handkerchief and rub it on the horses’ shoulder or back to see if they were well-groomed.

He greeted acquaintances with a benevolent, polite smile, strangers—at first coldly; but when he was introduced to someone, the coldness was replaced by a smile, and the introduced person could always count on it.

He discussed everything: virtue, high prices, sciences, and society with equal clarity; he expressed his opinion in clear and complete phrases, as if speaking in maxims, already prepared, recorded in some course and released for general guidance into the world.

Olga’s Aunts Influence

Olga’s relationship with her aunt had until now been very simple and calm: their affection never crossed the bounds of moderation, and never was there even a shadow of discontent between them.

This happened partly due to Marya Mikhailovna’s character, Olga’s aunt, and partly due to the complete lack of any reason for either of them to behave otherwise. It never occurred to the aunt to demand anything from Olga that would sharply contradict her desires; Olga would not have dreamed in her sleep of failing to fulfill her aunt’s wishes or to follow her advice.

And in what did these desires manifest? — In the choice of a dress, a hairstyle, in, for example, whether to go to the French theatre or the opera.

Olga obeyed only to the extent that her aunt expressed a wish or gave advice, by no means more—and she always expressed it with moderation to the point of dryness, as far as the aunt’s rights allowed, never more.

These relations were so colorless that it was impossible to determine whether the aunt’s character held any claims to Olga’s obedience, to her special tenderness, or whether Olga’s character held obedience to her aunt and special tenderness towards her.

However, from the first glance, seeing them together, one could conclude that they were aunt and niece, not mother and daughter.

“I’m going to the shop: do you need anything?” the aunt would ask.

“Yes, ma tante, I need to change my lilac dress,” Olga would say, and they would go together; or: “No, ma tante,” Olga would say, “I’ve just been.”

The aunt would take her by both cheeks with two fingers, kiss her on the forehead, and Olga would kiss her aunt’s hand, and the aunt would leave, and Olga would stay.

“Shall we take the same dacha again?” the aunt would say, neither asking nor affirming, but as if reasoning with herself and hesitating.

“Yes, it’s very nice there,” Olga would say.

And they would take the dacha.

But if Olga said:

“Ah, ma tante, aren’t you tired of this forest and sand? Wouldn’t it be better to look elsewhere?”

“We’ll see,” the aunt would say. “Shall we go, Olenka, to the theatre?” the aunt would say, “they’ve been talking about this play for a long time.”

“With pleasure,” Olga replied, but without an eager desire to please, without expressing submission.

Sometimes they would even have slight disagreements.

“My dear, do green ribbons suit you?” the aunt would say. “Take the pale ones.”

“Oh, ma tante! I’ve worn pale ones six times already; it’s getting tiresome.”

“Well, take pansy colored ones.”

“And do you like these?”

The aunt peered and slowly shook her head.

“As you wish, my dear, but if I were you, I’d take pansy or pale ones.”

“No, ma tante, I’d rather take these,” Olga said softly, and took what she wanted.

Olga asked her aunt for advice not as an authority whose verdict must be law for her, but as she would ask advice from any other more experienced woman.

“Ma tante, have you read this book—what is it?” she would ask.

“Oh, how disgusting!” the aunt would say, pushing it away, but not hiding the book or taking any measures to prevent Olga from reading it.

And it would never occur to Olga to read it. If both were in doubt, the same question was addressed to Baron von Langwagen or to Stolz, when he was present, and the book was read or not read, according to their judgment.

“My dear Olga!” the aunt would sometimes say. “About that young man who often approaches you at the Zavadskys’ place, someone told me a silly story yesterday.”

And that was all. And Olga was free to do as she pleased afterward: speak to him or not.

Oblomov’s appearance in the house did not arouse any questions, any particular attention from the aunt, nor the Baron, nor even Stolz. The latter wanted to introduce his friend into a house where everything was a little prim, where not only would you not be offered a nap after dinner, but where it was even uncomfortable to cross your legs, where you had to be freshly dressed, remember what you were saying—in short, you couldn’t doze off or let yourself go, and where there was constantly lively, modern conversation.

Then Stolz thought that if the presence of a young, sympathetic, intelligent, lively, and partly mocking woman were introduced into Oblomov’s sleepy life—it would be like bringing a lamp into a dark room, from which an even light would spread into all the dark corners, a few degrees of warmth, and the room would become livelier.

This was the entire result he sought by introducing his friend to Olga. He did not foresee that he was bringing in fireworks, and Olga and Oblomov even less so.

The Unsettling Change in Olga

Ilya Ilyich sat properly with the aunt for about two hours, never once crossing his legs, conversing politely about everything; he even skillfully moved a footstool under her feet twice.

The Baron arrived, smiled politely, and kindly shook his hand.

Oblomov behaved even more properly, and all three were extremely pleased with each other.

The aunt looked at the conversations in corners, at Oblomov’s walks with Olga… or rather, she didn’t look at all.

Walking with a young man, a dandy—that’s another matter: she wouldn’t have said anything even then, but, with her characteristic tact, she would have somehow imperceptibly established a different order: she herself would have gone with them once or twice, or sent a third person, and the walks would have ended by themselves.

But to walk “with Monsieur Oblomov,” to sit with him in a corner of the large hall, on the balcony… what was there to it? He was over thirty: he wouldn’t talk nonsense to her, give her any books… No one even thought of such things.

Besides, the aunt had heard Stolz, on the eve of his departure, tell Olga not to let Oblomov doze off, to forbid him from sleeping, to torment him, to tyrannize him, to give him various errands—in short, to order him around. And he had asked her not to lose sight of Oblomov, to invite him more often, to involve him in walks, trips, to stir him up in every way, if he didn’t go abroad.

Olga didn’t appear while he was sitting with her aunt, and time dragged slowly. Oblomov again felt hot and cold flashes. Now he already guessed the reason for Olga’s change. This change was for him somehow heavier than the previous one.

From the previous blunder, he had only felt fear and shame, but now it was heavy, awkward, cold, and desolate in his heart, like in damp, rainy weather. He had let her know that he had guessed her love for him, and perhaps even guessed wrongly. This was indeed an offense, hardly remediable. And even if he had guessed correctly, how clumsily! He was simply a fop.

He could scare away a feeling that knocks timidly at a young, virginal heart, settling carefully and lightly, like a bird on a branch: an extraneous sound, a rustle—and it will fly away.

With a sinking tremor, he waited for Olga to come down for dinner, what and how she would speak, how she would look at him…

She came down—and he couldn’t marvel enough, looking at her; he barely recognized her. She had a different face, even a different voice.

The young, naive, almost childlike smile never once appeared on her lips, never once did she look so widely, openly, with eyes that expressed either a question, or bewilderment, or simple curiosity, as if she had nothing more to ask, nothing to know, nothing to be surprised about!

Her gaze did not follow him as before. She looked at him as if she had known him for a long time, had studied him, and finally as if he meant nothing to her, just like the Baron—in short, it was as if he hadn’t seen her for a year, and she had matured by a year.

There was no severity, no annoyance from yesterday; she joked and even laughed, answering questions thoroughly, questions she would not have answered at all before. It was clear that she had decided to force herself to do what others did, what she had not done before. The freedom, the spontaneity that allowed her to say whatever was on her mind, was gone. Where had it all suddenly disappeared?

After dinner, he approached her to ask if she would go for a walk. Without answering him, she turned to her aunt with a question:

“Shall we go for a walk?”

“Only a short distance,” the aunt said. “Tell someone to give me my umbrella.”

And they all went. They walked listlessly, looking into the distance, towards St. Petersburg, reached the forest, and returned to the balcony.

“You don’t seem inclined to sing today? I’m afraid to ask,” Oblomov asked, waiting to see if this constraint would end, if her cheerfulness would return, if a ray of sincerity, naivety, and trust would glimmer in even one word, in a smile, or finally, in her singing.

“It’s hot!” the aunt remarked.

“It’s nothing, I’ll try,” Olga said and sang a romance.

He listened and couldn’t believe his ears.

This wasn’t her: where was the passionate sound from before?

She sang so cleanly, so correctly, and yet so… so… as all young ladies sing when asked to perform in society; without passion. She had taken her soul out of her singing, and not a single nerve stirred in the listener.

Is she being cunning, pretending, angry? Nothing could be guessed: she looked kindly, spoke willingly, but spoke just as she sang, like everyone else… What was this?

Oblomov, without waiting for tea, took his hat and bowed.

“Come more often,” the aunt said. “On weekdays we are always alone, if you are not bored, and on Sundays we always have someone over—you won’t get bored.”

The Baron politely stood and bowed to him.

Olga nodded to him, as to a good acquaintance, and when he left, she turned to the window, looked out, and indifferently listened to Oblomov’s retreating footsteps.

These two hours and the next three or four days, or even a week, had a profound effect on her, moving her far forward. Only women are capable of such rapid blossoming of powers, such development of all aspects of the soul.

It was as if she were taking a course in life not by days, but by hours. And every hour, the slightest, barely perceptible experience, an incident that flashes by like a bird past a man’s nose, is grasped inexplicably quickly by a girl: she follows its distant flight, and the curve described by the flight remains in her memory as an indelible sign, an indication, a lesson.

Where a man needs to place a milepost with an inscription, she needs only a rustling breeze, a trembling, barely audible vibration of the air.

Why does a strict thought suddenly appear on the face of a girl who, just last week, was so carefree, with such a ridiculously naive face? And what is this thought? About what? It seems that everything lies in this thought, all the logic, all the speculative and empirical philosophy of man, the entire system of life!

Cousin, who had left her a girl recently, finished his studies, put on his epaulets, and upon seeing her, runs to her cheerfully, intending, as before, to pat her on the shoulder, to spin around with her, to jump on chairs, on sofas… suddenly, looking intently into her face, he falters, steps back embarrassed, and understands that he is still a boy, and she is already a woman!

From where? What happened? A drama? A loud event? Some news that the whole city knows about?

Nothing, neither maman, nor mon oncle, nor ma tante, nor the nanny, nor the maid—no one knows. And there was no time for anything to happen: she danced two mazurkas, several country dances, and her head ached a little; she didn’t sleep at night…

And then it all passed again, only something new had been added to her face: she looked differently, stopped laughing loudly, no longer ate a whole pear at once, didn’t talk about “how things were at their boarding school”… She, too, had finished her course.

On the next, and the day after that, Oblomov, like the cousin, barely recognized Olga and looked at her timidly, while she looked at him simply, but without her former curiosity, without affection, just like anyone else.

“What’s wrong with her? What is she thinking, feeling now?” he tormented himself with questions. “By God, I don’t understand anything!”

And how could he understand that what had happened to her was what happens to a man at twenty-five with the help of twenty-five professors, libraries, after wandering the world, sometimes even with the help of some loss of the soul’s moral aroma, the freshness of thought and hair—that is, that she had entered the sphere of consciousness. This entry cost her so little and was so easy.

“No, this is heavy, boring!” he concluded. “I’ll move to the Vyborg Side, I’ll work, read, go to Oblomovka… alone!” he added then with deep despondency. “Without her! Farewell, my paradise, my bright, quiet ideal of life!”

He didn’t go on the fourth or fifth day; he didn’t read, didn’t write, he set out for a walk, went out onto the dusty road, further on he had to go uphill.

“What a desire to drag myself through the heat!” he said to himself, yawned, and returned, lay down on the sofa, and fell into a heavy sleep, as he used to do on Gorokhovaya Street, in a dusty room, with the blinds drawn.

His dreams were so vague. He woke up—before him was a set table, botvinya (cold soup), minced meat. Zakhar stood, looking sleepily out the window; in the other room, Anisya rattled dishes.

He had dinner, sat by the window. It was boring, absurd, all alone!

Again, he didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything!

“Look, master, a kitten was brought from the neighbors; do you want it? You asked yesterday,” Anisya said, trying to entertain him, and placed the kitten on his lap.

He began to stroke the kitten: and even with the kitten, it was boring!

“Zakhar!” he said.

“What do you wish?” Zakhar replied languidly.

“I might move to the city,” Oblomov said.

“Where in the city? There’s no apartment.”

“To the Vyborg Side.”

“What will this be, moving from one dacha to another?” he replied. “What haven’t we seen there? Mikhey Andreich, perhaps?”

“But it’s inconvenient here…”

“And to move again? Lord! We’re already completely exhausted here; and I still can’t find two cups and the floor brush; if Mikhey Andreich didn’t take them there, then, sure enough, they’re lost.”

Oblomov was silent. Zakhar left and immediately returned, dragging a suitcase and a travel bag.

“And what to do with this? Should we sell it, perhaps?” he said, kicking the suitcase.

“What are you, out of your mind? I’m going abroad in a few days,” Oblomov interrupted impatiently.

“Abroad!” Zakhar suddenly said, smirking. “Good thing we talked, otherwise, abroad!”

“Why is that so strange to you? I’ll go, and that’s that… My passport is ready,” Oblomov said.

“And who will take off your boots there?” Zakhar remarked ironically. “The maids, perhaps? You’ll be lost there without me!”

He smirked again, which made his sideburns and eyebrows spread outwards.

“You’re talking nonsense! Take that out and go!” Oblomov replied with annoyance.

The next day, just as Oblomov woke up around ten in the morning, Zakhar, serving him tea, said that when he went to the bakery, he met the young lady.

“Which young lady?” Oblomov asked.

“Which one? The Ilyinsky young lady, Olga Sergeyevna.”

“Well?” Oblomov asked impatiently.

“Well, she told me to bow, asked if you were well, what you were doing.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you were well; what could happen to him, after all?…” Zakhar replied.

“Why do you add your foolish reasoning?” Oblomov remarked. “‘What could happen to him’!” How do you know what’s happening to me? Well, what else?”

“She asked where you dined yesterday.”

“Well?…”

“I said at home, and that you had supper at home. ‘And does he have supper?’ the young lady asks. ‘He only ate two chickens,’ she said…”

“F-f-fool!” Oblomov said firmly.

“What fool! Is that not true?” Zakhar said. “I can even show you the bones, if you like…”

“Truly, a fool!” Oblomov repeated. “Well, what did she say then?”

“She smiled. ‘Why so little?’ she said afterwards.”

“What a fool!” Oblomov repeated. “You might as well have told her that you put my shirt on inside out.”

“She didn’t ask, so I didn’t say,” Zakhar replied.

“What else did she ask?”

“She asked what you had been doing these days.”

“Well, what did you say?”

“Nothing, they said; he just lies around all the time.”

“Ah!…” Oblomov exclaimed with great annoyance, raising his fists to his temples. “Get out!” he added menacingly. “If you ever dare to tell such nonsense about me, see what I’ll do to you! What poison this man is!”

“What, should I lie in my old age?” Zakhar justified himself.

“Get out!” Ilya Ilyich repeated.

Zakhar didn’t mind the scolding, as long as the master didn’t use “pathetic words.”

“I said you wanted to move to the Vyborg Side,” Zakhar concluded.

“Go!” Oblomov shouted imperiously.

Zakhar left and sighed throughout the hallway, while Oblomov began to drink tea.

He drank his tea and, from the enormous supply of buns and pretzels, ate only one bun, fearing Zakhar’s indiscretion again. Then he lit a cigar and sat down at the table, unfolded some book, read a page, wanted to turn it—the book turned out to be uncut.

Oblomov tore the pages with his finger: this created festoons along the edges of the page, and the book was someone else’s, Stolz’s, who had such a strict, boring order, especially concerning books, that God forbid! Papers, pencils, all trifles—as he laid them, so they should remain.

He should have taken a bone knife, but it wasn’t there; he could, of course, ask for a table knife, but Oblomov preferred to put the book back in its place and head for the sofa; just as he leaned his hand on the embroidered pillow to get more comfortably settled, Zakhar entered the room.

“But the young lady asked you to come to this… what’s-it… oh!…” he reported.

“Why didn’t you say so earlier, two hours ago?” Oblomov asked impatiently.

“They told me to leave, didn’t let me finish…” Zakhar retorted.

“You are ruining me, Zakhar!” Oblomov said pathetically.

“Oh, here he goes again!” Zakhar thought, presenting his left sideburn to the master and looking at the wall. “Like before… he’ll throw in a word!”

“Where to come?” Oblomov asked.

“Well, to this, what’s-it? To the garden, maybe…”

“To the park?” Oblomov asked.

“To the park, exactly, ‘to take a walk, if you please; I’ll be there’…”

“Dress me!”

The Revelation in the Park

Oblomov avoided the entire park, peering into flowerbeds, into gazebos—no Olga. He went along the alley where their explanation had taken place, and found her there, on a bench, not far from the spot where she had plucked and thrown the branch.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” she said to him kindly.

“I’ve been looking for you all over the park for a long time,” he replied.

“I knew you would look, and purposely sat here, in this alley: I thought you would surely pass through it.”

He wanted to ask: “Why did you think that?” but looked at her and did not ask.

Her face was different, not the same as before, when they walked there, but the one with which he had last left her and which had caused him such anxiety. And her affection was somehow restrained, her entire facial expression so concentrated, so definite; he saw that playing with guesses, hints, and naive questions was impossible with her, that this childish, joyful moment was over.

Much that remained unspoken, that could have been approached with a cunning question, had been resolved between them without words, without explanations, God knows how, but there was no turning back to that.

“Why haven’t I seen you for a long time?” she asked.

He was silent. He wished he could somehow indirectly let her know that the secret charm of their relationship had disappeared, that he was burdened by the concentration with which she had surrounded herself, like a cloud, as if she had withdrawn into herself, and he didn’t know how to be, how to behave with her.

But he felt that the slightest hint of this would evoke a look of surprise from her, then add coldness to her demeanor, and perhaps even completely extinguish that spark of participation that he had so carelessly put out at the very beginning. He needed to rekindle it again, quietly and carefully, but how—he absolutely did not know.

He vaguely understood that she had grown up and was almost taller than him, that from now on there was no return to childish trust, that the Rubicon was before them and lost happiness was already on the other bank: he had to cross it.

But how? What if he steps alone?

She understood more clearly than he what was happening within him, and therefore the advantage was on her side. She looked openly into his soul, saw how feeling was born at the bottom of his soul, how it played and came out; she saw that with him, feminine cunning, slyness, coquetry—the tools of Sonechka—would be superfluous, because there was no struggle ahead.

She even saw that, despite her youth, the first and main role in this sympathy belonged to her, that from him one could only expect a deep impression, passionately lazy obedience, eternal harmony with every beat of her pulse, but no movement of will, no active thought.

She instantly weighed her power over him, and she liked this role of a guiding star, a ray of light that she would pour over a stagnant lake and be reflected in it. She triumphantly asserted her primacy in this duel in various ways.

In this comedy or tragedy, depending on the circumstances, both characters almost always appear with the same character: tormentor or tormentress and victim.

Olga, like any woman in a dominant role, that is, in the role of a tormentress, of course, less than others and unconsciously, but could not deny herself the pleasure of playing with him a little like a cat; sometimes a glimmer of feeling would burst out of her, like lightning, like an unexpected whim, and then, suddenly, she would again become concentrated, withdraw into herself; but mostly and more often she pushed him forward, further, knowing that he himself would not take a single step and would remain motionless where she left him.

“Were you busy?” she asked, embroidering a piece of canvas.

“I would say busy, but that Zakhar!” a groan escaped his chest.

“Yes, I was reading something,” he replied carelessly.

“A novel, then?” she asked and raised her eyes to him to see what kind of face he would make when he lied.

“No, I hardly read novels,” he replied very calmly. “I was reading ‘The History of Discoveries and Inventions.’”

“Thank God I skimmed a page of the book today!” he thought.

“In Russian?” she asked.

“No, in English.”

“And you read English?”

“With difficulty, but I do.” “And haven’t you been anywhere in the city?” he asked, mostly to change the subject from books.

“No, I’ve been home all the time. I work here, in this alley.”

“All here?”

“Yes, I really like this alley, I’m grateful to you for showing it to me: hardly anyone walks here…”

“I didn’t show it to you,” he interrupted. “We, remember? accidentally met in it.”

“Yes, indeed.”

They fell silent.

“Has your stye completely gone?” she asked, looking directly into his right eye.

He blushed.

“It’s gone now, thank God,” he said.

“You should apply a compress of plain wine when your eye itches,” she continued, “the stye won’t even appear. My nanny taught me that.”

“Why is she talking about styes all the time?” Oblomov thought.

“And don’t have supper,” she added seriously.

“Zakhar!” a furious appeal to Zakhar stirred in his throat.

“Just have a good supper,” she continued, without raising her eyes from her work, “and lie down for three days, especially on your back, a stye will definitely appear.”

“F-f-fool!” the address to Zakhar thundered inside Oblomov.

“What are you working on?” he asked, to change the subject.

“A bell-pull,” she said, unrolling a scroll of canvas and showing him the pattern, “for the Baron. Is it good?”

“Yes, very good, the pattern is very nice. Is it a lilac branch?”

“I think so… yes,” she replied carelessly. “I chose it at random, whatever came to hand…” and, blushing slightly, she quickly rolled up the canvas.

“This is boring, though, if it continues like this, if nothing can be extracted from her,” he thought. “Someone else—Stolz, for example—would extract it, but I don’t know how.”

He frowned and looked around sleepily. She looked at him, then put her work into the basket.

“Let’s go to the grove,” she said, handing him the basket to carry, she herself opened her umbrella, adjusted her dress, and walked on.

“Why aren’t you cheerful?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Olga Sergeyevna. And why should I be cheerful? How?”

“Be busy, be with people more often.”

“Busy! One can be busy when there is a goal. What is my goal? There is none.”

“The goal is to live.”

“When you don’t know why you live, you just live somehow, day by day; you’re glad that the day has passed, that the night has passed, and in sleep you drown the boring question of why you lived this day, why you will live tomorrow.”

She listened silently, with a stern gaze; severity lurked in her furrowed brows, and along the line of her lips, like a snake, crawled either distrust or disdain…

“Why did I live!” she repeated. “Can anyone’s existence be useless?”

“It can. Mine, for example,” he said.

“You still don’t know the purpose of your life?” she asked, stopping. “I don’t believe it: you are slandering yourself; otherwise, you wouldn’t be worth living…”

“I have already passed the place where it should be, and there is nothing more ahead.”

He sighed, and she smiled.

“Nothing?” she repeated questioningly, but lively, cheerfully, with a laugh, as if not believing him and foreseeing that he had something ahead.

“Laugh,” he continued, “but it’s true!”

She walked quietly ahead, her head bowed.

“For what, for whom will I live?” he said, walking behind her. “What to seek, what to direct my thoughts, intentions to? The flower of life has fallen, only thorns remain.”

They walked quietly; she listened distractedly, plucked a lilac branch in passing, and, without looking at him, handed it to him.

“What is this?” he asked, startled.

“You see—a branch.”

“What branch?” he said, staring at her with wide eyes.

“A lilac one.”

“I know… but what does it mean?”

“The flower of life and…”

He stopped, and so did she.

“And?…” he repeated questioningly.

“My annoyance,” she said, looking directly at him with a concentrated gaze, and her smile said that she knew what she was doing.

The cloud of impenetrability lifted from her. Her gaze was eloquent and clear. It was as if she had deliberately opened a certain page of a book and allowed him to read a cherished passage.

“So, I can hope…” he suddenly said, flushing with joy.

“Everything! But…”

She fell silent.

He suddenly revived. And she, in turn, did not recognize Oblomov: his foggy, sleepy face instantly transformed, his eyes opened; colors played on his cheeks; thoughts stirred; desires and will sparkled in his eyes. She, too, clearly read in this silent play of his face that Oblomov had instantly found a purpose in life.

“Life, life opens to me again,” he said as if in a delirium, “here it is, in your eyes, in your smile, in this branch, in Casta diva… it’s all here…”

She shook her head:

“No, not everything… half.”

“The best half.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“Where is the other? What else is after this?”

“Seek it.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t lose the first,” she finished, gave him her hand, and they went home.

He would sometimes, with delight, steal a glance at her head, her figure, her curls, then squeeze the branch.

“It’s all mine! Mine!” he repeated thoughtfully, not believing himself.

“You won’t move to the Vyborg Side?” she asked as he was leaving for home.

He laughed and didn’t even call Zakhar a fool.

IX

From then on, there were no sudden changes in Olga. She was even-tempered and calm with her aunt, in society, but she lived and felt life only with Oblomov. She no longer asked anyone what to do, how to act, nor mentally referred to Sonechka’s authority.

As the phases of life, that is, of feelings, unfolded before her, she observed phenomena keenly, listened attentively to the voice of her instinct, and lightly checked them against the few observations she had stored, moving cautiously, testing the ground she was about to step on with her foot.

She had no one to ask. Her aunt? But she glided over such questions so easily and skillfully that Olga never managed to gather her responses into any kind of maxim or commit them to memory. Stolz was absent. Oblomov? But he was a sort of Galatea, and she herself had to be Pygmalion to him.

Her life filled up so quietly, so imperceptibly to everyone, that she lived in her new sphere without attracting attention, without visible impulses or anxieties. She did the same things as before for everyone else, but she did everything differently.

She still went to French plays, but the content of the play acquired some connection to her life; she read a book, and the book inevitably contained lines with sparks of her mind, here and there a flicker of her feelings, words she had spoken yesterday were recorded, as if the author had overheard how her heart was now beating.

In the forest, the trees were the same, but in their rustling, a special meaning appeared: a living harmony established itself between them and her. The birds no longer simply chirped and twittered, but seemed to say something to each other; everything around spoke, everything responded to her mood; a flower unfolded, and she seemed to hear its breathing.

In dreams, too, her own life appeared: they became populated with visions, images, with which she sometimes spoke aloud… they told her something, but so unclearly that she couldn’t understand, tried hard to talk to them, to ask, and also said something unintelligible. Only Katya would tell her in the morning that she had been delirious.

She remembered Stolz’s predictions: he often told her that she had not yet begun to live, and she sometimes resented why he treated her as a girl, when she was twenty years old. But now she understood that he had been right, that she had only just begun to live.

“When all the forces in your organism begin to play, then life will play around you too, and you will see what your eyes are closed to now, hear what you cannot hear: the music of the nerves will play, you will hear the hum of the spheres, you will listen to the grass grow. Wait, don’t rush, it will come by itself!” he had warned.

It came. “This must be the forces playing, the organism has awakened…” she said in his words, listening intently to the unprecedented tremor, looking keenly and timidly at every new manifestation of the awakening new force.

She did not succumb to dreaminess, did not surrender to the sudden tremor of leaves, to night visions, to mysterious whispers, as if someone at night would lean over her ear and say something vague and incomprehensible.

“Nerves!” she would sometimes repeat with a smile, through tears, barely overcoming her fear and enduring the struggle of her unformed nerves with the awakening forces. She would get out of bed, drink a glass of water, open the window, wave her handkerchief in front of her face, and sober up from her daydreams and dreams.

And Oblomov, as soon as he woke in the morning, the first image in his imagination was that of Olga, full-length, with a lilac branch in her hands. He fell asleep thinking of her, went for walks, read—she was there, always there.

He mentally carried on an endless conversation with her day and night. To his “History of Discoveries and Inventions,” he constantly added some new discoveries in Olga’s appearance or character, inventing opportunities to accidentally meet her, send a book, or surprise her.

Speaking with her during their meetings, he continued the conversation at home, so that sometimes Zakhar would come in, and Oblomov, in the extremely tender and gentle tone in which he mentally conversed with Olga, would say to him: “You bald devil, you brought me uncleaned boots again just now: watch out, or I’ll deal with you…”

But carefreeness had flown from him from the moment she sang to him for the first time. He no longer lived his former life, when it didn’t matter to him whether he lay on his back and stared at the wall, whether Alekseev sat with him or he himself sat with Ivan Gerasimovich, in those days when he expected nothing from anyone, neither from day nor from night.

Now both day and night, every hour of morning and evening, took on their own form and were either filled with rainbow radiance or colorless and gloomy, depending on whether that hour was filled with Olga’s presence or passed without her and, consequently, passed sluggishly and boringly.

All this was reflected in his being: in his head was a network of daily, minute-by-minute considerations, guesses, forebodings, torments of uncertainty, all stemming from the questions: would he see her or not? What would she say and do? How would she look, what task would she give him, what would she ask about, would she be satisfied or not? All these considerations became the vital questions of his life.

“Oh, if only I could experience only this warmth of love and not its anxieties!” he dreamed. “No, life touches, wherever you go, it burns! How much new movement, new activities, suddenly forced their way into it! Love is a very difficult school of life!”

He had already read several books: Olga asked him to recount the content and listened to his narration with incredible patience. He wrote several letters to the village, changed the elder, and entered into communication with one of the neighbors through Stolz’s mediation. He would even have gone to the village if he had considered it possible to leave Olga.

He hadn’t had supper and for two weeks now didn’t know what it meant to lie down during the day.

In two or three weeks, they had visited all the environs of St. Petersburg. The aunt with Olga, the Baron, and he appeared at outdoor concerts, at large festivities. They spoke of going to Finland, to Imatra.

As for Oblomov, he wouldn’t have stirred beyond the park, but Olga kept coming up with ideas, and as soon as he hesitated in answering an invitation to go somewhere, the trip was certainly undertaken. And then there was no end to Olga’s smiles. Within five versts around the dacha, there was no hill he hadn’t climbed several times.

The Evolution of Their Affection

Meanwhile, their sympathy grew, developed, and manifested according to its immutable laws. Olga blossomed along with her feelings. More light appeared in her eyes, more grace in her movements; her chest developed so luxuriantly, undulating so rhythmically.

“You’ve grown prettier at the dacha, Olga,” her aunt told her. The Baron’s smile expressed the same compliment.

Olga, blushing, laid her head on her aunt’s shoulder; the aunt gently stroked her cheek.

“Olga, Olga!” Oblomov called cautiously, almost in a whisper, once at the foot of the hill where she had appointed him to meet her for a walk.

No answer. He looked at his watch.

“Olga Sergeyevna!” he then added aloud. Silence.

Olga sat on the hill, heard the call, and, stifling her laughter, remained silent. She wanted to make him climb the hill.

“Olga Sergeyevna!” he called out, having made his way through the bushes halfway up the hill and looking upwards. “She appointed half past five,” he said to himself.

She couldn’t hold back her laughter.

“Olga, Olga! Ah, you’re there!” he said and climbed the hill.

“Ugh! Why on earth would you hide on a hill!” He sat down beside her. “To torment me, you torment yourself too.”

“Where are you from? Straight from home?” she asked.

“No, I called on you; they said you had left.”

“What did you do today?” she asked.

“Today…”

“Quarrel with Zakhar?” she finished for him.

He laughed at this, as something utterly impossible.

“No, I was reading the ‘Revue’. But listen, Olga…”

But he said nothing, only sat beside her and immersed himself in contemplating her profile, her head, the movement of her hand back and forth as she threaded the needle through the canvas and pulled it back. He focused his gaze on her, like a burning glass, and could not avert it.

He himself did not move, only his gaze turned right, then left, then down, depending on how her hand moved. An active work was going on within him: increased blood circulation, a doubled pulse beat, and a boiling sensation near his heart—all this acted so strongly that he breathed slowly and heavily, as one breathes before an execution and at the moment of the highest spiritual bliss.

He was mute and could not even stir, only his eyes, moist with tenderness, were irresistibly fixed on her.

She occasionally cast a deep glance at him, read the simple meaning written on his face, and thought: “My God! How he loves! How tender, how tender!” And she admired and was proud of this man, vanquished at her feet by her own power!

Love as Duty

The moment of symbolic hints, significant smiles, and lilac branches had passed irrevocably. Love was becoming stricter, more demanding, turning into a kind of duty; mutual rights appeared. Both sides opened up more and more: misunderstandings, doubts disappeared or gave way to clearer and more positive questions.

She still pricked him with light sarcasms for his idly wasted years, pronounced harsh judgment, executed his apathy more deeply, more effectively than Stolz; then, as their intimacy grew, from sarcasm about Oblomov’s sluggish and flabby existence, she moved to a despotic manifestation of will, bravely reminded him of the purpose of life and duties, and strictly demanded movement, incessantly drawing out his intellect, sometimes entangling him in a subtle, vital question familiar to her, sometimes approaching him herself with a question about something unclear, inaccessible to her.

And he struggled, racked his brain, contorted himself so as not to fall heavily in her eyes or to help her clarify some knot, or else heroically cut it.

All her female tactics were imbued with tender sympathy; all his aspirations to keep pace with the movement of her mind breathed passion.

But more often he grew exhausted, lay at her feet, placed his hand on his heart, and listened to it beat, his fixed, astonished, admiring gaze never leaving her.

“How he loves me!” she repeated in those moments, admiring him. If, however, she sometimes noticed hidden former traits in Oblomov’s soul—and she knew how to look deeply into it—the slightest fatigue, a barely noticeable slumber of life, reproaches poured over him, to which a bitter regret, a fear of error, was occasionally mixed.

Sometimes he would just gather himself to yawn, open his mouth—her astonished gaze would strike him: he would instantly close his mouth, so that his teeth clicked. She pursued the slightest shadow of sleepiness even on his face. She asked not only what he was doing, but also what he would do.

Even more strongly than from reproaches, vigor awakened in him when he noticed that from his fatigue, she too grew tired, became careless, cold. Then a fever of life, strength, activity appeared in him, and the shadow disappeared again, and sympathy again flowed with a strong and clear spring.

But all these concerns had not yet left the magic circle of love; his activity was negative: he didn’t sleep, read, sometimes thought of writing and making a plan, walked a lot, traveled a lot. The further direction, the very idea of life, the deed—still remained in intentions.

“What other life and activity does Andrey want?” Oblomov would say, staring wide-eyed after dinner so as not to fall asleep. “Is this not life? Is love not service? He should try it! Ten versts a day on foot! Yesterday I spent the night in the city, in a lousy inn, dressed, only my boots off, and Zakhar wasn’t there—all thanks to her errands!”

The most agonizing thing for him was when Olga would propose a specific question and demand from him, as if from some professor, complete satisfaction; and this happened to her often, not out of pedantry at all, but simply from a desire to know what was what. She even often forgot her goals concerning Oblomov, and was carried away by the question itself.

“Why aren’t we taught this?” she would say with thoughtful annoyance, sometimes eagerly, in snatches, listening to a conversation about something that was customarily considered unnecessary for a woman.

One day, she suddenly approached him with questions about double stars: he had the imprudence to refer to Herschel and was sent to the city, had to read the book, and explain it to her until she was satisfied.

Another time, again inadvertently, a couple of words about schools of painting slipped from him in a conversation with the Baron—again, a week’s work for him: reading, recounting; and then they even went to the Hermitage: and there, too, he had to confirm what he had read to her through practical example.

If he said something haphazardly, she would immediately notice, and then she would stick to it.

Then he had to spend a week visiting shops, searching for engravings of the best paintings.

Poor Oblomov either repeated old lessons or rushed to bookstores for new illustrated works and sometimes didn’t sleep all night, rummaged, read, so that in the morning, as if by chance, he could answer yesterday’s question with knowledge extracted from the archive of his memory.

She posed these questions not with feminine distraction, not from the impulse of a momentary whim to know this or that, but persistently, impatiently, and in case of Oblomov’s silence, she punished him with a prolonged, probing gaze. How he trembled at that gaze!

“Why don’t you say anything, why are you silent?” she asked. “One might think you’re bored.”

“Ah!” he uttered, as if recovering from a faint. “How I love you!”

“Really? If I hadn’t asked, it wouldn’t seem like it,” she said.

“But don’t you feel what’s going on inside me?” he began. “You know, it’s even hard for me to speak. Here… give me your hand… something is hindering, as if something heavy is lying there, like a stone, as happens in deep sorrow, and yet, strangely, in both sorrow and happiness, the same process occurs in the organism: it’s hard, almost painful to breathe, I want to cry! If I cried, it would become easy for me from the tears, just as in sorrow…”

She looked at him silently, as if verifying his words, comparing them to what was written on his face, and smiled: the verification proved satisfactory. The breath of happiness was diffused on her face, but it was a peaceful happiness that, it seemed, nothing could disturb. It was clear that her heart was not heavy, but only well, like nature on this quiet morning.

“What’s wrong with me?” Oblomov asked, as if to himself in thought.

“Shall I tell you?”

“Tell me.”

“You are… in love.”

“Yes, of course,” he confirmed, pulling her hand away from the canvas, and did not kiss it, but only pressed her fingers tightly to his lips and seemed intent on holding them there for a long time.

She tried to gently pull away, but he held on tightly.

“Now, let go, that’s enough,” she said.

“And you?” he asked. “You… aren’t in love…”

“In love, no… I don’t like that: I love you!” she said and looked at him for a long time, as if verifying herself, whether she truly loved.

“Lo…ve!” Oblomov uttered. “But you can love a mother, a father, a nanny, even a little dog: all this is covered by the general, collective concept of ‘love,’ like an old…”

“Robe?” she said, laughing. “A propos, where’s your robe?”

“What robe? I never had one.”

She looked at him with a smiling reproach.

“There you go, talking about an old robe!” he said. “I’m waiting, my soul is dying of impatience to hear how feeling bursts from your heart, by what name you will call these impulses, and you… God be with you, Olga! Yes, I am in love with you and I say that without this, there is no direct love: one doesn’t fall in love with a father, or a mother, or a nanny, but loves them…”

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully, as if delving into herself and trying to grasp what was happening within her. “I don’t know if I’m in love with you; if not, then perhaps the moment hasn’t come yet; I only know one thing, that I haven’t loved my father, or mother, or nanny like this…”

“What’s the difference? Do you feel anything special?!” he pressed.

“And you want to know?” she asked slyly.

“Yes, yes, yes! Don’t you feel the need to express yourself?”

“And why do you want to know?”

“So I can live by it every minute: today, all night, tomorrow—until our next meeting… That’s all I live for.”

“You see, you need to renew your supply of tenderness every day! That’s the difference between being in love and loving. I…”

“You?..” he waited impatiently.

“I love differently,” she said, leaning back against the bench and letting her eyes wander among the scudding clouds. “I’m bored without you; parting with you for a short time is a pity, for a long time is painful. I once and for all knew, saw, and believe that you love me—and I am happy, even if you never repeat that you love me. I don’t know how to love more or better.”

“These are words… as if from Cordelia!” Oblomov thought, looking at Olga passionately…

“You… will die,” she continued hesitantly, “I will wear eternal mourning for you and never smile again in my life. If you love another—I will not grumble, I will not curse, but to myself I will wish you happiness… For me, this love is like… life, and life…”

She searched for an expression.

“What is life, in your opinion?” Oblomov asked.

“Life is duty, an obligation, therefore love is also a duty: it’s as if God sent it to me,” she finished, raising her eyes to the sky, “and commanded me to love.”

“Cordelia!” Oblomov said aloud. “And she is twenty-one! So this is what love is, in your opinion!” he added thoughtfully.

“Yes, and I think I will have enough strength to live and love my whole life…”

“Who instilled this in her!” Oblomov thought, looking at her almost with reverence. “It wasn’t through experience, torments, fire, and smoke that she reached this clear and simple understanding of life and love.”

“But are there lively joys, are there passions?” he began.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t experienced them and don’t understand what they are.”

“Oh, how I understand now!”

“Perhaps I too will experience them in time, perhaps I too will have the same impulses as you, I will look at you with the same gaze when we meet and won’t believe if it’s really you before me… And that must be very funny!” she added cheerfully. “What eyes you sometimes make: I think ma tante notices.”

“In what then is your happiness in love,” he asked, “if you don’t have those lively joys that I experience?…”

“In what? This is it!” she said, pointing to him, to herself, to the solitude surrounding them. “Is this not happiness, have I ever lived like this? Before, I wouldn’t have sat here for even a quarter of an hour alone, without a book, without music, among these trees. Talking to a man, other than Andrey Ivanych, was boring to me, there was nothing to talk about: I kept thinking how to be alone… And now… even being silent together is joyful!”

She cast her eyes around, at the trees, at the grass, then fixed them on him, smiled, and gave him her hand.

“Won’t it hurt me later, when you leave?” she added. “Won’t I rush to go to bed quickly, to fall asleep and not see the boring night? Won’t I send for you in the morning? Won’t…”

With each “won’t,” Oblomov’s face blossomed more and more, his gaze filled with rays.

“Yes, yes,” he repeated, “I too await the morning, and the night is boring for me, and tomorrow I will send to you not for business, but only to pronounce your name once more and hear it echo, to learn some detail about you from people, to envy them for having seen you… We think, we wait, we live, and we hope alike. Forgive me, Olga, my doubts: I am convinced that you love me as you have loved neither your father, nor your aunt, nor…”

“Nor a little dog,” she said and laughed.

“Believe me,” she concluded, “as I believe you, and do not doubt, do not trouble this happiness with empty doubts, or it will fly away. What I have once called mine, I will not give back, unless it is taken from me. I know this, it does not matter that I am young, but… Do you know,” she said with confidence in her voice, “in a month, since I have known you, I have thought and experienced a great deal, as if I had read a large book, quietly, little by little… So do not doubt…”

“I cannot but doubt,” he interrupted, “do not demand it. Now, with you, I am sure of everything: your glance, your voice, everything speaks. You look at me as if to say: I don’t need words, I can read your gazes. But when you are not here, such an agonizing game of doubts, of questions, begins, and I again have to run to you, to look at you again; without this, I don’t believe. What is this?”

“And I believe you: why is that?” she asked.

“Of course you would believe! Before you is a madman, infected with passion! In my eyes, I think you see yourself, as in a mirror. Besides, you are twenty years old; look at yourself: can a man, meeting you, not pay you a tribute of admiration… at least with a glance? And to know you, to listen, to gaze at you for a long time, to love—oh, one would go mad! And you are so even, calm; and if a day or two passes and I don’t hear ‘I love you…’ from you, then anxiety begins here…”

He pointed to his heart.

“I love, I love, I love—there you have a three-day supply!” she said, rising from the bench.

“You’re always joking, but how hard it is for me!” he sighed, as he descended the hill with her.

Thus, the same motif played out between them in various variations. Meetings, conversations—all of it was one song, one set of sounds, one light that burned brightly, and only its rays refracted and fragmented into pink, green, and pale hues, trembling in the surrounding atmosphere. Each day and hour brought new sounds and rays, but the light burned as one, the motif always sounded the same.

Both he and she listened to these sounds, caught them, and hastened to sing what each heard, before each other, not suspecting that tomorrow other sounds would ring out, other rays would appear, and forgetting the next day that yesterday’s song was different.

She clothed the effusions of her heart in the colors with which her imagination burned at that moment, and believed that they were true to nature, and hastened in innocent and unconscious coquetry to appear in beautiful attire before the eyes of her friend.

He believed even more in these magical sounds, in the enchanting light, and hastened to appear before her fully armed with passion, to show her all the brilliance and strength of the fire that consumed his soul.

They lied neither to themselves nor to each other: they expressed what their heart said, and its voice passed through their imagination.

Oblomov, in essence, did not care whether Olga appeared as Cordelia and remained true to that image, or whether she took a new path and transformed into another vision, as long as she appeared in the same colors and rays in which she lived in his heart, as long as he felt good.

And Olga did not inquire whether her passionate friend would pick up her glove if she threw it into a lion’s mouth, or plunge into an abyss for her, as long as she saw the symptoms of this passion, as long as he remained true to the ideal of a man, and moreover, a man awakening to life through her, as long as the fire of vigor burned within him from the ray of her gaze, from her smile, and he would not cease to see the purpose of life in her.

And therefore, in the fleeting image of Cordelia, in the fire of Oblomov’s passion, only one moment, one ephemeral breath of love, one of its mornings, one whimsical pattern, was reflected. And tomorrow, tomorrow something else will shine, perhaps just as beautiful, but still different…

X

Oblomov was in that state when a person has just watched the setting summer sun and enjoys its rosy traces, not tearing his gaze from the dawn, not turning back from where night emerges, thinking only of the return of warmth and light tomorrow.

He lay on his back and savored the last traces of yesterday’s meeting. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” still trembled in his ears, better than any of Olga’s singing; the last rays of her deep gaze still rested upon him. He was finishing reading the meaning in it, determining the degree of her love, and was about to fall asleep when suddenly…

The next morning, Oblomov awoke pale and gloomy; traces of insomnia on his face; his forehead all wrinkled; no fire in his eyes, no desires. Pride, a cheerful, vigorous look, the moderate, conscious haste of a busy man’s movements—all had vanished.

He sluggishly drank tea, didn’t touch a single book, didn’t sit at the table, thoughtfully lit a cigar, and sat on the sofa. Before, he would have lain down, but now he was unaccustomed and wasn’t even drawn to the pillow; however, he propped his elbow on it—a sign hinting at his former inclinations.

He was gloomy, sometimes sighed, suddenly shrugged his shoulders, shook his head with regret.

Something was working strongly within him, but it wasn’t love. Olga’s image was before him, but it floated as if in the distance, in a fog; without rays, as if alien to him; he looked at it with a sickly gaze and sighed.

“Live as God commands, not as you wish—a wise rule, but…” And he fell into thought.

“Yes, you cannot live as you wish—that’s clear,” a gloomy, rebellious voice began to speak within him, “you’ll fall into a chaos of contradictions that no human mind, however deep or daring, can untangle! Yesterday you wished, today you passionately achieve what you desired, to the point of exhaustion, and the day after tomorrow you blush that you wished, then you curse life for fulfilling it—that’s what comes of independent and daring strides in life, of self-willed ‘I want.’ One must grope, close one’s eyes to much, and not rave about happiness, not dare to grumble if it slips away—that’s life! Who invented that it is happiness, enjoyment? Madmen! ‘Life is life, duty,’ says Olga, ‘an obligation, and an obligation can be heavy. Having fulfilled one’s duty…'” He sighed.

“We won’t see Olga… My God! You opened my eyes and showed me my duty,” he said, looking at the sky, “where can I find the strength? To part! There’s still a possibility now, though with pain, but then you won’t curse yourself for not parting? And she’ll come from there soon, she wanted to send… She doesn’t expect…”

What was the reason? What wind suddenly blew upon Oblomov? What clouds did it bring? And why did he take on such a mournful yoke? And yet, it seemed, only yesterday he looked into Olga’s soul and saw there a bright world and a bright destiny, read his and her horoscope. What happened?

He must have had supper or lain on his back, and the poetic mood gave way to some horrors.

It often happens that you fall asleep in summer on a quiet, cloudless evening, with shimmering stars, and think how beautiful the field will be tomorrow in the bright morning colors! How joyful to delve into the thicket of the forest and hide from the heat!.. And suddenly you wake up from the sound of rain, from gray, sad clouds; it’s cold, damp…

In the evening, Oblomov, as usual, listened to the beating of his heart, then felt it with his hands, checked if the hardness there had increased, finally delved into the analysis of his happiness, and suddenly stumbled into a drop of bitterness and was poisoned.

The poison acted strongly and quickly. He mentally ran through his entire life: for the hundredth time, repentance and late regret for the past approached his heart. He imagined what he would be now if he had moved boldly forward, how much more fully and comprehensively he would have lived if he had been active, and moved on to the question of what he was now and how Olga could, how she could love him and for what?

“Is this not a mistake?” a thought suddenly flashed in his mind, like lightning, and this lightning struck his very heart and shattered it. He groaned. “A mistake! Yes… that’s it!” it churned in his head.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” suddenly echoed again in his memory, and his heart began to warm, but then suddenly grew cold again. And this threefold “I love you” from Olga—what was it? The deception of her eyes, the sly whisper of a still idle heart; not love, but only a premonition of love!

This voice will someday resound, but it will sound so powerfully, it will strike such a chord, that the whole world will tremble! Both the aunt and the baron will know, and the roar of this voice will spread far! That feeling will not make its way so quietly, like a stream, hiding in the grass, with a barely audible murmur.

She loves now as she embroiders on canvas: quietly, lazily the pattern emerges, she even more lazily unrolls it, admires it, then puts it down and forgets. Yes, this is only preparation for love, an experiment, and he is the subject who happened to come along first, somewhat tolerable, for the experiment, by chance…

Indeed, chance brought them together. She would not have noticed him: Stolz pointed him out, infected her young, impressionable heart with his participation, compassion for his situation appeared, a self-serving concern to shake off sleep from a lazy soul, then to leave it.

“So that’s it!” he said in horror, getting out of bed and lighting a candle with a trembling hand. “There’s nothing more here, and there never was! She was ready to receive love, her heart waited sensitively, and he met her by chance, stumbled in by mistake… Another will only appear—and she will sober up from her mistake in horror! How she will look at him then, how she will turn away… terrible! I am stealing what belongs to another! I am a thief! What am I doing, what am I doing? How blind I was!—My God!”

He looked in the mirror: pale, yellow, eyes dull. He remembered those young happy men, with moist, thoughtful, but strong and deep gazes, like hers, with a trembling spark in their eyes, with confidence in victory in their smiles, with such a vigorous gait, with a resonant voice. And he would wait for one of them to appear: she would suddenly flare up, look at him, Oblomov, and… burst out laughing!

He looked in the mirror again. “Such people are not loved!” he said.

Then he lay down and pressed his face to the pillow. “Farewell, Olga, be happy,” he concluded.

“Zakhar!” he shouted in the morning.

“If someone comes from the Ilyinsky’s for me, tell them I’m not home, I’ve gone to the city.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes… no, I’d better write to her,” he said to himself, “otherwise it will seem strange to her that I suddenly disappeared. An explanation is necessary.”

He sat down at the table and began to write quickly, with fervor, with feverish haste, not as he had written to the house owner in early May. Not once did a close and unpleasant encounter occur between two “which” and two “what.”

“It’s strange for you, Olga Sergeyevna (he wrote), to receive this letter instead of me, when we see each other so often. Read to the end, and you will see that I cannot act otherwise. I should have started with this letter: then we both would have been spared many future reproaches of conscience; but even now it’s not too late. We fell in love so suddenly, so quickly, as if we both suddenly became ill, and this prevented me from recovering earlier. Besides, looking at you, listening to you for hours on end, who would voluntarily take on the heavy duty of sobering up from enchantment? Where would one find enough caution and willpower at every moment to stop at every slope and not be carried away down it? And every day I thought: ‘I won’t get carried away further, I’ll stop: it depends on me’—and I was carried away, and now a struggle begins in which I demand your help. Only today, this night, did I understand how quickly my feet are slipping: only yesterday did I manage to look deeper into the abyss into which I am falling, and I decided to stop.

I speak only of myself—not out of egoism, but because when I lie at the bottom of this abyss, you will still, like a pure angel, fly high, and I don’t know if you will want to cast a glance into it. Listen, without any hints, I will say directly and simply: you do not love me and cannot love me. Listen to my experience and believe me unconditionally. After all, my heart began to beat long ago: let’s say it beat falsely, out of tune, but this very thing taught me to distinguish its proper beating from an accidental one. You cannot, but I can and must know where truth is, where error, and it is my duty to warn one who has not yet managed to learn this. And so I warn you: you are in error, look around!

As long as love between us appeared as a light, smiling vision, as long as it sounded in Casta diva, floated in the scent of a lilac branch, in unspoken participation, in a shy glance, I did not trust it, taking it for a play of imagination and a whisper of vanity. But the pranks passed; I became sick with love, felt the symptoms of passion; you became thoughtful, serious; you gave me your leisure; your nerves began to speak; you began to get agitated, and then, that is, only now, I became frightened and felt that it was my duty to stop and say what this was.

I told you that I love you, you answered the same—do you hear what dissonance sounds in this? You don’t hear? Then you will hear later, when I am already in the abyss. Look at me, consider my existence: can you love me, do you love me? ‘I love you, I love you, I love you!’ you said yesterday. ‘No, no, no!’ I firmly reply.

You do not love me, but you do not lie—I hasten to add—you do not deceive me; you cannot say yes when no speaks within you. I only want to prove to you that your present ‘I love you’ is not true love, but future love; it is only an unconscious need to love, which, for lack of true nourishment, for lack of fire, burns with a false, unheating light, sometimes expressed in women in caresses towards a child, towards another woman, even simply in tears or in hysterical fits. From the very beginning, I should have strictly told you: ‘You were mistaken, before you is not the one you waited for, dreamed of. Wait, he will come, and then you will awaken; you will be annoyed and ashamed of your mistake, and for me this annoyance and shame will cause pain’—that’s what I should have told you if I had been by nature more discerning in mind and more vigorous in soul, if, finally, I had been more sincere… And I did speak, but, remember how: with fear, so that you wouldn’t believe, so that this wouldn’t happen; I said everything in advance that others might say later, to prepare you not to listen and not to believe, and I myself hurried to see you and thought: ‘When will another come, I am happy for now.’ Here it is, the logic of infatuation and passions.

Now I think differently. And what will happen when I become attached to her, when seeing each other becomes not a luxury of life, but a necessity, when love sinks its teeth into my heart (no wonder I feel a hardening there)? How to break away then? Will I survive this pain? It will be bad for me. Even now I cannot think of it without horror. If you were more experienced, older, then I would bless my happiness and give you my hand forever. But then…

Why am I writing? Why didn’t I come directly to tell you myself that the desire to see you grows every day, but we shouldn’t see each other? To tell you this to your face—would I have the courage, judge for yourself! Sometimes I want to say something similar to this, but I say something completely different. Perhaps sadness would be expressed on your face (if it’s true that you weren’t bored with me), or you, not understanding my good intentions, would be offended: I cannot bear either of those, I will say the wrong thing again, and honest intentions will scatter into dust and end with an agreement to meet the next day. Now, without you, it’s completely different: your gentle eyes, your kind, pretty face are not before me; the paper endures and is silent, and I write calmly (I lie): we will not see each other again (I do not lie).

Another might add: I write and am bathed in tears, but I am not posing before you, not draping myself in my sorrow, because I do not want to intensify the pain, to inflame regret, sadness. All this draping usually conceals a deeper intention to take root in the soil of feeling, and I want to destroy its seeds in both you and myself. And besides, crying is fitting either for seducers who seek to ensnare the incautious vanity of women with phrases, or for languid dreamers. I say this, bidding farewell, as one bids farewell to a good friend, sending him on a long journey. In three weeks, in a month, it would be too late, too difficult: love makes incredible progress, it is a spiritual St. Anthony’s fire. And now I am unlike anything, I do not count hours and minutes, I do not know the rising and setting of the sun, but I count: saw—did not see, will see—will not see, came—did not come, will come… All this suits youth, which easily endures both pleasant and unpleasant emotions; but for me, peace is suitable, though boring, sleepy, but it is familiar to me; and I cannot cope with storms.

Many would be surprised by my action: why is he running? they will say; others will laugh at me: perhaps I am even resolved to that. If I am resolved not to see you, it means I am resolved to everything.

In my deep anguish, I find a little comfort in the thought that this short episode of our life will leave me forever such a pure, fragrant memory, that it alone will be enough not to plunge into the former slumber of the soul, and for you, without causing harm, it will serve as a guide in future, normal love. Farewell, angel, fly away quickly, as a frightened bird flies from a branch where it accidentally landed, just as easily, cheerfully, and gaily as it, from that branch on which you accidentally sat!”

Oblomov wrote with inspiration: his pen flew across the pages. His eyes shone, his cheeks burned. The letter turned out long—like all love letters: lovers are terribly talkative.

“Strange! I’m no longer bored, no longer heavy!” he thought. “I’m almost happy… Why is this? It must be because I’ve unburdened my soul into a letter.”

He reread the letter, folded it, and sealed it.

“Zakhar!” he said. “When the man comes, give him this letter for the young lady.”

“Yes, sir,” said Zakhar.

Oblomov actually felt almost cheerful. He sat with his feet on the sofa and even asked if there was anything for breakfast. He ate two eggs and lit a cigar. Both his heart and his head were full; he was alive. He imagined Olga receiving the letter, how surprised she would be, what face she would make when she read it. What would happen next?

He enjoyed the prospect of this day, the novelty of the situation… He listened with a pounding heart for the knock on the door, wondering if the man had come, if Olga was already reading the letter… No, it was quiet in the anteroom.

“What could this mean?” he thought with unease. “No one came: how can that be?”

A secret voice immediately whispered to him: “Why are you worried? This is what you need, for no one to come, to break off relations?” But he stifled this voice.

Half an hour later, he called Zakhar from the courtyard, where he was sitting with the coachman.

“No one came?” he asked. “Didn’t they come?”

“Yes, they came,” Zakhar replied.

“So what did you do?”

“I said you weren’t home: you’d gone to the city, I said.”

Oblomov stared at him.

“Why did you say that?” he asked. “What did I tell you to do when the man came?”

“But it wasn’t a man who came, it was the maid,” Zakhar replied with imperturbable composure.

“And did you give her the letter?”

“No, sir: you first told me to say you weren’t home, and then to give the letter. So, when the man comes, I’ll give it to him.”

“No, no, you… you’re simply a murderer! Where’s the letter? Give it here!” said Oblomov.

Zakhar brought the letter, already significantly soiled.

“Wash your hands, look!” Oblomov said angrily, pointing to the stain.

“My hands are clean,” Zakhar replied, looking away.

“Anisya, Anisya!” Oblomov cried out.

Anisya appeared halfway from the anteroom.

“Look what Zakhar is doing?” he complained to her. “Here, take this letter and give it to the man or the maid, whoever comes from the Ilyinsky’s, so they can give it to the young lady, do you hear?”

“I hear, father. Please, I’ll give it.”

But no sooner had she gone into the anteroom than Zakhar snatched the letter from her.

“Go, go,” he shouted, “know your woman’s business!”

Soon the maid ran back again. Zakhar began to unlock the door for her, and Anisya approached her, but Zakhar looked at her furiously.

“What are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely.

“I just came to listen to how you…”

“Now, now, now!” he thundered, raising his elbow at her. “Get out of here!”

She smiled and left, but from another room, through a crack, she watched to see if Zakhar would do what the master ordered.

Ilya Ilyich, hearing the noise, rushed out himself.

“What is it, Katya?” he asked.

“The young lady ordered me to ask where you went? And you didn’t go anywhere, you’re home! I’ll run and tell her,” she said and started to run.

“I’m home. This one is lying about everything,” said Oblomov. “Here, give this letter to the young lady!”

“Yes, sir, I’ll give it!”

“Where is the young lady now?”

“They went through the village, they told me to say that if you finished the book, you should come to the garden around two o’clock.”

She left.

“No, I won’t go… why irritate a feeling when everything should be over?..” Oblomov thought, heading towards the village.

From afar, he saw Olga walking up the hill, saw Katya catch up with her and hand her the letter; he saw Olga stop for a moment, look at the letter, think, then nod to Katya and enter the park alley.

Oblomov took a detour, past the hill, entered the same alley from the other end and, reaching the middle, sat in the grass, among the bushes, and waited.

“She will pass here,” he thought, “I will just glance unnoticed, see what she is doing, and then I will leave forever.”

He waited with a pounding heart for her footsteps. No, it was quiet. Nature lived an active life; invisible, small work seethed around, and yet everything seemed to lie in solemn peace.

Meanwhile, everything in the grass was moving, crawling, bustling. There, ants scurried in different directions, so busily and fussily, colliding, scattering, hurrying, just like looking down from a height at some human market: the same crowds, the same jostling, the same swarming people.

Here a bumblebee hums near a flower and crawls into its calyx; here flies cling in a heap around a drop of sap that has appeared on a crack in a linden tree; here a bird somewhere in the thicket has long been repeating the same sound, perhaps calling another.

Here two butterflies, swirling around each other in the air, rush headlong, as in a waltz, around tree trunks. The grass smells strongly; an incessant crackling comes from it…

“What a fuss here!” Oblomov thought, peering into this bustle and listening to the small noise of nature. “And outside it’s all so quiet, peaceful!…”

But still no footsteps. Finally, here… “Oh!” Oblomov sighed, gently parting the branches. “It’s her, it’s her… What is this? She’s crying! My God!”

Olga walked quietly and wiped away tears with her handkerchief; but no sooner did she wipe them away than new ones appeared. She was ashamed, swallowed them, wanted to hide them even from the trees, and could not. Oblomov had never seen Olga’s tears; he had not expected them, and they seemed to burn him, but in such a way that he felt not hot, but warm.

He quickly followed her.

“Olga, Olga!” he said tenderly, following her.

She started, looked back, gazed at him with surprise, then turned away and walked on.

He walked beside her.

“Are you crying?” he said.

Her tears flowed more strongly. She could no longer hold them back and pressed her handkerchief to her face, burst into sobs, and sat on the first bench.

“What have I done!” he whispered in horror, taking her hand and trying to pull it away from her face.

“Leave me!” she said. “Go away! Why are you here? I know I shouldn’t cry: about what? You are right: yes, anything can happen.”

“What can I do to stop these tears?” he asked, kneeling before her. “Speak, command: I am ready for anything…”

“You made the tears, but it’s not in your power to stop them… You are not that strong! Let go!” she said, waving her handkerchief in front of her face.

He looked at her and mentally cursed himself.

“Unfortunate letter!” he said with remorse.

She opened her work basket, took out the letter, and handed it to him.

“Take it,” she said, “and carry it with you, so I don’t cry for a long time looking at it.”

He silently put it in his pocket and sat beside her, his head bowed.

“At least you will do justice to my intentions, Olga?” he said quietly. “This is proof of how dear your happiness is to me.”

“Yes, dear!” she sighed. “No, Ilya Ilyich, you must have become envious that I was so quietly happy, and you hastened to disturb that happiness.”

“Disturb! So you haven’t read my letter? I’ll repeat to you…”

“I didn’t finish reading it, because my eyes filled with tears: I’m still foolish! But I guessed the rest: don’t repeat it, so I don’t cry anymore…”

Tears began to fall again.

“Is it not because I renounce you,” he began, “that I foresee your future happiness, that I sacrifice myself for it?… Am I doing this coldly? Is not everything within me crying? Why am I doing this?”

“Why?” she repeated, suddenly stopping crying and turning to him. “For the same reason you hid in the bushes just now, to spy on whether I would cry and how I would cry—that’s why! If you sincerely wanted what was written in the letter, if you were convinced that we must part, you would have gone abroad without seeing me.”

“What a thought!…” he began with reproach and did not finish. This assumption struck him, because it suddenly became clear to him that it was true.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “yesterday you needed my ‘I love you,’ today you needed tears, and tomorrow, perhaps, you will want to see me die.”

“Olga, how can you offend me so! Do you really not believe that I would give half my life now to hear your laughter and not see tears?”

“Yes, now, perhaps, when you have already seen a woman cry for you… No,” she added, “you have no heart. You didn’t want my tears, you say, so you wouldn’t have made them if you hadn’t wanted to.”

“But how could I have known?!” he said with a question and exclamation in his voice, pressing both palms to his chest.

“The heart, when it loves, has its own mind,” she retorted, “it knows what it wants, and it knows beforehand what will happen. I couldn’t come here yesterday: guests suddenly arrived at our place, but I knew you would be tormented waiting for me, perhaps you would sleep badly: I came because I didn’t want your torment… And you… you are happy that I am crying. Look, look, enjoy!”

And again she cried.

“I slept badly anyway, Olga; I was tormented all night…”

“And you felt sorry that I slept well, that I wasn’t tormented—isn’t that right?” she interrupted. “If I hadn’t cried now, you would have slept badly today too.”

“What should I do now: ask for forgiveness?” he said with submissive tenderness.

“Children ask for forgiveness, or when someone steps on another’s foot in a crowd, but here an apology won’t help,” she said, fanning her face with her handkerchief again.

“However, Olga, if this is true. If my thought is just and your love is a mistake? If you fall in love with another, and then, looking at me, you blush…”

“So what?” she asked, looking at him with such an ironically deep, penetrating gaze that he became flustered.

“She wants to get something out of me!” he thought. “Hold on, Ilya Ilyich!”

“What do you mean, ‘what then’!” he mechanically repeated, looking at her uneasily and not guessing what thought was forming in her head, how she would justify her “what then,” when, obviously, the results of this love, if it was a mistake, could not be justified.

She looked at him so consciously, with such certainty, so, apparently, she was in command of her thought.

“You are afraid,” she retorted sharply, “to fall ‘to the bottom of the abyss’; you are frightened by future offense, that I will stop loving you!… ‘It will be bad for me,’ you write…”

He still understood poorly.

“But then it will be good for me if I love another: it means I will be happy! And you say that you ‘foresee my happiness ahead and are ready to sacrifice everything for me, even your life’?”

He looked at her intently and blinked rarely and widely.

“What logic came out!” he whispered. “To be honest, I didn’t expect it…”

And she scrutinized him so venomously from head to toe.

“And the happiness that drives you mad?” she continued. “And these mornings and evenings, this park, and my ‘I love you’—is all this worth nothing, no price, no sacrifice, no pain?”

“Oh, if only I could sink through the earth!” he thought, suffering internally, as Olga’s thought fully revealed itself to him.

“And if,” she began passionately, “you grow tired of this love, as you grew tired of books, of service, of society; if in time, without a rival, without another love, you suddenly fall asleep beside me, as on your own sofa, and my voice does not wake you; if the swelling in your heart passes, if not even another woman, but your robe becomes dearer to you?..”

“Olga, that’s impossible!” he interrupted with displeasure, moving away from her.

“Why impossible?” she asked. “You say that I ‘am mistaken, that I will fall in love with another,’ but I sometimes think that you will simply fall out of love with me. And what then? How will I justify myself for what I am doing now? If not to people, not to society, what will I say to myself?… And sometimes I also don’t sleep because of this, but I don’t torment you with guesses about the future, because I believe in the best. My happiness outweighs my fear. I value it when my eyes sparkle because of me, when you seek me out, climbing hills, forget laziness and rush for me in the heat to the city for a bouquet, for a book; when I see that I make you smile, wish for life… I wait, I seek only one thing—happiness, and I believe that I have found it. If I am mistaken, if it is true that I will cry over my mistake, at least I feel here (she placed her palm on her heart) that I am not to blame for it; it means fate did not want it, God did not grant it. But I am not afraid of future tears; I will not cry in vain: I bought something with them… I felt so good… it was!…” she added.

“Let it be good again!” Oblomov pleaded.

“But you only see gloom ahead; happiness means nothing to you… This is ingratitude,” she continued, “this is not love, this is…”

“Egoism!” Oblomov finished and dared not look at Olga, dared not speak, dared not ask for forgiveness.

“Go,” she said quietly, “where you wanted to go.”

He looked at her. Her eyes were dry. She thoughtfully looked down and drew on the sand with her parasol.

“Lie down on your back again,” she then added, “you won’t be mistaken, ‘you won’t fall into the abyss.’”

“I poisoned myself and poisoned you, instead of simply and directly being happy…” he muttered with remorse.

“Drink kvass: you won’t be poisoned,” she stung.

“Olga! That’s not magnanimous!” he said. “After I have already punished myself with consciousness.”

“Yes, in words you punish yourself, you throw yourself into an abyss, you give half your life, and then doubt comes, a sleepless night: how tender you become to yourself, how cautious, how careful, how far ahead you see!…”

“What truth, and how simple it is!” Oblomov thought, but was ashamed to say it aloud. Why didn’t he explain it to himself, but a woman, just beginning to live, did? And how quickly she did it! Not long ago she seemed such a child.

“We have nothing more to talk about,” she concluded, rising. “Farewell, Ilya Ilyich, and be… at peace; for your happiness lies in that.”

“Olga! No, for God’s sake, no! Now that everything is clear again, don’t drive me away…” he said, taking her hand.

“What do you want from me?” “You doubt whether my love for you is a mistake: I cannot calm your doubt; perhaps it is a mistake—I don’t know…”

He let go of her hand. The knife was poised over him again.

“How do you not know? Don’t you feel it?” he asked again, doubt on his face. “Do you suspect…?”

“I suspect nothing; I told you yesterday what I feel, but what will happen in a year—I don’t know. And is there really another happiness after one, then a third, just the same?” she asked, looking at him with wide eyes. “Tell me, you are more experienced than I.”

But he no longer wanted to affirm her in this thought, and he remained silent, gently swaying an acacia branch with one hand.

“No, one loves only once!” he repeated, like a schoolboy reciting a memorized phrase.

“You see: I believe in that too,” she added. “And if it’s not so, then perhaps I too will fall out of love with you, perhaps I will be hurt by the mistake, and you too; perhaps we will part!… To love two, three times… no, no… I don’t want to believe that!”

He sighed. This “perhaps” churned in his soul, and he thoughtfully trudged after her. But with each step, he felt lighter; the mistake he had imagined during the night was such a distant future… “After all, it’s not just love, all of life is like this…” it suddenly occurred to him, “and if you push away every occasion as a mistake, when will it not be a mistake? What am I? As if I’m blind…”

“Olga,” he said, barely touching her waist with two fingers (she had stopped), “you are smarter than I.”

She shook her head:

“No, simpler and braver. What are you afraid of? Do you really seriously think that one can fall out of love?” she asked with proud confidence.

“Now I’m not afraid either!” he said cheerfully. “With you, fate is not terrible!”

“I read those words somewhere recently… in Sue, I think,” she suddenly retorted with irony, turning to him, “only there, a woman says them to a man…”

Color rushed to Oblomov’s face.

“Olga! Let everything be as it was yesterday,” he pleaded, “I will not fear mistakes.”

She was silent.

“Yes?” he asked timidly.

She was silent.

“Well, if you don’t want to speak, give me some sign… a lilac branch…”

“Lilacs… are gone, vanished!” she replied. “See, what’s left: faded!”

“Gone, faded!” he repeated, looking at the lilacs. “And the letter is gone!” he suddenly said.

She shook her head in negation. He walked behind her, reflecting to himself about the letter, about yesterday’s happiness, about the faded lilacs.

“Indeed, the lilacs are wilting!” he thought. “Why this letter? Why did I not sleep all night, writing in the morning? Now my soul feels peaceful again… (he yawned)… I desperately want to sleep. And if there had been no letter, none of this would have happened: she wouldn’t have cried, everything would have been as it was yesterday; we would have sat quietly right here, in the alley, looking at each other, talking about happiness. And today would have been the same, and tomorrow…” He yawned widely.

Then it suddenly occurred to him what would have happened if this letter had reached its goal, if she had shared his thought, been frightened, like him, of mistakes and distant future storms, if she had listened to his so-called experience, prudence, and agreed to part, to forget each other?

God forbid! To say goodbye, to move to the city, to a new apartment! A long night would follow, a boring tomorrow, an unbearable day after tomorrow, and a series of days growing paler, paler…

How could that be? That would be death! And yet it would have been so! He would have fallen ill. He didn’t even want the separation; he wouldn’t have endured it; he would have come to beg to see her. “Why did I write the letter?” he asked himself.

“Olga Sergeyevna!” he said.

“What is it?”

“To all my confessions I must add one more…”

“What?”

“The letter was completely unnecessary after all…”

“That’s not true, it was necessary,” she decided.

She looked back and laughed, seeing the face he made, how his sleep suddenly vanished, how his eyes widened in astonishment.

“Necessary?” he repeated slowly, fixing his astonished gaze on her back. But there were only two tassels of a mantilla.

What then did these tears, these reproaches mean? Was it cunning? But Olga was not cunning: he saw that clearly.

Only more or less limited women resort to cunning and become more cunning. Lacking straightforward intelligence, they manipulate the springs of daily small life through cunning, weaving their domestic politics like lace, not noticing how the main lines of life arrange themselves around them, where they will lead and where they will meet.

Cunning is like small change, with which you cannot buy much. Just as one can live an hour or two on small change, so with cunning one can cover something up here, deceive there, distort, but it is not enough to survey a distant horizon, to connect the beginning and end of a large, main event.

Cunning is short-sighted: it sees well only under its nose, not far away, and therefore often falls into the very trap it set for others.

Olga is simply intelligent: take today’s question, how easily and clearly she resolved it, and every one! She immediately sees the direct meaning of an event and approaches it directly.

But cunning is like a mouse: it scurries around, hides… And Olga’s character isn’t like that either. What is it then? What new thing is this?

“Why was the letter necessary?” he asked.

“Why?” she repeated and quickly turned to him with a cheerful face, enjoying the way she could stump him at every turn. “Because,” she then began deliberately, “you didn’t sleep all night, you wrote everything for me; I am also an egoist! That’s, first of all…”

“Why did you reproach me just now, if you agree with me now?” Oblomov interrupted.

“Because you invented torments. I didn’t invent them, they happened, and I enjoy that they are already past, but you prepared them and enjoyed them in advance. You are evil! That’s why I reproached you. Then… in your letter, thought and feeling play… you lived this night and morning not in your own way, but as your friend and I wanted you to live—that’s second; finally, thirdly…”

She approached him so closely that blood rushed to his heart and head; he began to breathe heavily, agitated. And she looked him directly in the eyes.

“Thirdly, because in this letter, as in a mirror, your tenderness, your caution, your care for me, your fear for my happiness, your clear conscience… everything that Andrey Ivanych pointed out in you and that I loved, for which I forget your laziness… apathy… You expressed yourself there involuntarily: you are not an egoist, Ilya Ilyich, you wrote not at all to part—you didn’t want that, but because you were afraid of deceiving me… that was honesty speaking, otherwise the letter would have offended me and I wouldn’t have cried—out of pride! You see, I know why I love you, and I am not afraid of mistake: I am not mistaken in you…”

She appeared to Oblomov in splendor, in radiance, as she spoke this. Her eyes shone with such a triumph of love, a consciousness of her power; two rosy spots glowed on her cheeks. And he, he was the cause of this! By the movement of his honest heart, he had thrown this fire, this play, this brilliance into her soul.

“Olga!… You are… better than all women, you are the first woman in the world!” he said in ecstasy and, beside himself, stretched out his hands, leaning towards her.

“For God’s sake… one kiss, as a pledge of inexpressible happiness,” he whispered, as if in a delirium.

She instantly stepped back; the solemn radiance, the colors flew from her face; her gentle eyes flashed with a storm.

“Never! Never! Don’t come closer!” she said, frightened, almost horrified, extending both hands and her parasol between him and herself, and stood rooted, petrified, not breathing, in a menacing pose, with a menacing gaze, half-turned.

He suddenly became meek: before him was not the gentle Olga, but an offended goddess of pride and anger, with compressed lips, with lightning in her eyes.

“Forgive me!…” he muttered, confused, annihilated.

She slowly turned and walked away, glancing timidly over her shoulder at him. But he did nothing: he walked quietly, as if dragging his tail, like a dog that had been stepped on.

She quickened her pace for a moment, but seeing his face, she suppressed a smile and walked more calmly, only trembling sometimes. A rosy spot appeared now on one cheek, now on the other.

As she walked, her face cleared, her breathing became less frequent and calmer, and she again walked with an even pace. She saw how sacred her “never” was to Oblomov, and the outburst of anger gradually subsided and gave way to regret. She walked more quietly, more quietly…

She wanted to soften her outburst; she thought of a pretext to speak.

“Everything is ruined! This is a real mistake! ‘Never!’ God! The lilacs have faded,” he thought, looking at the hanging lilacs, “yesterday faded, the letter also faded, and this moment, the best in my life, when a woman for the first time told me, like a voice from heaven, what was good in me, and it faded!…”

He looked at Olga—she was standing and waiting for him, her eyes downcast.

“Give me the letter!…” she said softly.

“It has faded!” he replied sadly, handing her the letter.

She moved closer to him again and lowered her head even more; her eyelids were completely down… She almost trembled. He gave her the letter: she did not lift her head, did not move away.

“You frightened me,” she added softly.

“Forgive me, Olga,” he mumbled.

She was silent.

“That menacing ‘never!…’” he said sadly and sighed.

“It will fade!” she whispered barely audibly, blushing. She cast a shy, gentle glance at him, took both his hands, squeezed them tightly in hers, then pressed them to her heart.

“Hear how it beats!” she said. “You frightened me! Let go!”

And, without looking at him, she turned and ran along the path, lifting her dress slightly in front.

“Where are you going so fast?” he said. “I’m tired, I can’t keep up with you.”

“Leave me alone. I’m running to sing, sing, sing!…” she repeated, her face flushed. “My chest feels tight, it almost hurts!”

He remained in place and watched her for a long time, like a departing angel.

“Will even this moment fade?” he thought almost sadly, and he himself did not feel if he was walking or standing still.

“The lilacs are gone,” he thought again, “yesterday is gone, and the night with its ghosts and suffocation is also gone… Yes! And this moment will pass, like the lilacs! But when tonight’s night passed, the current morning was already blossoming…”

“What is this?” he said aloud absentmindedly. “And—love too… love? And I thought it, like a sultry noon, would hang over lovers and nothing would move or breathe in its atmosphere: and there is no peace in love, and it always moves somewhere forward, forward… ‘like all life,’ Stolz says. And Joshua, who would tell it: ‘Stand still and do not move!’ has not yet been born. What will happen tomorrow?” he asked himself anxiously and went home thoughtfully, lazily.

Passing by Olga’s windows, he heard her constricted chest relieve itself in the sounds of Schubert, as if sobbing with happiness.

My God! How good it is to live in the world!

XI

Oblomov found another letter from Stolz at home, which began and ended with the words: “Now or never!” It was then filled with reproaches for his immobility, followed by an invitation to come to Switzerland, where Stolz was going, and finally to Italy.

If not that, then he urged Oblomov to come to the village, to inspect his affairs, to shake up the neglected lives of the peasants, to verify and determine his income, and to personally oversee the construction of a new house.

“Remember our agreement: now or never,” he concluded.

“Now, now, now!” Oblomov repeated. “Andrey doesn’t know what a poem is playing out in my life. What other affairs does he have? How can I ever be so busy with anything? Let him try! You read about the French, about the English: as if they all work, as if all business is on their minds! They travel all over Europe, some even to Asia and Africa, just like that, without any business: some to draw an album or excavate antiquities, some to shoot lions or catch snakes. Otherwise, they sit at home in noble idleness; they have breakfast, lunch with friends, with women—that’s all their business! What kind of convict am I? Andrey just invented: ‘Work and work, like a horse!’ For what? I’m fed, clothed. However, Olga asked again if I intended to visit Oblomovka…”

He rushed to write, to deliberate, even went to an architect. Soon, on his small table, lay the plan of a house and garden. A family house, spacious, with two balconies.

“Here I am, here Olga, here the bedroom, the nursery…” he thought, smiling. “But the peasants, the peasants…” And the smile vanished, worry furrowed his brow. “The neighbor writes, goes into details, talks about plowing, about threshing… What a bore! And he even offers to build a road at common expense to a large trading village, with a bridge over a small river, asks for three thousand in money, wants me to mortgage Oblomovka… But how do I know if it’s necessary?… Will it make sense? Is he not deceiving me?… Let’s say he’s an honest man: Stolz knows him, but he too can be mistaken, and I’ll throw away the money! Three thousand—such a heap! Where to get them? No, it’s frightening! He also writes to resettle some peasants to a wasteland, and demands an answer quickly—everything quickly. He undertakes to send all documents for mortgaging the estate to the council. ‘Send him a power of attorney, go to the chamber to certify it’—that’s what he wants! And I don’t even know where the chamber is, how the doors open there.”

Oblomov didn’t answer him for another week, meanwhile even Olga asked if he had been to the chamber. Recently, Stolz also sent a letter to both him and her, asking: “What is he doing?”

However, Olga could only superficially observe her friend’s activities, and that too, within her accessible sphere. Whether he looks cheerful, whether he willingly travels everywhere, whether he appears at the appointed hour in the grove, how much city news occupies him, general conversation. Most jealously she watches, whether he loses sight of the main goal of life. If she did ask him about the chamber, it was only to answer Stolz something about his friend’s affairs.

Summer is in full swing; July is passing; the weather is excellent. Oblomov is almost inseparable from Olga. On a clear day, he is in the park, in the hot midday he loses himself with her in the grove, among the pines, sits at her feet, reads to her; she is already embroidering another piece of canvas—for him. And a hot summer reigns over them: sometimes clouds gather and pass.

If he has heavy dreams and doubts knock at his heart, Olga, like an angel, stands guard; she looks into his face with her bright eyes, discovers what is in his heart—and everything is quiet again, and feeling flows smoothly again, like a river, reflecting new patterns of the sky.

Olga’s view of life, of love, of everything had become even clearer, more defined. She looked around with more confidence than before, unafraid of the future; new aspects of her mind, new traits of her character unfolded within her. This manifested sometimes poetically diverse, profound, sometimes correct, clear, gradually and naturally…

She possessed a certain persistence that not only overcame all the storms of fate, but even Oblomov’s laziness and apathy. If she formed an intention, the work would immediately begin to hum. You’d only hear about it. If you didn’t hear, you’d see that she had one thing on her mind, that she wouldn’t forget, wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t lose her way, she’d consider everything and achieve what she sought.

He couldn’t understand where she got this strength, this tact—to know and understand how and what to do, no matter what event arose.

“That’s because,” he thought, “her one eyebrow is never straight, but always slightly raised, and above it there’s such a thin, barely noticeable wrinkle… There, in that wrinkle, her stubbornness nests.”

No matter how calm and bright the expression on her face, this wrinkle would not smooth out and the eyebrow would not lie flat. But she had no outward force, no harsh manners or inclinations. Her persistence in intentions and stubbornness did not lead her one step out of the feminine sphere.

She doesn’t want to be a lioness, to sharply rebuff an awkward admirer, to amaze the entire drawing-room with the swiftness of her mind, so that someone from a corner would exclaim: “Bravo! Bravo!”

There’s even a timidity in her, common to many women: she won’t tremble at the sight of a mouse, it’s true, nor will she faint at a falling chair, but she’ll be afraid to go too far from home, she’ll turn away at the sight of a peasant who seems suspicious to her, she’ll close the window at night so thieves don’t get in—all very womanly.

Then, she is so accessible to feelings of compassion, pity! It’s not difficult to bring tears to her eyes; access to her heart is easy. In love, she is so tender; in all relations to everyone, there is so much softness, affectionate attention—in a word, she is a woman!

Sometimes her speech would sparkle with a sarcastic spark, but such grace and such a gentle, sweet mind shone through that anyone would gladly offer their forehead for it!

However, she’s not afraid of drafts, and walks lightly dressed in the twilight—nothing bothers her! Health radiates from her; she eats with appetite; she has favorite dishes; she knows how to cook them too.

Yes, many people know all this, but many don’t know what to do in one case or another, and even if they do, it’s only what they’ve learned, heard, and they don’t know why they do it one way and not another, they’ll immediately refer to the authority of an aunt, a cousin…

Many don’t even know themselves what they want, and if they do decide on it, it’s weakly, so that, perhaps, it’s necessary, perhaps it’s not. This must be because their eyebrows are even, arched, plucked with fingers, and there is no crease on their forehead.

Between Oblomov and Olga, secret, invisible relations to others were established: every glance, every insignificant word spoken in the presence of others, had its own meaning for them. They saw a hint of love in everything.

And Olga would sometimes blush, despite all her self-assurance, when at the table someone would tell a story of love similar to hers; and since all love stories are alike, she often had to blush.

And Oblomov, at a hint of this, would suddenly, in embarrassment, grab such a heap of rusks at tea that someone would invariably laugh.

They became sensitive and cautious. Sometimes Olga wouldn’t tell her aunt that she had seen Oblomov, and he would announce at home that he was going to the city, but would go to the park himself.

However, no matter how clear Olga’s mind was, no matter how consciously she looked around, no matter how fresh and healthy she was, some new, painful symptoms began to appear in her. She was at times overcome by unease, which she pondered and didn’t know how to explain to herself.

Sometimes, walking arm in arm with Oblomov on a hot afternoon, she would lazily lean on his shoulder and walk mechanically, in some sort of exhaustion, persistently silent. Her cheerfulness would vanish; her gaze, tired and lifeless, would become fixed, directed at a single point, and she would be too lazy to shift it to another object.

She feels heavy, something presses on her chest, bothers her. She takes off her mantilla, her kerchief from her shoulders, but it doesn’t help—everything still presses, everything constricts. She would lie under a tree and lie there for hours.

Oblomov is at a loss, waving a branch in her face, but she impatiently brushes away his concerns and suffers.

Then suddenly she would sigh, look around consciously, look at him, shake his hand, smile, and cheerfulness and laughter would return, and she would be in control of herself again.

Especially one evening, she fell into this anxious state, a kind of somnambulism of love, and appeared to Oblomov in a new light.

It was stuffy, hot; a warm wind rustled faintly from the forest, the sky was covered with heavy clouds. It was getting darker and darker.

“It will rain,” said the baron and went home.

Aunt went to her room. Olga played the piano thoughtfully for a long time, but then stopped.

“I can’t, my fingers are trembling, I feel as if I’m suffocating,” she said to Oblomov. “Let’s walk in the garden.”

They walked silently for a long time along the alleys, hand in hand. Her hands were damp and soft. They entered the park.

The trees and bushes merged into a gloomy mass; nothing could be seen two steps away; only the sandy paths snaked like whitish stripes.

Olga peered intently into the darkness and pressed closer to Oblomov. They wandered in silence.

“I’m scared!” she suddenly said, trembling, as they groped their way along a narrow alley, between two black, impenetrable walls of the forest.

“Of what?” he asked. “Don’t be afraid, Olga, I’m with you.”

“I’m scared of you too!” she whispered. “But it’s a good kind of scared! My heart is pounding. Give me your hand, feel how it beats.”

And she herself trembled and looked around.

“See, see?” she whispered, trembling, clutching his shoulder with both hands. “You don’t see, someone flashing in the dark?..”

She pressed closer to him.

“There’s no one…” he said; but he too felt goosebumps crawl up his spine.

“Cover my eyes quickly with something… tighter!” she whispered. “Well, now nothing… It’s nerves,” she added, agitated. “There it is again! Look, who is that? Let’s sit somewhere on a bench…”

He groped for a bench and sat her down.

“Let’s go home, Olga,” he coaxed, “you’re unwell.”

She rested her head on his shoulder.

“No, the air is fresher here,” she said, “I feel tight here, near my heart.”

She breathed hotly on his cheek.

He touched her head with his hand—and her head was hot. Her chest breathed heavily and was relieved by frequent sighs.

“Wouldn’t it be better to go home?” Oblomov kept asking anxiously. “You need to lie down…”

“No, no, leave me, don’t touch me…” she said languidly, barely audibly. “It’s burning here…” she pointed to her chest.

“Truly, let’s go home…” Oblomov hurried.

“No, wait, it will pass…”

She squeezed his hand and from time to time looked closely into his eyes and remained silent for a long time. Then she began to cry, at first quietly, then sobbing. He was at a loss.

“For God’s sake, Olga, let’s go home quickly!” he said with concern.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, sobbing, “don’t interfere, let me cry it out… the fire will come out with tears, it will be easier for me; it’s all nerves playing…”

He listened in the darkness to her heavy breathing, felt her hot tears dropping onto his hand, felt her convulsively squeezing his hand.

He didn’t move a finger, didn’t breathe. And her head lay on his shoulder, her breath warming his cheek… He also trembled, but dared not touch her cheek with his lips.

Then she became quieter and quieter, her breathing grew steadier… She fell silent. He thought she might have fallen asleep and was afraid to stir.

“Olga!” he whispered.

“What?” she whispered back and sighed aloud. “There now… it’s passed…” she said languidly, “I feel better, I can breathe freely.”

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Let’s go!” she repeated reluctantly. “My dear!” she then whispered languidly, squeezing his hand, and, leaning on his shoulder, she walked with unsteady steps to the house.

In the hall, he looked at her: she was weak, but she smiled a strange, unconscious smile, as if under the influence of a dream.

He sat her on the sofa, knelt beside her, and several times, in deep tenderness, kissed her hand.

She continued to look at him with the same smile, leaving both hands, and followed him with her eyes to the door.

At the door, he turned: she was still looking after him, her face still showing the same exhaustion, the same feverish smile, as if she couldn’t control it…

He left in thought. He had seen that smile somewhere before; he recalled a painting depicting a woman with such a smile… only not Cordelia…

The next day he sent to inquire about her health. The message came back: “Thank God, and they ask you to dine today, and in the evening everyone is pleased to go to the fireworks, five versts away.”

He didn’t believe it and went himself. Olga was fresh as a flower: her eyes sparkled with vivacity, two rosy spots glowed on her cheeks; her voice was so resonant! But she suddenly became flustered, almost cried out, when Oblomov approached her, and she flushed completely when he asked: “How does she feel after yesterday?”

“It’s a small nervous disorder,” she said hastily. “Ma tante says I should go to bed earlier. This has only recently happened to me…”

She didn’t finish and turned away, as if begging for mercy. And she didn’t know herself why she was flustered. Why did the memory of yesterday evening, of that disorder, gnaw and burn her?

She was both ashamed and annoyed with someone, either herself or Oblomov. And at another moment, it seemed to her that Oblomov had become dearer, closer to her, that she felt an attraction to him that brought tears to her eyes, as if she had entered into some mysterious kinship with him since yesterday evening…

She didn’t sleep for a long time, for a long time in the morning she walked alone, agitated, along the alley, from the park to the house and back, all the time thinking, thinking, lost in guesses, sometimes frowning, then suddenly flushing and smiling at something, and still couldn’t decide anything. “Oh, Sonechka!” she thought in annoyance. “How lucky she is! She would have decided right away!”

And Oblomov? Why was he silent and motionless with her yesterday, it didn’t matter that her breath warmed his cheek, that her hot tears dripped onto his hand, that he almost carried her home in his arms, heard the indiscreet whisper of her heart?… And another? Others look so daringly…

Although Oblomov had spent his youth among the omniscient youth who had long resolved all life’s questions, believed in nothing, and analyzed everything coldly and wisely, in his soul, faith in friendship, in love, in human honor warmed him, and no matter how many times he had been mistaken in people, no matter how many more times he might be mistaken, his heart suffered, but the foundation of goodness and faith in it never wavered. He secretly worshipped the purity of women, recognized their power and rights, and made sacrifices to them.

But he lacked the character to openly acknowledge the teaching of goodness and respect for innocence. Quietly, he reveled in its fragrance, but sometimes openly joined the chorus of cynics who trembled at even a suspicion of chastity or respect for it, and added his own thoughtless word to their boisterous chorus.

He never clearly grasped how much weight a word of goodness, truth, purity, thrown into the stream of human speech, carries, what a deep curve it carves; he never thought that, spoken boldly and loudly, without the blush of false shame, but with courage, it would not drown in the ugly cries of worldly satirists, but would sink, like a pearl, into the abyss of public life, and a shell would always be found for it.

Many stumble over a kind word, blushing with shame, and boldly, loudly pronounce a thoughtless word, not suspecting that it, too, unfortunately, is not wasted, leaving a long trail of evil, sometimes inextinguishable.

Yet Oblomov was right in practice: not a single stain, no reproach of cold, soulless cynicism, without infatuation and without struggle, lay on his conscience. He could not listen to daily stories of how one changed horses, furniture, and another—a woman… and what expenses the changes entailed…

More than once he suffered for man’s lost dignity and honor, wept for the filthy fall of a woman alien to him, but remained silent, fearing society.

One had to guess this: Olga guessed.

Men laugh at such eccentrics, but women immediately recognize them; pure, chaste women love them—out of sympathy; corrupted ones seek rapprochement with them—to refresh themselves from corruption.

Summer moved on, passed away. Mornings and evenings grew dark and damp. Not only the lilacs but also the linden trees had faded, the berries were gone. Oblomov and Olga saw each other daily.

He caught up with life, that is, he again absorbed everything he had long lagged behind in; he knew why the French envoy had left Rome, why the English were sending ships with troops to the East; he was interested in when a new road would be laid in Germany or France. But he did not think about the road through Oblomovka to a large village, did not certify the power of attorney at the chamber, and did not send Stolz an answer to his letters.

He absorbed only what revolved in the circle of daily conversations at Olga’s house, what was read in the newspapers received there, and quite diligently, thanks to Olga’s persistence, followed current foreign literature. Everything else drowned in the sphere of pure love.

Despite frequent changes in this rosy atmosphere, the main foundation was the cloudless horizon. If Olga sometimes had to ponder Oblomov, her love for him, if from this love there remained idle time and an idle place in her heart, if her questions did not all find a full and always ready answer in his head and his will was silent to the call of her will, and to her vigor and the trembling of life he responded only with a motionless, passionate gaze—she fell into a heavy pensiveness: something cold, like a snake, crept into her heart, sobered her from her dream, and the warm, fairy-tale world of love turned into an autumn day, when all objects seem in gray.

She wondered why this incompleteness, this dissatisfaction with happiness, occurred? What was she lacking? What else did she need? Was this fate—her destiny to love Oblomov? This love was justified by his meekness, his pure faith in goodness, and most of all, by a tenderness, a tenderness she had never seen in a man’s eyes.

What did it matter if he didn’t respond to every glance with an understanding one, if his voice sometimes didn’t sound as it seemed to her it had once sounded, whether in a dream or awake… It was imagination, nerves: why listen to them and overthink?

And finally, if she wanted to leave this love—how could she leave? The deed was done: she already loved, and to cast off love at will, like a dress, was impossible. “One does not love twice in life,” she thought, “they say it’s immoral…”

Thus she learned love, tested it, and met every new step with a tear or a smile, pondering it deeply. Then appeared that concentrated expression under which both tears and smiles lay hidden, and which so frightened Oblomov.

But she did not hint at these thoughts, this struggle, to Oblomov.

Oblomov did not learn about love; he fell asleep in his sweet slumber, which he had once dreamed aloud about with Stolz. At times, he began to believe in the constant cloudlessness of life, and again he dreamed of Oblomovka, populated by kind, friendly, and carefree faces, sitting on the terrace, meditating on the fullness of satisfied happiness.

He, too, sometimes yielded to this reverie and even, secretly from Olga, dozed off in the forest once or twice, awaiting her delayed arrival… when suddenly, unexpectedly, a cloud swept over him.

One day, they were both returning from somewhere, lazily, silently, and just as they crossed the main road, a cloud of dust came rushing towards them, and in the cloud a carriage sped by, and in the carriage sat Sonechka with her husband, and some other gentleman, and some other lady…

“Olga! Olga! Olga Sergeyevna!” cries rang out.

The carriage stopped. All these gentlemen and ladies got out of it, surrounded Olga, began to greet each other, peck kisses, all spoke at once, for a long time not noticing Oblomov. Then suddenly everyone looked at him, one gentleman through his lorgnette.

“Who is that?” Sonechka quietly asked.

“Ilya Ilyich Oblomov!” Olga introduced him.

Everyone walked to the house: Oblomov was out of his element; he lagged behind the company and was about to step over the wattle fence to slip home through the rye. Olga’s gaze turned him back.

It wouldn’t have mattered, but all these gentlemen and ladies looked at him so strangely; and perhaps that was nothing. Before, they used to look at him differently because of his sleepy, bored gaze, his negligence in dress.

But the same strange gaze was transferred by the gentlemen and ladies from him to Olga. At this doubtful glance at her, his heart suddenly grew cold; something began to gnaw at him, but so painfully, tormentingly, that he could not bear it and went home, and was thoughtful, gloomy.

The next day, Olga’s sweet chatter and gentle playfulness could not cheer him up. To her persistent questions, he had to plead a headache and patiently allowed her to pour seventy-five kopecks’ worth of cologne on his head.

Then on the third day, after they returned home late, the aunt looked at them somewhat too shrewdly, especially at him, then lowered her large, slightly swollen eyelids, but her eyes seemed to be still looking through her eyelids, and for a minute she thoughtfully sniffed spirits.

Oblomov suffered, but remained silent. He dared not confide his doubts to Olga, fearing to alarm or frighten her, and, to tell the truth, he also feared for himself, feared to disturb that undisturbed, cloudless world with a question of such strict importance.

This was no longer a question of whether she had mistakenly loved him, Oblomov, but whether their entire love, these meetings in the forest, alone, sometimes late in the evening, was a mistake.

“I tried to kiss her,” he thought in horror, “and yet that is a criminal offense in the code of morality, and not the first, not an insignificant one! Even before it, there are many degrees: a handshake, a confession, a letter… We have gone through all that. However,” he thought further, straightening his head, “my intentions are honest, I…”

And suddenly the cloud vanished, before him opened a bright, festive Oblomovka, all shining in sunlight, with green hills, with a silver river; he walked thoughtfully with Olga along a long alley, holding her by the waist, sitting in a gazebo, on the terrace…

Everyone around her bowed their heads in adoration—in short, everything he had told Stolz.

“Yes, yes; but this should have been the beginning!” he thought again in fear. “The threefold ‘I love you,’ the lilac branch, the confession—all this should be a pledge of lifelong happiness and not be repeated by a pure woman. What am I? Who am I?”—it hammered, like a hammer, in his head.

“I am a seducer, a womanizer! All that’s missing is for me, like that vile old celadon, with oily eyes and a red nose, to stick a rose stolen from a woman into my lapel and whisper to a friend about my victory, so that… so that… Oh, my God, where have I come to! This is the abyss! And Olga is not flying high above it, she is at the bottom of it… for what, for what…”

He was exhausted, weeping like a child over the sudden fading of the rainbow colors of his life, over Olga being a victim. All his love was a crime, a stain on his conscience.

Then for a moment, his agitated mind cleared, as Oblomov realized that all this had a legal outcome: to offer Olga his hand with a ring…

“Yes, yes,” he said with joyful trembling, “and the answer will be a look of shy consent… She won’t say a word, she’ll blush, she’ll smile from the depths of her soul, then her gaze will fill with tears…”

Tears and a smile, a silently extended hand, then lively, playful joy, a happy haste in her movements, then a long, long conversation, whispers alone, that trusting whisper of souls, a mysterious agreement to merge two lives into one!

In trifles, in conversations about mundane things, a love invisible to anyone but them will shine through. And no one will dare to offend them with a glance…

Suddenly his face became so stern, so important.

“Yes,” he said to himself, “here it is, the world of direct, noble, and lasting happiness! I was ashamed until now to hide these flowers, to revel in the scent of love, like a boy, to seek meetings, to walk by moonlight, to eavesdrop on the beating of a maiden’s heart, to catch the tremor of her dreams… My God!”

He blushed to the ears.

“This very evening Olga will learn what strict duties love imposes; today will be the last private meeting, today…”

He placed his hand on his heart: it was beating strongly, but evenly, as it should beat in honest people. Again, he was agitated by the thought of how Olga would first be saddened when he said they shouldn’t see each other; then he would timidly announce his intention, but first he would sound out her way of thinking, revel in her embarrassment, and then…

Further on, he kept dreaming of her shy consent, mysterious whispers, and kisses in the sight of the whole world.

XII

He ran to find Olga. At home, they said she had left; he went to the village—no. He saw her in the distance, like an angel ascending to heaven, going up the hill, her foot barely touching the ground, her figure swaying so lightly.

He followed her, but she barely touched the grass and indeed seemed to fly away. From halfway up the hill, he began to call her name.

She would wait for him, and just as he approached within a couple of fathoms, she would move forward again, leaving a large space between them, stop, and laugh.

He finally stopped, certain she wouldn’t leave him. And she ran down a few steps to him, gave him her hand, and, laughing, pulled him along.

They entered the grove: he took off his hat, and she wiped his forehead with her handkerchief and began to fan his face with her parasol.

Olga was particularly lively, talkative, playful, or suddenly carried away by a tender impulse, then unexpectedly fell into pensiveness.

“Guess what I did yesterday?” she asked when they sat in the shade.

“Read?”

She shook her head.

“Wrote?”

“No.”

“Sang?”

“No. I had my fortune told!” she said. “The countess’s housekeeper was here yesterday; she knows how to tell fortunes with cards, and I asked her.”

“Well, what then?”

“Nothing. A road appeared, then some crowd, and everywhere a blonde, everywhere… I blushed all over when she suddenly said, in front of Katya, that the king of diamonds was thinking of me. When she wanted to say whom I was thinking of, I mixed up the cards and ran away. Are you thinking of me?” she suddenly asked.

“Ah,” he said. “If only one could think less!”

“And I!” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve already forgotten how people live otherwise. When you were sulking last week and didn’t come for two days—remember, you were angry!—I suddenly changed, became mean. I quarrel with Katya, like you with Zakhar; I see her quietly crying, and I don’t feel sorry for her at all. I don’t answer ma tante, I don’t hear what she says, I do nothing, I want nothing. But as soon as you came, I suddenly became completely different. I gave Katya a lilac dress.”

“That is love!” he said dramatically.

“What? A lilac dress?”

“Everything! From your words, I recognize myself: without you, there is no day or life for me; at night I dream of blooming valleys. When I see you, I am kind, active; without you—I am bored; I feel lazy, I want to lie down and think of nothing… Love, don’t be ashamed of your love…”

Suddenly he fell silent. “What am I saying? I didn’t come for that!” he thought and began to clear his throat; he frowned.

“What if I suddenly die?” she asked.

“What a thought!” he said carelessly.

“Yes,” she said, “I’ll catch a cold, a fever will set in; you’ll come here—I’m not there, you’ll go to our place—they’ll say: she’s sick; tomorrow the same; my shutters are closed; the doctor shakes his head; Katya will come out to you in tears, on tiptoes, and whisper: sick, dying…”

“Ah!…” Oblomov suddenly exclaimed.

She laughed.

“What will happen to you then?” she asked, looking into his face.

“What? I’ll go mad or shoot myself, and you’ll suddenly recover!”

“No, no, stop!” she said timidly. “What have we come to! Just don’t come to me dead: I’m afraid of dead people…”

He laughed, and so did she.

“My God, what children we are!” she said, sobering up from this chatter.

He cleared his throat again.

“Listen… I wanted to say.”

“What?” she asked, turning to him animatedly.

He remained timidly silent.

“Well, speak then,” she asked, gently tugging at his sleeve.

“Nothing, just…” he stammered shyly.

“No, you have something on your mind?”

He was silent.

“If it’s something terrible, then it’s better not to speak,” she said. “No, tell me!” she suddenly added again.

“No, there’s nothing, nonsense.”

“No, no, there’s something, tell me!” she insisted, holding tightly to both lapels of his frock coat, and held him so close that he had to turn his face now to the right, now to the left, so as not to kiss her.

He would not have turned, but her menacing “never” roared in his ears.

“Tell me!…” she insisted.

“I can’t, it’s not necessary…” he excused himself.

“How then did you preach that ‘trust is the foundation of mutual happiness,’ that ‘there should not be a single curve in the heart where the eye of a friend would not read’? Whose words are these?”

“I only wanted to say,” he began slowly, “that I love you so much, so much, that if…”

He hesitated.

“Well?” she asked impatiently.

“That if you were to love another now, and he were more capable of making you happy, I would… silently swallow my grief and yield my place to him.”

She suddenly released his frock coat.

“Why?” she asked in surprise. “I don’t understand that. I would not yield you to anyone; I don’t want you to be happy with another. This is something complicated, I don’t understand.”

Her gaze wandered thoughtfully among the trees.

“Then you don’t love me?” she asked later.

“On the contrary, I love you to the point of self-sacrifice, if I am willing to sacrifice myself.”

“But why? Who asks you to?”

“I speak in such a case, if you were to love another.”

“Another! Are you mad? Why, if I love you? Will you love another?”

“Why are you listening to me? I’m saying God knows what, and you believe it! I didn’t mean to say that at all.”

“What did you want to say then?”

“I wanted to say that I am guilty before you, long guilty.”

“In what? How?” she asked. “Don’t love? Perhaps you were joking? Speak quickly!”

“No, no, it’s all wrong!” he said with anguish. “You see, it’s like this…” he began hesitantly, “we see each other… quietly.”

“Quietly? Why quietly? I almost always tell ma tante that I saw you.”

“Really, every time?” he asked with concern.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I am at fault: I should have told you long ago that this… isn’t done.”

“You did say,” she said.

“Said? Ah! Indeed, I… hinted. So, that means I did my part.”

He cheered up and was glad that Olga so easily relieved him of the burden of responsibility.

“What else?” she asked.

“Else… nothing more,” he replied.

“That’s not true,” Olga observed firmly, “there’s something; you haven’t said everything.”

“Yes, I thought…” he began, wanting to give his words a careless tone, “that…”

He stopped; she waited.

“That we should see each other less often…” He timidly glanced at her.

She was silent.

“Why?” she asked later, after a moment’s thought.

“A snake gnaws at me: it is my conscience… We stay alone together for so long: I become agitated, my heart stops; you are also restless… I am afraid…” he finished with difficulty.

“Of what?”

“You are young and do not know all the dangers, Olga. Sometimes a man is not master of himself; some infernal force takes hold of him, darkness falls upon his heart, and lightning flashes in his eyes. The clarity of mind fades: respect for purity, for innocence—everything is carried away by a whirlwind; a man is beside himself; passion breathes upon him; he ceases to control himself—and then an abyss opens beneath his feet.”

He even shuddered.

“Well, what then? Let it open!” she said, looking at him with wide eyes.

He was silent; there was nothing more, or no need, to say.

She looked at him for a long time, as if reading in the creases of his forehead, as in written lines, and she herself recalled every word, every glance of his, mentally tracing the whole history of her love, reaching the dark evening in the garden, and suddenly blushed.

“You’re talking nonsense!” she remarked quickly, looking away. “I saw no lightning in your eyes… you look at me mostly like… my nanny Kuzminichna!” she added and laughed.

“You’re joking, Olga, but I’m speaking seriously… and I haven’t said everything yet.”

“What else?” she asked. “What abyss is that?”

He sighed.

“The thing is, we shouldn’t see each other… alone…”

“Why?”

“It’s not good…”

She mused.

“Yes, they say it’s not good,” she said thoughtfully, “but why?”

“What will people say when they find out, when it spreads…”

“Who will say? I have no mother: she alone could ask me why I see you, and before her alone I would cry in response and say that I am doing nothing wrong and neither are you. She would believe me. Who else?” she asked.

“Aunt,” said Oblomov.

“Aunt?”

Olga shook her head sadly and negatively:

“She will never ask. If I left for good, she wouldn’t go looking and asking for me, and I wouldn’t come back to tell her where I had been and what I had done. Who else?”

“Others, everyone… The other day Sonechka looked at you and me, smiled, and all those gentlemen and ladies who were with her, too.”

He told her all the anxiety he had lived with since then.

“As long as she looked only at me,” he added, “I was fine; but when that same look fell on you, my hands and feet grew cold…”

“Well?” she asked coldly.

“Well, that’s why I’ve been tormenting myself day and night ever since, racking my brains on how to prevent publicity; I worried not to frighten you… I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time…”

“Useless worry!” she retorted. “I knew without you.”

“How did you know?” he asked in surprise.

“Just so. Sonechka talked to me, questioned me, stung me, even taught me how to behave with you.”

“And you didn’t say a word to me, Olga!” he reproached.

“You haven’t told me anything about your worry either, until now!”

“What did you answer her?” he asked.

“Nothing! What was there to answer to that? I only blushed.”

“My God! To what it has come: you are blushing!” he said in horror. “How careless we are! What will come of this?”

He looked at her questioningly.

“I don’t know,” she said briefly.

Oblomov hoped to calm himself by sharing his worry with Olga, to draw willpower from her eyes and clear speech, and suddenly, finding no vivid and decisive answer, he lost heart.

His face was clouded with indecision, his gaze wandered gloomily. Inside him, a slight fever was already brewing. He almost forgot about Olga; before him crowded Sonechka with her husband, guests; their chatter, their laughter, could be heard.

Olga, instead of her usual resourcefulness, was silent, looking at him coldly and saying her “I don’t know” even more coldly. And he did not bother, or did not know how, to delve into the hidden meaning of this “I don’t know.”

And he remained silent: without external help, his thought or intention would not have ripened, and, like a ripe apple, would never have fallen by itself: it needed to be plucked.

Olga looked at him for a few minutes, then put on her mantilla, took her kerchief from a branch, put it on her head unhurriedly, and took her parasol.

“Where are you going? So early!” he suddenly asked, waking up.

“No, it’s late. You spoke the truth,” she said with thoughtful despondency, “we’ve gone too far, and there’s no way out: we must part quickly and cover our tracks. Goodbye!” she added dryly, bitterly, and, lowering her head, started to walk along the path.

“Olga, for heaven’s sake, God be with you! How can we not see each other! But I… Olga!”

She did not listen and walked faster; the sand crackled dryly under her boots.

“Olga Sergeyevna!” he cried.

She doesn’t hear, she keeps walking.

“For God’s sake, come back!” he cried, not with his voice, but with tears. “Even a criminal must be heard… My God! Does she have a heart?… Oh, women!”

He sat down and covered his eyes with both hands. The sound of footsteps faded.

“She’s gone!” he said almost in horror and raised his head.

Olga was before him.

He joyfully seized her hand.

“You haven’t left, you won’t leave?…” he said. “Don’t go: remember that if you leave—I am a dead man!”

“And if I don’t leave, I am a criminal and so are you: remember that, Ilya.”

“Ah, no…”

“How no? If Sonechka and her husband catch us together again, I am ruined.”

He shuddered.

“Listen,” he began hurriedly and stammeringly, “I haven’t said everything…” and stopped.

What at home seemed so simple, natural, necessary to him, what smiled at him so, what was his happiness, suddenly became some kind of abyss. He felt breathless to cross it. The step ahead was decisive, bold.

“Someone’s coming!” said Olga.

Footsteps were heard on a side path.

“Could it be Sonechka?” Oblomov asked, his eyes fixed with horror.

Two men and a lady passed by, strangers. Oblomov’s heart lightened.

“Olga,” he began hurriedly and took her hand, “let’s go from here, over there, where there’s no one. Let’s sit here.”

He seated her on a bench, and he himself sat on the grass, beside her.

“You flared up, you left, and I haven’t said everything, Olga,” he said.

“And I will leave again and not return if you play with me,” she began. “You liked my tears once, now perhaps you would like to see me at your feet and thus, little by little, make me your slave, to be capricious, to preach morals, then to cry, to be frightened, to frighten me, and after that to ask what we should do? Remember, Ilya Ilyich,” she added suddenly and proudly, rising from the bench, “that I have grown a lot since I met you, and I know what the game you are playing is called… but you will not see my tears again…”

“Ah, I swear to God, I’m not playing!” he said convincingly.

“All the worse for you,” she remarked dryly. “To all your fears, warnings, and riddles I will say one thing: until this meeting, I loved you and did not know what to do; now I know,” she concluded resolutely, preparing to leave, “and I will not consult with you.”

“And I know,” he said, holding her hand and seating her on the bench, and for a moment fell silent, gathering his courage.

“Imagine,” he began, “my heart is overflowing with one desire, my head with one thought, but my will, my tongue do not obey me: I want to speak, and the words will not come out. And yet how simple, how… Help me, Olga.”

“I don’t know what’s on your mind…”

“Oh, for God’s sake, without that ‘you’: your proud gaze kills me, every word, like frost, chills…”

She laughed.

“You’re crazy!” she said, placing her hand on his head.

“There, now I have the gift of thought and word! Olga,” he said, kneeling before her, “be my wife!”

She was silent and turned away from him in the opposite direction.

“Olga, give me your hand!” he continued.

She didn’t give it. He took it himself and pressed it to his lips. She did not pull it away. Her hand was warm, soft, and slightly damp. He tried to look into her face—she turned away more and more.

“Silence?” he said anxiously and questioningly, kissing her hand.

“A sign of consent!” she finished quietly, still not looking at him.

“What do you feel now? What are you thinking?” he asked, recalling his dream of shy consent, of tears.

“The same as you,” she replied, continuing to look somewhere into the forest; only the agitation of her chest showed that she was restraining herself.

“Are there tears in her eyes?” Oblomov thought, but she stubbornly looked down.

“Are you indifferent, are you calm?” he said, trying to pull her hand towards him.

“Not indifferent, but calm.”

“Why then?”

“Because I foresaw this long ago and got used to the idea.”

“Long ago!” he repeated in astonishment.

“Yes, from the moment I gave you the lilac branch… I mentally called you…”

She did not finish.

“From that moment!”

He flung open his arms wide and wanted to embrace her.

“The abyss yawns, lightning flashes… be careful!” she said slyly, skillfully slipping out of his embrace and fending off his hands with her parasol.

He remembered the menacing “never” and meekly quieted.

“But you never said, never even expressed…” he said.

“We don’t marry ourselves, we are given away or taken.”

“From that moment… really?…” he repeated thoughtfully.

“Did you think that I, not understanding you, would be here alone with you, would sit in the gazebo in the evenings, listen and trust you?” she said proudly.

“So this is…” he began, his face changing, and letting go of her hand.

A strange thought stirred within him. She looked at him with calm pride and waited steadfastly; but at that moment he wished for tears, passion, intoxicating happiness, if only for a minute, and then let the life of unperturbed peace flow!

And suddenly, no impulsive tears from unexpected happiness, no shy consent! How to understand this!

In his heart, the snake of doubt awoke and stirred… Did she love him, or was she just getting married?

“But there is another path to happiness,” he said.

“Which one?” she asked.

“Sometimes love doesn’t wait, doesn’t suffer, doesn’t calculate… A woman is all aflame, trembling, experiencing at once torment and such joys as…”

“I don’t know what that path is.”

“A path where a woman sacrifices everything: peace, reputation, respect, and finds her reward in love… it replaces everything for her.”

“Do we need that path?”

“No.”

“Would you seek happiness on that path at the cost of my peace, the loss of respect?”

“Oh no, no! I swear to God, not for anything,” he said passionately.

“Then why did you speak of it?”

“Truly, I don’t know myself…”

“But I do know: you wanted to know if I would sacrifice my peace for you, if I would go with you on that path? Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, it seems you guessed… So?”

“Never, for nothing!” she said firmly.

He paused, then sighed.

“Yes, that is a terrible path, and it takes a lot of love for a woman to follow a man down it, to perish—and still love.”

He looked at her face questioningly: she showed nothing; only the wrinkle above her eyebrow stirred, but her face was calm.

“Imagine,” he said, “that Sonechka, who is not worth your little finger, suddenly wouldn’t recognize you when you met!”

Olga smiled, and her gaze was just as clear. And Oblomov was carried away by the need of his self-love to demand sacrifices from Olga’s heart and to revel in it.

“Imagine that men, approaching you, would not lower their eyes with timid respect, but would look at you with a bold, cunning smile…”

He looked at her: she diligently moved a pebble with her parasol on the sand.

“You would enter the hall, and several caps would stir with indignation; one of them would move away from you… and your pride would remain the same, and you would clearly realize that you are higher and better than them.”

“Why are you telling me these horrors?” she said calmly. “I will never go down that path.”

“Never?” Oblomov asked gloomily.

“Never!” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “you wouldn’t have the strength to look shame in the eye. Perhaps you wouldn’t be afraid of death: it’s not the execution that’s terrible, but the preparations for it, the hourly tortures, you wouldn’t endure it and would wither away—would you?”

He kept looking into her eyes, wondering what she would do.

She looks cheerful; the picture of horror did not disturb her; a slight smile played on her lips.

“I don’t want to wither or die! It’s all wrong,” she said, “one can not go that way and love even more strongly.”

“Why wouldn’t you go that way,” he asked persistently, almost with annoyance, “if you’re not afraid?…”

“Because on that path… afterwards always… they part,” she said, “and I… to part with you!…”

She stopped, placed her hand on his shoulder, looked at him for a long time, and suddenly, throwing her parasol aside, quickly and warmly embraced his neck, kissed him, then flushed all over, pressed her face to his chest and added softly:

“Never!”

He let out a joyful cry and fell to the grass at her feet.

PART THREE

I

Oblomov beamed as he walked home. His blood was boiling, his eyes shone. He felt as if even his hair was on fire. He entered his room just like that—and suddenly the radiance vanished and his eyes, in unpleasant astonishment, fixed immovably on one spot: Tarantyev was sitting in his armchair.

“What’s keeping you so long? Where have you been wandering?” Tarantyev asked sternly, extending his shaggy hand. “And your old devil has gone completely out of hand: I ask for a snack—nothing, vodka—he didn’t even give me that.”

“I was walking here in the grove,” Oblomov said carelessly, still reeling from the offense inflicted by the appearance of his countryman, and at such a moment!

He had forgotten the gloomy sphere where he had long lived, and had grown unaccustomed to its stifling air. Tarantyev in an instant pulled him, as it were, from heaven back into the swamp. Oblomov agonizingly asked himself: why had Tarantyev come? For how long? — He was tormented by the thought that perhaps he would stay for dinner and then he wouldn’t be able to go to the Ilyinskys. How to get rid of him, even if it cost some expense—that was the only thought occupying Oblomov. He silently and gloomily waited for Tarantyev to speak.

“Well, countryman, why don’t you think of looking at the apartment?” Tarantyev asked.

“That’s not necessary now,” Oblomov said, trying not to look at Tarantyev. “I… won’t move there.”

“What? How won’t you move?” Tarantyev rejoined menacingly. “You rented it, and you won’t move in? What about the contract?”

“What contract?”

“Have you already forgotten? You signed a contract for a year. Hand over eight hundred rubles in assignats, and then go wherever you want. Four tenants looked at it, wanted to rent: everyone was refused. One rented for three years.”

Only now did Oblomov remember that on the very day of his move to the dacha, Tarantyev had brought him a paper, and he, in a hurry, had signed it without reading.

“Oh, my God, what have I done!” he thought.

“But I don’t need an apartment,” Oblomov said, “I’m going abroad…”

“Abroad!” Tarantyev interrupted. “With that German? Where would you go, you won’t go!”

“Why won’t I go? I even have a passport: I’ll show you. And a suitcase has been bought.”

“You won’t go!” Tarantyev repeated indifferently. “You’d better hand over the money for half a year in advance instead.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Get it wherever you want; my godmother’s brother, Ivan Matveich, doesn’t like jokes. He’ll go straight to the board: you won’t get out of it. And I’ve paid my share, give it to me.”

“Where did you get so much money?” Oblomov asked.

“What’s it to you? I received an old debt. Give me the money! That’s why I came.”

“All right, I’ll come over in a few days and hand the apartment over to someone else, but now I’m in a hurry…”

He began to button up his frock coat.

“What kind of apartment do you need then? You won’t find a better one in the whole city. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Tarantyev asked.

“I don’t even want to see it,” Oblomov replied, “why would I move there? It’s too far for me…”

“From what?” Tarantyev asked rudely.

But Oblomov didn’t say from what.

“From the center,” he added later.

“What center is that? Why do you need it? To lie around?”

“No, I don’t lie around anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Just because. I… today…” Oblomov began.

“What?” Tarantyev interrupted.

“I’m dining out…”

“Just give me the money, and to hell with you!”

“What money?” Oblomov repeated impatiently. “I’ll stop by the apartment in a few days and talk to the landlady.”

“What landlady? The godmother? What does she know? A woman! No, you talk to her brother—you’ll see!”

“Well, alright; I’ll stop by and talk.”

“Yes, wait for you! You give me the money, and then go.”

“I don’t have any; I need to borrow.”

“Well then, at least pay me for the cabman now,” Tarantyev insisted, “three rubles.”

“Where’s your cabman? And what for three rubles?”

“I let him go. What for? He didn’t even want to drive: ‘on sand?’ he says. And from here, three rubles—that’s twenty-two rubles!”

“A diligence goes from here for fifty kopecks,” Oblomov said, “here, take it!”

He took out four rubles and gave them to him. Tarantyev put them in his pocket.

“Seven rubles in assignats are still due from you,” he added. “And give me something for dinner!”

“What dinner?”

“I won’t make it to the city now: I’ll have to eat at an inn on the road; everything here is expensive: they’ll rip you off five rubles.”

Oblomov silently pulled out a ruble coin and threw it to him. He didn’t sit down, impatient for Tarantyev to leave; but he didn’t.

“Order me something to eat,” he said.

“But you wanted to dine at the inn?” Oblomov remarked.

“That’s for dinner! And it’s only two o’clock now.”

Oblomov told Zakhar to get something.

“There’s nothing, we haven’t cooked,” Zakhar replied dryly, looking grimly at Tarantyev. “And what about you, Mikhey Andreitch, when will you bring the master’s shirt and waistcoat?..”

“What shirts and waistcoats are you talking about?” Tarantyev evaded. “I gave them back long ago.”

“When was that?” Zakhar asked.

“Didn’t I hand them to you yourself when you were moving? And you stuffed them somewhere in a bundle and still ask…”

Zakhar stood dumbfounded.

“Oh, Lord! What kind of disgrace is this, Ilya Ilyich!” he retorted, turning to Oblomov.

“Sing, sing that song!” Tarantyev rejoined. “You probably drank it away, and now you’re asking…”

“No, I’ve never in my life drunk away the master’s things!” Zakhar croaked. “But you…”

“Stop it, Zakhar!” Oblomov interrupted sternly.

“Did you, perhaps, take one floor brush and two cups from us?” Zakhar asked again.

“What brushes?” Tarantyev thundered. “Oh, you old rogue! Bring me a snack instead!”

“Do you hear, Ilya Ilyich, how he swears?” said Zakhar. “There’s no snack, not even bread at home, and Anisya has left the yard,” he finished and walked away.

“Where are you dining?” Tarantyev asked. “It’s amazing, truly: Oblomov walking in the grove, not dining at home… When are you going to the apartment? It’s autumn already. Come and see.”

“All right, all right, in a few days…”

“And don’t forget to bring the money!”

“Yes, yes, yes…” Oblomov said impatiently.

“Well, is there anything you need at the apartment? There, brother, they painted the floors and ceilings, windows, doors—everything for you: it cost more than a hundred rubles.”

“Yes, yes, fine… Ah, that’s what I wanted to tell you,” Oblomov suddenly remembered: “let’s go, please, to the chamber, I need a power of attorney certified…”

“What am I, your intercessor?” Tarantyev retorted.

“I’ll add to your dinner,” Oblomov said.

“You’ll wear out more shoe leather going there than you’ll add.”

“You go, I’ll pay.”

“I can’t go to the chamber,” Tarantyev said grimly.

“Why?”

“I have enemies, they bear malice against me, they plot how to ruin me.”

“Well, alright, I’ll go myself,” Oblomov said and reached for his cap.

“Here, when you come to the apartment, Ivan Matveich will do everything for you. He’s a golden man, brother, no match for some upstart German! A native, Russian official, sitting on the same chair for thirty years, running the whole office, and he has money, but won’t hire a cabman; his frock coat is no better than mine; he himself is quieter than water, lower than grass, speaks barely audibly, doesn’t wander in foreign lands, like your this one…”

“Tarantyev!” Oblomov shouted, banging his fist on the table. “Shut up, you don’t understand!”

Tarantyev’s eyes bulged at this unprecedented outburst from Oblomov, and he even forgot to be offended by being placed below Stolz.

“Well, you’re something today, brother…” he muttered, picking up his hat, “what spryness!”

He smoothed his hat with his sleeve, then looked at it and at Oblomov’s hat, which was on the étagère.

“You don’t wear a hat, you have a cap,” he said, taking Oblomov’s hat and trying it on. “Give it to me, brother, for the summer…”

Oblomov silently took his hat from Tarantyev’s head and put it back in its place, then crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Tarantyev to leave.

“Well, to hell with you!” Tarantyev said, awkwardly squeezing through the door. “You, brother, are something else today… Well, talk to Ivan Matveich and try not to bring the money.”

II

He left, and Oblomov sat down in the armchair in an unpleasant mood, and for a long, long time he struggled to free himself from the crude impression. Finally, he remembered the present morning, and the ugly apparition of Tarantyev flew from his mind: a smile reappeared on his face.

He stood before the mirror, adjusted his tie for a long time, smiled for a long time, and looked at his cheek to see if there was any trace of Olga’s warm kiss.

“Two ‘nevers’,” he said, quietly, joyfully agitated, “and what a difference between them: one has already faded, while the other has bloomed so luxuriantly…”

Then he fell into thought, pondering deeper and deeper. He felt that the bright, cloudless holiday of love had passed, that love was truly becoming a duty, that it was mingling with all of life, entering into the composition of its usual functions, and beginning to fade, losing its rainbow colors.

Perhaps this morning, its last rosy ray flashed, and then it would no longer shine brightly, but invisibly warm life; life would absorb it, and it would be its strong, of course, but hidden spring. And henceforth its manifestations would be so simple, ordinary.

The poem would end, and a rigorous history would begin: the chamber, then a trip to Oblomovka, building a house, mortgaging to the council, laying a road, endless sorting of affairs with the peasants, order of work, harvesting, threshing, clicking of accounts, the worried face of the manager, noble elections, court sessions.

Only here and there, occasionally, would Olga’s glance flash, “Casta diva” resound, a hasty kiss be exchanged, and then again, off to work, off to the city, then again the manager, again the clicking of accounts.

Guests arrived—and even that was no joy: they would talk about how much wine someone distills at the factory, how many arshins of cloth someone supplies to the treasury… What was this? Was this what he had promised himself? Was this life?… And yet they lived as if this were all of life. And Andrei liked it!

But marriage, a wedding—that was still the poetry of life, a ready, blooming flower. He imagined leading Olga to the altar: she, with an orange blossom branch on her head, with a long veil. A whisper of admiration in the crowd. She, shyly, with a softly heaving chest, with her proudly and gracefully inclined head, offers him her hand and does not know how to look at everyone. Sometimes a smile would flash on her face, sometimes tears would appear, sometimes a wrinkle above her eyebrow would play with some thought.

At home, when the guests left, she, still in her magnificent attire, would throw herself into his arms, just like today…

“No, I’ll run to Olga, I can’t think and feel alone,” he dreamed. “I’ll tell everyone, the whole world… no, first aunt, then the baron, I’ll write to Stolz—how surprised he’ll be! Then I’ll tell Zakhar: he’ll bow at my feet and howl with joy, I’ll give him twenty-five rubles. Anisya will come, she’ll try to kiss my hand: I’ll give her ten rubles; then… then, out of joy, I’ll shout to the whole world, I’ll shout so loudly that the world will say: ‘Oblomov is happy. Oblomov is getting married!’ Now I’ll run to Olga: a long whisper awaits me there, a mysterious agreement to merge two lives into one!…”

He ran to Olga. She listened to his dreams with a smile; but as soon as he jumped up to run and tell his aunt, her brows furrowed so tightly that he lost his nerve.

“Not a word to anyone!” she said, putting a finger to her lips and threatening him to speak more quietly, so that her aunt would not hear from the other room. “It’s not time yet!”

“When will it be time, if everything between us is decided?” he asked impatiently. “What should we do now? Where do we start?” he asked. “We can’t just sit idly by. Duty begins, a serious life…”

“Yes, it begins,” she repeated, looking at him intently.

“Well, that’s what I wanted to do as a first step, to go to aunt…”

“That’s the last step.”

“What’s the first then?”

“The first… is to go to the chamber: don’t you need to write some paper?”

“Yes… I’ll tomorrow…”

“Why not today?”

“Today… today is such a day, and to leave you, Olga!”

“Well, alright, tomorrow. And then?”

“Then—tell aunt, write to Stolz.”

“No, then go to Oblomovka… Andrey Ivanovich wrote that you need to do something in the village: I don’t know what your affairs are there, building, perhaps?” she asked, looking into his face.

“My God!” Oblomov said. “But if I listen to Stolz, the matter will never reach aunt! He says I need to start building a house, then a road, establish schools… All this can’t be done in a whole century. We, Olga, will go together, and then…”

“And where will we arrive? Is there a house there?”

“No: the old one is bad; the porch, I think, is completely dilapidated.”

“Where will we arrive then?” she asked.

“We need to find an apartment here.”

“For that, you also need to go to the city,” she remarked, “that’s the second step…”

“Then…” he began.

“But first take two steps, and then…”

“What is this?” Oblomov thought sadly. “No prolonged whisper, no mysterious agreement to merge two lives into one! Everything is somehow different, otherwise. What a strange Olga she is! She doesn’t stop in one place, she doesn’t sweetly ponder a poetic moment, as if she has no dreams at all, no need to drown in thought! Go to the chamber right now, to the apartment—just like Andrey! Why do they all seem to have conspired to rush through life!”

The next day, with a sheet of stamped paper, he set off for the city, first to the chamber, and drove reluctantly, yawning and looking around. He didn’t quite know where the chamber was and stopped by Ivan Gerasimovich’s to ask in which department he needed to certify the document.

The latter was delighted to see Oblomov and wouldn’t let him leave without breakfast. Then he sent for a friend to inquire how it was done, as he himself had long been out of touch with such matters.

Breakfast and the consultation ended at three o’clock; it was too late to go to the chamber, and tomorrow turned out to be Saturday—no session, so it had to be postponed until Monday.

Oblomov set off for the Vyborg Side, to his new apartment. He drove for a long time among long fences in the side streets. Finally, he found a policeman; he said it was in another block, next door, down this street—and he pointed to another street without houses, with fences, with grass, and with dried mud ruts.

Oblomov drove on again, admiring the nettles by the fences and the rowan trees peeking out from behind them. Finally, a policeman pointed to an old house in the yard, adding: “This is the very one.”

“House of the widow of Collegiate Secretary Pshenitsyn,” Oblomov read on the gate and ordered his driver to enter the yard.

The yard was the size of a room, so the carriage hit the corner with its shaft and startled a flock of chickens, which frantically scattered with cackles, some even flying, in different directions; and a large black dog began to strain at its chain right and left, barking desperately, trying to reach the horses’ muzzles.

Oblomov sat in the carriage on a level with the windows and found it difficult to get out. In the windows, adorned with mignonette, marigolds, and calendulas, heads bustled. Oblomov somehow managed to climb out of the carriage; the dog barked even louder.

He went onto the porch and ran into a wrinkled old woman, in a sarafan, with her hem tucked into her belt:

“Who do you want?” she asked.

“The mistress of the house, Madame Pshenitsyna.”

The old woman lowered her head in bewilderment.

“Is it Ivan Matveich you need?” she asked. “He’s not home; he hasn’t returned from work yet.”

“I need the mistress,” Oblomov said.

Meanwhile, the commotion in the house continued. A head would appear from one window, then another; behind the old woman, the door would open slightly and close; various faces peered out from there.

Oblomov turned around: in the yard, two children, a boy and a girl, looked at him with curiosity.

A sleepy peasant in a sheepskin coat appeared from somewhere and, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, lazily looked at Oblomov and the carriage.

The dog continued to bark thickly and intermittently, and as soon as Oblomov moved or a horse stamped its hoof, the chain rattling and incessant barking would begin.

Through the fence, to the right, Oblomov saw an endless garden with cabbage, to the left, through the fence, several trees and a green wooden gazebo were visible.

“Do you need Agafya Matveevna?” the old woman asked. “Why?”

“Tell the mistress of the house,” Oblomov said, “that I wish to see her: I have rented an apartment here…”

“You must be the new tenant, Mikhey Andreich’s acquaintance? Just a moment, I’ll tell her.”

She opened the door, and several heads sprang back from the doorway and rushed into the rooms. He managed to catch a glimpse of a woman, with bare neck and elbows, without a cap, pale, rather full, who smiled faintly at being seen by a stranger, and also hurried away from the door.

“Please come in,” the old woman said, returning, led Oblomov through a small antechamber into a rather spacious room, and asked him to wait. “The mistress will be out directly,” she added.

“And the dog is still barking,” Oblomov thought, looking around the room.

Suddenly, his eyes rested on familiar objects: the whole room was cluttered with his belongings. Tables dusty; chairs piled in a heap on the bed; mattresses, dishes in disarray, wardrobes.

“What is this? Not even arranged, not tidied up?” he said. “What a mess!”

Suddenly, behind him, a door creaked, and the same woman he had seen with bare neck and elbows entered the room.

She was about thirty. Her face was very pale and full, so much so that a blush, it seemed, could not break through her cheeks. She had almost no eyebrows, but in their place were two slightly swollen, shiny strips, with sparse, light hairs. Her eyes were grayish-simple, like the whole expression of her face; her hands were white, but coarse, with large knots of blue veins protruding.

Her dress was tight-fitting: it was clear that she resorted to no artifice, not even an extra petticoat, to increase the volume of her hips and decrease her waist. Because of this, even her covered bust, when she was without a scarf, could have served a painter or sculptor as a model of a firm, healthy chest, without compromising her modesty. Her dress, in comparison to the fancy shawl and formal cap, seemed old and worn.

She wasn’t expecting guests, and when Oblomov wished to see her, she had thrown her Sunday shawl over her everyday house dress and covered her head with a cap. She entered timidly and stopped, looking shyly at Oblomov.

He stood up and bowed.

“Do I have the pleasure of seeing Madame Pshenitsyna?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Perhaps you need to speak with my brother?” she asked hesitantly. “He is at work; he doesn’t come home before five o’clock.”

“No, I wanted to see you,” Oblomov began, as she sat on the sofa, as far as possible from him, and looked at the ends of her shawl, which, like a horse blanket, covered her to the floor. She also hid her hands under the shawl.

“I rented an apartment; now, due to circumstances, I need to look for an apartment in another part of the city, so I came to talk to you…”

She listened dully and pondered dully.

“My brother isn’t home now,” she said then.

“But this house is yours, isn’t it?” Oblomov asked.

“Mine,” she replied briefly.

“So I thought you yourself could decide…”

“But my brother isn’t here; he manages everything for us,” she said monotonously, looking at Oblomov directly for the first time and then dropping her eyes back to her shawl.

“She has a simple, but pleasant face,” Oblomov decided condescendingly, “she must be a kind woman!” At that moment, the girl’s head peeked out of the door. Agafya Matveevna nodded at her with a hidden, threatening gesture, and she disappeared.

“And where does your brother work?”

“In an office.”

“Which one?”

“Where they register peasants… I don’t know what it’s called.”

She smiled ingenuously, and at the same moment her face resumed its usual expression.

“You don’t live here alone with your brother?” Oblomov asked.

“No, two children with me, from my late husband: a boy of eight and a girl of six,” the landlady began quite volubly, and her face became livelier, “and our grandmother, sick, can barely walk, and only to church; before she used to go to the market with Akulina, but now since Nikola’s day she’s stopped: her legs have started to swell. And even in church she mostly sits on a step. That’s all. Sometimes my sister-in-law comes to stay and Mikhey Andreich.”

“And Mikhey Andreich often visits you?” Oblomov asked.

“Sometimes he stays for a month; he and my brother are friends, always together…”

And then she fell silent, having exhausted her entire store of thoughts and words.

“What quiet you have here!” Oblomov said. “If the dog weren’t barking, one might think there wasn’t a single living soul.”

She smiled in response.

“Do you often go out of the yard?” Oblomov asked.

“In summer, sometimes. The other day, on Ilyinskaya Friday, we went to the Gunpowder Mills.”

“Well, are there many people there?” Oblomov asked, looking, through her unfastened scarf, at her high, firm chest, like a sofa cushion, never stirring.

“No, there weren’t many this year; it rained in the morning, and then it cleared up. But usually there are many.”

“Where else do you go?”

“We don’t go many places. My brother and Mikhey Andreich go fishing, they boil some fish soup there, but we mostly stay at home.”

“Really, always at home?”

“Honestly, it’s true. Last year we were in Kolpino, and sometimes we go to the grove here. On June twenty-fourth, it’s my brother’s name day, so there’s a dinner, all the clerks from the office dine here.”

“And do you visit others?”

“My brother does, but with the children I only dine at my husband’s relatives’ on Bright Sunday and Christmas.”

There was nothing more to talk about.

“You have flowers: do you like them?” he asked.

She smiled faintly.

“No,” she said, “we don’t have time to tend to flowers. The children went to the count’s garden with Akulina, and the gardener gave them some, and the geraniums and aloes have been here for a long time, since my husband was alive.”

At that moment, Akulina suddenly burst into the room; in her hands, a large rooster flapped its wings and cackled in despair.

“Should I give this rooster to the shopkeeper, Agafya Matvevna?” she asked.

“What are you doing, what are you doing! Go!” the hostess said shyly. “You see, we have a guest!”

“I just wanted to ask,” Akulina said, holding the rooster by its legs, head down, “he’ll give seventy kopecks.”

“Go, go to the kitchen!” Agafya Matveevna said. “The gray one with speckles, not this one,” she added hastily, and she herself felt ashamed, hid her hands under her shawl, and looked down.

“Household!” Oblomov said.

“Yes, we have many chickens; we sell eggs and chicks. Here, on this street, people from the dachas and from the count’s house buy everything from us,” she replied, looking at Oblomov much more boldly.

And her face took on a businesslike and concerned expression; even her dullness disappeared when she spoke of a familiar subject. To every other question that did not concern some definite, known purpose, she responded with a smile and silence.

“This should have been sorted out,” Oblomov remarked, pointing to the heap of his belongings…

“We were going to, but my brother wouldn’t allow it,” she interrupted animatedly and now looked at Oblomov quite boldly. “‘God knows what he has in those tables and wardrobes…’ they said, ‘if something gets lost later—they’ll blame us…’” She stopped and smiled faintly.

“How cautious your brother is!” Oblomov added.

She smiled slightly again and again assumed her usual expression.

Her smile was more of an adopted form, covering her ignorance of what to say or do in a given situation.

“I will have to wait a long time for him to arrive,” Oblomov said, “perhaps you will convey to him that, due to circumstances, I have no need for the apartment and therefore ask him to transfer it to another tenant, and I, for my part, will also look for a taker.”

She listened dully, blinking evenly.

“Please tell him about the contract…”

“But they’re not home now,” she kept repeating, “you’d better come again tomorrow: tomorrow is Saturday, they don’t go to the office…”

“I am terribly busy, not a minute free,” Oblomov excused himself. “Just be so kind as to say that since the earnest money remains to your advantage, and I will find a tenant, then…”

“My brother isn’t here yet,” she said monotonously, “he’s not coming for some reason…” And she looked out at the street. “They pass by here, past the windows: you can see when they’re coming, but they’re not here yet!”

“Well, I’m leaving…” Oblomov said.

“And when my brother comes, what should I tell him: when will you move in?” she asked, rising from the sofa.

“Please tell them what I asked,” Oblomov said, “that, due to circumstances…”

“You should come yourself tomorrow and talk to them…” she repeated.

“I can’t tomorrow.”

“Well, the day after tomorrow, on Sunday: after mass, we have vodka and snacks. And Mikhey Andreich comes.”

“Mikhey Andreich comes too, really?” Oblomov asked.

“Honestly, it’s true,” she added.

“And the day after tomorrow I can’t either,” Oblomov said impatiently.

“So then next week…” she remarked. “And when will you start moving? I would have the floors washed and the dust wiped off,” she asked.

“I won’t move in,” he said.

“How so? And what will we do with your things?”

“Please tell your brother,” Oblomov began to say deliberately, fixing his eyes directly on her chest, “that, due to circumstances…”

“But he’s not coming for a long time, not visible,” she said monotonously, looking at the fence that separated the street from the yard. “I even know his footsteps; you can hear when someone walks on the wooden pavement. Few people walk here…”

“So you will tell him that I asked you?” Oblomov said, bowing and leaving.

“He’ll be here himself in half an hour…” the landlady said with uncharacteristic anxiety, trying as if to hold Oblomov back with her voice.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he decided, opening the door.

The dog, seeing him on the porch, burst into barking and began to pull at its chain again. The coachman, who had been sleeping leaning on his elbow, began to back up the horses; the chickens, again in alarm, ran in different directions; several heads peered out the window.

“So I’ll tell my brother you were here,” the landlady added anxiously, as Oblomov settled into the carriage.

“Yes, and tell him that, due to circumstances, I cannot keep the apartment for myself and that I will transfer it to another, or that he… should look for…”

“Around this time they always come…” she said, listening to him distractedly. “I’ll tell them you wanted to visit.”

“Yes, I’ll stop by in a few days,” Oblomov said.

With the dog barking desperately, the carriage left the yard and began to sway over the dried humps of the unpaved alley.

At its end, a middle-aged man in a worn coat appeared, with a large paper package under his arm, a thick stick, and rubber galoshes, despite the dry and hot day.

He walked quickly, looking around, and stepped as if he wanted to break through the wooden sidewalk. Oblomov looked after him and saw him turn into Pshenitsyna’s gate.

“That must be the brother who has arrived!” he concluded. “But to hell with him! I’ll spend another hour talking, and I’m hungry and hot! And Olga is waiting for me… Until next time!”

“Go faster!” he told the coachman.

“And look for another apartment?” he suddenly remembered, looking around at the fences. “I’ll have to go back again, to Morskaya or Konyushennaya… Until next time!” he decided.

“Go faster!”

III

In late August, the rains began, and smoke rose from the chimneys of dachas with stoves; where there were none, residents walked around with bandaged cheeks, and finally, little by little, the dachas emptied.

Oblomov didn’t show his face in the city, and one morning, past his windows, the Ilyinskys’ furniture was being carried away. Although moving from an apartment, grabbing a quick lunch somewhere, and not lying down all day no longer seemed like a feat to him, he didn’t know where to lay his head for the night.

Staying at the dacha alone, with the park and grove deserted, and Olga’s window shutters closed, seemed utterly impossible.

He walked through her empty rooms, explored the park, descended the hill, and sadness pressed upon his heart.

He ordered Zakhar and Anisya to go to the Vyborg Side, where he had decided to stay until he found a new apartment, while he himself went to the city, quickly dined at an inn, and spent the evening with Olga.

But autumn evenings in the city were not like the long, bright days and evenings in the park and grove. Here, he could no longer see her three times a day; Katya would no longer run to him, and he would not send Zakhar with a note five versts away. And all this summer, blossoming poem of love seemed to have stopped, moved more slowly, as if it lacked content.

They sometimes sat in silence for half anan hour. Olga would delve into her work, counting the stitches of the pattern with her needle, while he would delve into the chaos of his thoughts and live ahead, much further than the present moment.

Only sometimes, gazing intently at her, would he passionately startle, or she would glance at him in passing and smile, catching a ray of tender submission, of silent happiness in his eyes.

For three consecutive days, he drove to the city to Olga’s and dined with them, under the pretext that his own place was not yet settled, that he would move out that week and therefore wasn’t making himself at home in the new apartment.

But on the fourth day, he felt awkward coming, and after wandering near the Ilyinskys’ house, he sighed and drove home.

On the fifth day, they didn’t dine at home.

On the sixth, Olga told him to come to a certain shop, that she would be there, and then he could walk her home, while the carriage would follow behind.

All this was awkward; he and she encountered acquaintances, who bowed, some stopped to chat.

“Oh my God, what torment!” he exclaimed, sweating all over from fear and the awkward situation.

His aunt also looked at him with her languid, large eyes and thoughtfully sniffed her spirits, as if they gave her a headache. And what a distance for him to travel! You drive and drive from the Vyborg Side, and then back in the evening—three hours!

“Let’s tell Aunt,” Oblomov insisted, “then I can stay with you from morning, and no one will talk…”

“And were you at the chamber?” Olga asked.

Oblomov was itching to say, “yes, and I did everything,” but he knew that Olga would look at him so intently that she would immediately read the lie on his face. He sighed in response.

“Oh, if only you knew how difficult it is!” he said.

“And did you talk to the landlady’s brother? Did you find an apartment?” she asked then, without raising her eyes.

“He’s never home in the morning, and in the evening I’m always here,” Oblomov said, pleased that there was a sufficient excuse.

Now Olga sighed, but said nothing.

“Tomorrow I will definitely talk to the landlady’s brother,” Oblomov reassured her, “tomorrow is Sunday, he won’t go to the office.”

“Until all this is settled,” Olga said thoughtfully, “we can’t tell ma tante and we must see each other less often…”

“Yes, yes… true,” Oblomov added, timidly.

“You can dine with us on Sunday, on our day, and then perhaps on Wednesday, alone,” she decided. “And then we can see each other at the theater: you’ll know when we’re going, and you can go too.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he said, pleased that she had taken on the responsibility for arranging their meetings.

“And if a good day comes along,” she concluded, “I’ll go for a walk in the Summer Garden, and you can come there; it will remind us of the park… the park!” she repeated with feeling.

He silently kissed her hand and said goodbye to her until Sunday. She saw him off with a gloomy gaze, then sat down at the piano and immersed herself in the sounds. Her heart was weeping for something, and the sounds wept too. She wanted to sing—but she couldn’t!

The next day, Oblomov got up and put on his wild little frock coat that he wore at the dacha. He had said goodbye to his dressing gown long ago and ordered it to be hidden in the cupboard.

Zakhar, as usual, approached the table awkwardly with coffee and pretzels, making the tray tremble. Behind Zakhar, as usual, Anisya peered halfway out of the door, watching to see if Zakhar would carry the cups to the table, and immediately, without a sound, hid if Zakhar placed the tray safely on the table, or rushed to him if an item fell from the tray, to save the rest. Whereupon Zakhar would erupt in curses, first at the things, then at his wife, and swing his elbow at her chest.

“What glorious coffee! Who makes it?” Oblomov asked.

“The landlady herself,” Zakhar said, “it’s been her for six days now. ‘You,’ she says, ‘put too much chicory and don’t boil it enough. Let me!’”

“Glorious,” Oblomov repeated, pouring another cup. “Thank her.”

“There she is herself,” Zakhar said, pointing to the half-open door of the side room. “That’s their pantry, or something; she works there, they keep their tea, sugar, coffee, and dishes there.”

Oblomov could only see the landlady’s back, the back of her head and part of her white neck, and her bare elbows.

“What is she doing with her elbows so busily there?” Oblomov asked.

“Who knows! Ironing lace, perhaps.”

Oblomov watched how her elbows moved, how her back bent and straightened again.

Below, when she bent over, her clean skirt, clean stockings, and round, full legs were visible.

“A civil servant’s wife, but her elbows are fit for a countess; even with dimples!” Oblomov thought.

At noon, Zakhar came to ask if he would like to try their pie: the landlady had ordered it to be offered.

“Today is Sunday, they bake pie!”

“Well, I suppose it’s a good pie!” Oblomov said carelessly. “With onions and carrots…”

“The pie is no worse than our Oblomovka ones,” Zakhar remarked, “with chicken and fresh mushrooms.”

“Ah, that must be good: bring it! Who bakes it for them? Is it that dirty woman?”

“Not her!” Zakhar said with contempt. “If it weren’t for the landlady, she wouldn’t even know how to set dough. The landlady does everything in the kitchen herself. She and Anisya baked the pie together.”

After five minutes, a bare arm, barely covered by the already seen shawl, extended from the side room to Oblomov, holding a plate on which a huge piece of pie steamed, emitting hot vapor.

“Thank you kindly,” Oblomov replied affectionately, taking the pie, and glancing into the doorway, his gaze fixed on the high chest and bare shoulders. The door hastily closed.

“Would you like some vodka?” a voice asked.

“I don’t drink; thank you kindly,” Oblomov said even more affectionately. “What kind do you have?”

“Our own, homemade: we infuse it ourselves with currant leaves,” the voice said.

“I’ve never had it with currant leaves; allow me to try some!”

The bare arm again extended with a plate and a shot glass of vodka. Oblomov drank: he liked it very much.

“Very grateful,” he said, trying to look into the doorway, but the door slammed shut.

“Why won’t you let me look at you, wish you good morning?” Oblomov reproached.

The landlady smiled behind the door.

“I’m still in my everyday clothes; I was in the kitchen all this time. I’ll get dressed now; my brother will be back from mass soon,” she replied.

“Ah, a propos of your brother,” Oblomov remarked, “I need to talk to him. Please ask him to come to me.”

“All right, I’ll tell him when he arrives.”

“And who is that coughing at your place? Whose is that dry cough?” Oblomov asked.

“That’s grandmother; she’s been coughing for eight years now.”

And the door slammed shut.

“How… simple she is,” Oblomov thought, “but there’s something about her… And she keeps herself clean!”

Until now, he hadn’t managed to get acquainted with the landlady’s “brother.” He had only seen, and that rarely, from his bed, how, early in the morning, a man with a large paper package under his arm would flash through the fence grating and disappear into the alley, and then, at five o’clock, the same man would flash past the windows again, with the same package, returning, and disappear behind the porch. He was not heard in the house.

And yet it was noticeable that people lived there, especially in the mornings: knives clattered in the kitchen, through the window one could hear a woman rinsing something in the corner, or the yardman chopping wood or pushing a barrel of water on two wheels; behind the wall, children cried or the persistent, dry cough of the old woman resounded.

Oblomov had four rooms, meaning the entire front suite. The landlady and her family occupied two non-front rooms, and her brother lived upstairs, in what was called the svetlyonka (bright room).

Oblomov’s study and bedroom faced the yard, the living room faced the garden, and the hall faced the large vegetable garden, with cabbage and potatoes. In the living room, the windows were draped with faded chintz curtains.

Along the walls were simple, walnut-stained chairs; a card table stood under the mirror; pots of geraniums and marigolds crowded the windows, and four cages with siskins and canaries hung.

The brother entered on tiptoes and responded to Oblomov’s greeting with a triple bow. His uniform was buttoned all the way up, so it was impossible to tell if he had any linen on; his tie was tied in a simple knot and the ends were tucked in.

He was about forty, with a simple tuft of hair on his forehead and two carelessly wind-blown tufts of hair at his temples, resembling medium-sized dog ears. His gray eyes did not immediately look at an object, but first glanced furtively, and only on the second look did they settle.

He seemed to be ashamed of his hands, and when he spoke, he tried to hide them, either both behind his back, or one in his bosom and the other behind his back. When handing a paper to his superior and explaining himself, he held one hand behind his back, and with the middle finger of the other hand, nail down, he carefully pointed to a line or word and, having shown it, immediately hid his hand back, perhaps because his fingers were somewhat thick, reddish, and slightly trembled, and it seemed to him not without reason to be not entirely proper to often display them.

“You were pleased,” he began, casting his double glance at Oblomov, “to order me to come to you.”

“Yes, I wanted to talk to you about the apartment. Please sit down!” Oblomov replied politely.

Ivan Matveich, after a second invitation, decided to sit down, bending his body forward and tucking his hands into his sleeves.

“Due to circumstances, I must find myself another apartment,” Oblomov said, “therefore, I would like to transfer this one.”

“It’s difficult to transfer now,” Ivan Matveevich replied, coughing into his fingers and quickly hiding them in his sleeve. “If you had come at the end of summer, many people were looking then…”

“I was here, but you weren’t,” Oblomov interrupted.

“My sister told me,” the official added. “But don’t worry about the apartment: it will be comfortable for you here. Perhaps the birds bother you?”

“What birds?”

“The chickens, sir.”

Although Oblomov constantly heard the heavy clucking of a broody hen and the peeping of chicks under his windows from early morning, did he care about that? Before him floated the image of Olga, and he barely noticed his surroundings.

“No, that’s nothing,” he said, “I thought you were talking about the canaries: they start chirping from morning.”

“We’ll take them out,” Ivan Matveevich replied.

“That’s nothing either,” Oblomov remarked, “but I, due to circumstances, cannot stay.”

“As you wish, sir,” Ivan Matveevich replied. “But if you don’t find a tenant, what about the contract? Will you make compensation?… You will suffer a loss.”

“And how much is due?” Oblomov asked.

“Well, I’ll bring the calculation.”

He brought the contract and the accounts.

“Here it is, sir, for the apartment, eight hundred rubles in assignats, one hundred rubles received as a deposit, seven hundred rubles remaining,” he said.

“But surely you don’t intend to take from me for a whole year, when I haven’t even lived here for two weeks?” Oblomov interrupted him.

“How so, sir?” Ivan Matveevich rejoined meekly and conscientiously. “My sister will suffer an unjust loss. She is a poor widow, living only on what she gets from the house; she hardly makes anything from chickens and eggs for the children’s clothes.”

“Have mercy, I cannot,” Oblomov began, “consider, I have not lived here for two weeks. What is this, what for?”

“Here, sir, it says in the contract,” Ivan Matveevich said, pointing with his middle finger to two lines and then hiding his finger in his sleeve, “please read: ‘If I, Oblomov, wish to leave the apartment early, I am obliged to transfer it to another person on the same terms or, otherwise, to fully compensate Pshenitsyna with payment for the entire year, up to the first of June of next year,’” Oblomov read.

“How is this possible?” he said. “This is unfair.”

“It’s according to the law, sir,” Ivan Matveevich remarked. “You yourself were pleased to sign: here is the signature, sir!”

Again a finger appeared under the signature and again hid itself.

“How much then?” Oblomov asked.

“Seven hundred rubles,” Ivan Matveevich began to tap with the same finger, deftly bending it into a fist each time, “plus one hundred fifty rubles for the stable and shed.”

And he tapped again.

“Have mercy, I have no horses, I don’t keep any: why do I need a stable and a shed?” Oblomov sharply retorted.

“It’s in the contract, sir,” Ivan Matveevich remarked, pointing to a line with his finger. “Mikhey Andreich said you would have horses.”

“Mikhey Andreich is lying!” Oblomov said with annoyance. “Give me the contract!”

“Here, sir, you may have a copy, but the contract belongs to my sister,” Ivan Matveevich replied softly, taking the contract in his hand. “Furthermore, for the garden and provisions from it of cabbage, turnips, and other vegetables, calculating for one person,” Ivan Matveevich read, “approximately two hundred fifty rubles…”

And he was about to tap on the abacus.

“What garden? What cabbage? I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Oblomov retorted almost menacingly.

“Here, sir, in the contract: Mikhey Andreich said that you are renting with that.”

“What is this, that you dispose of my table without me? I don’t want any cabbage or turnips…” Oblomov said, standing up.

Ivan Matveevich rose from his chair.

“Have mercy, how can it be without you: here is the signature!” he objected.

And again the thick finger trembled on the signature, and the whole paper trembled in his hand.

“How much do you count in total?” Oblomov asked impatiently.

“Another one hundred fifty-four rubles and twenty-eight kopecks in assignats for painting the ceiling and doors, for altering the kitchen windows, for new bolts for the doors.”

“What, and this is at my expense?” Oblomov asked in astonishment. “This is always done at the owner’s expense. Who moves into an unfinished apartment?..”

“Here, sir, it says in the contract that it’s at your expense,” Ivan Matveevich said, pointing from afar with his finger on the paper where it was stated. “One thousand three hundred fifty-four rubles and twenty-eight kopecks in assignats total, sir!” he concluded meekly, hiding both hands with the contract behind his back.

“But where will I get it? I don’t have money!” Oblomov retorted, pacing the room. “I really need your turnips and cabbage!”

“As you wish, sir!” Ivan Matveevich added quietly. “But don’t worry: it will be comfortable for you here,” he added. “And the money… my sister will wait.”

“I can’t, I can’t due to circumstances! Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir. As you wish,” Ivan Matveevich replied obediently, stepping back.

“All right, I’ll think about it and try to transfer the apartment!” Oblomov said, nodding to the official.

“It’s difficult, sir; but otherwise, as you wish!” Ivan Matveevich concluded and, bowing three times, exited.

Oblomov took out his wallet and counted the money: only three hundred five rubles in total. He was stunned.

“Where did I put the money?” Oblomov asked himself in amazement, almost in horror. “At the beginning of summer, twelve hundred rubles were sent from the village, and now only three hundred!”

He began to count, trying to recall all his expenses, and could only remember two hundred fifty rubles.

“Where did all the money go?” he said.

“Zakhar, Zakhar!”

“What do you wish?”

“Where did all our money go? We have no money left!” he asked.

Zakhar began to rummage in his pockets, pulled out fifty kopecks, ten kopecks, and placed them on the table.

“Here, I forgot to give this back, it was left over from the transport,” he said.

“Why are you giving me small change? Tell me, where did eight hundred rubles go?”

“How should I know? Do I know where you spend it? What do you pay cabmen for carriages there?”

“Yes, a lot went on the carriage,” Oblomov recalled, looking at Zakhar. “Do you remember how much we paid the cabman at the dacha?”

“How could I remember?” Zakhar retorted. “Once you told me to give thirty rubles, so I remember that.”

“Why don’t you write it down?” Oblomov reproached him. “It’s bad to be illiterate!”

“I’ve lived my life without literacy, thank God, no worse than others!” Zakhar retorted, looking away.

“Stolz is right that I should set up a school in the village!” Oblomov thought.

“Over at the Ilyinskys, there was a literate one, people said,” Zakhar continued, “but he stole silver from the buffet.”

“Please, no!” Oblomov thought timidly. “Indeed, these literate people are all such immoral folk: in taverns, with accordions, and tea… No, it’s too early to set up schools!…”

“Well, where else did the money go?” he asked.

“How should I know? There, Mikhey Andreich was given some at the dacha…”

“Indeed,” Oblomov said, pleased, remembering that money. “So, thirty to the cabman, and, it seems, twenty-five rubles to Tarantyev… Where else?”

He looked at Zakhar thoughtfully and questioningly. Zakhar looked at him gloomily, out of the corner of his eye.

“Does Anisya remember?” Oblomov asked.

“How would that fool remember? What does a woman know?” Zakhar said with contempt.

“I can’t recall!” Oblomov concluded with anguish. “Could it have been thieves?”

“If it were thieves, they would have taken everything,” Zakhar said as he left.

Oblomov sat down in the armchair and fell into thought. “Where will I get money?” he thought, breaking into a cold sweat. “When will they send it from the village and how much?”

He glanced at the clock: two o’clock, time to go to Olga. Today was the appointed day for dinner. He gradually cheered up, ordered a cabman to be brought, and set off for Morskaya.

IV

He told Olga that he had spoken with the landlady’s brother, and then, in a hurried whisper, added on his own account that there was hope of transferring the apartment that week.

Olga went with her aunt on a visit before dinner, and he went to look at apartments nearby. He called at two houses; in one, he found a four-room apartment for four thousand assignats, in the other, they asked six thousand rubles for five rooms.

“Horror! Horror!” he kept repeating, covering his ears and fleeing from the astonished doormen. Adding the thousand-plus rubles he had to pay Pshenitsyna to these sums, he was too scared to calculate the total and only quickened his pace, running to Olga’s.

There was company there. Olga was animated, talking, singing, and created a furore. Only Oblomov listened distractedly, while she spoke and sang for him, so that he would not sit with his head down, eyelids lowered, so that everything within him would constantly speak and sing.

“Come to the theatre tomorrow, we have a box,” she said.

“In the evening, through the mud, such a distance!” Oblomov thought, but, looking into her eyes, he responded to her smile with a smile of agreement.

“Subscribe to a seat,” she added, “the Mayevskys are coming next week; ma tante invited them to our box.”

And she looked into his eyes to see how pleased he would be.

“My God!” he thought in horror. “And I only have three hundred rubles.”

“Here, ask the baron; he knows everyone there, he’ll send for seats tomorrow.”

And she smiled again, and he smiled looking at her, and with a smile asked the baron; he, also with a smile, undertook to send for the ticket.

“Now in a seat, and then, when you finish your affairs,” Olga added, “you will rightfully take a place in our box.”

And she smiled conclusively, as she smiled when she was completely happy.

Oh, what happiness suddenly wafted over him when Olga slightly lifted the veil of tempting distance, covered, as with flowers, with smiles!

Oblomov even forgot about the money; only when, the next morning, he saw the brother’s package flash past the windows, did he remember the power of attorney and asked Ivan Matveevich to certify it at the chamber. He read the power of attorney, declared that there was an unclear point in it, and undertook to clarify it.

The paper was re-copied, finally certified, and sent by post. Oblomov triumphantly announced this to Olga and was at ease for a long time.

He rejoiced that until he received an answer, he wouldn’t need to look for an apartment, and the money would gradually last longer.

“One could even live here,” he thought, “but it’s far from everything, and their house has strict order, and the household runs splendidly.”

Indeed, the household was running excellently. Although Oblomov kept his own table, the landlady’s eye was watchful over his kitchen too.

Ilya Ilyich once went into the kitchen and found Agafya Matveevna and Anisya almost in each other’s arms.

If there is a sympathy of souls, if kindred hearts sense each other from afar, never was it proven so clearly as in the sympathy between Agafya Matveevna and Anisya. From the first glance, word, and movement, they understood and appreciated each other.

By Anisya’s manner, by how, armed with a poker and a rag, with sleeves rolled up, she put a kitchen, which hadn’t been heated for six months, in order in five minutes; how she swept away dust from shelves, walls, and tables all at once with a brush; what wide sweeps she made with a broom over the floor and benches; how instantly she raked out the ashes from the stove—Agafya Matveevna understood what Anisya was like and what a great helper she would be for her household arrangements. From that moment, she made a place for her in her heart.

And Anisya, in turn, having only once looked at how Agafya Matveevna reigned in the kitchen, how with hawk-like eyes, without eyebrows, she saw every clumsy movement of the awkward Akulina; how she thundered commands to take out, put down, warm up, salt, how at the market with a single glance and a mere touch of her finger she unerringly decided how many months old a chicken was, how long a fish had been asleep, when parsley or lettuce had been plucked from the beds—she looked up at her with astonishment and respectful awe and decided that she, Anisya, had missed her calling, that her sphere was not Oblomov’s kitchen, where her haste, her constantly frantic, nervous feverishness of movement was aimed only at catching a plate or glass dropped by Zakhar in mid-air, and where her experience and subtlety of judgment were suppressed by her husband’s gloomy envy and crude arrogance. The two women understood each other and became inseparable.

When Oblomov didn’t dine at home, Anisya was present in the landlady’s kitchen and, out of love for the work, rushed from corner to corner, placing, removing pots, almost simultaneously unlocking the cupboard, taking out what was needed, and slamming it shut before Akulina could even understand what was happening.

In return, Anisya was rewarded with dinner, about six cups of coffee in the morning and as many in the evening, and frank, prolonged conversation, sometimes a confidential whisper with the landlady herself.

When Oblomov dined at home, the landlady helped Anisya, that is, she indicated, with a word or a finger, whether it was time or too early to take out the roast, whether a little red wine or sour cream should be added to the sauce, or that the fish should be cooked not this way, but that way…

And my God, what knowledge they exchanged in household matters, not just in culinary art, but also concerning linen, threads, sewing, washing clothes, dresses, cleaning blond lace, lace, gloves, removing stains from various fabrics, as well as the use of various homemade medicinal compounds, herbs—everything that an observant mind and centuries of experience had contributed to this particular sphere of life!

Ilya Ilyich would get up around nine in the morning, sometimes seeing the brother’s paper package flash past the fence grating as he left for work, and then he would have his coffee. The coffee was always as excellent, the cream thick, the buns rich and crumbly.

Then he would take a cigar and listen attentively to the heavy clucking of the broody hen, the peeping of the chicks, and the chirping of the canaries and siskins. He had not ordered them to be removed. “They remind me of the village, of Oblomovka,” he said.

Then he would sit down to finish reading the books he had started at the dacha, sometimes casually lying down with a book on the sofa and reading.

The silence was ideal: perhaps a soldier would pass by in the street or a group of peasants with axes tucked into their belts. Rarely would a peddler venture into the wilderness and, stopping before the latticed fence, would shout for half an hour: “Apples, Astrakhan watermelons”—so loudly that one would unwillingly buy something.

Sometimes Masha, the landlady’s daughter, would come from her mother to say that mushrooms or saffron milk caps were for sale: would he like to take a small tub for himself, or he would call Vanya, her son, asking what he had learned, making him read or write, and checking if he wrote and read well.

If the children didn’t close the door behind them, he would see the bare neck and the flashing, perpetually moving elbows and back of the landlady.

She was always at work, always ironing, pounding, or rubbing something, and no longer bothered with formalities, not throwing on a shawl when she noticed he was watching her through the half-open door; she would just smile faintly and then, with renewed diligence, continue pounding, ironing, and rubbing on the large table.

He would sometimes approach the door with a book, peek in, and talk to the landlady.

“You’re always at work!” he said to her once.

She smiled and again diligently began to turn the handle of the coffee grinder, and her elbow described circles so nimbly that Oblomov’s eyes became blurry.

“But you’ll get tired,” he continued.

“No, I’m used to it,” she replied, the grinder rattling.

“And when there’s no work, what do you do?”

“What do you mean, no work? There’s always work,” she said. “In the morning, prepare dinner, after dinner, sew, and in the evening, supper.”

“Do you eat supper?”

“How can we do without supper? We eat supper. On holidays, we go to the all-night vigil.”

“That’s good,” Oblomov praised. “To which church?”

“To the Nativity church: that’s our parish.”

“And do you read anything?”

She looked at him dully and remained silent.

“Do you have books?” he asked.

“My brother has some, but he doesn’t read. We get newspapers from the inn, and sometimes my brother reads aloud… but Vanechka has many books.”

“Do you really never rest?”

“Honestly, it’s true!”

“And you don’t go to the theatre?”

“My brother goes during Christmastide.”

“And you?”

“When would I? And what about supper?” she asked, glancing at him sideways.

“The cook can manage without you…”

“Akulina!” she retorted in surprise. “How could she? What would she do without me? Supper wouldn’t be ready even by tomorrow. I have all the keys.”

Silence. Oblomov admired her full, round elbows.

“How beautiful your hands are,” Oblomov suddenly said, “one could draw them right now.”

She smiled faintly and became a little embarrassed.

“It’s awkward with sleeves,” she excused herself, “dresses nowadays, you know, you get your sleeves all dirty.”

And she fell silent. Oblomov also remained silent.

“Just finish grinding the coffee,” the landlady whispered to herself, “then I’ll break up the sugar. Mustn’t forget to send for cinnamon.”

“You should get married,” Oblomov said, “you’re a wonderful housekeeper.”

She smiled faintly and began pouring the coffee into a large glass jar.

“Truly,” Oblomov added.

“Who would take me with children?” she replied and began calculating something in her mind.

“Two dozen…” she said thoughtfully, “will she really put them all in?” And, placing the jar in the cupboard, she ran to the kitchen. And Oblomov went to his room and began to read a book…

“What a fresh, healthy woman, and what a housekeeper! Really, she should get married…” he said to himself and plunged into thought… about Olga.

Oblomov, in good weather, would put on his cap and walk around the neighborhood; there he would get into mud, here he would get into unpleasant encounters with dogs, and return home.

And at home, the table was already set, and the food was delicious, served cleanly. Sometimes a bare arm would reach through the door with a plate—asking him to try the landlady’s pie.

“It’s quiet and nice here, just boring!” Oblomov said, leaving for the opera.

Once, returning late from the theatre, he and the cabman knocked at the gate for almost an hour; the dog, from straining at its chain and barking, had lost its voice. He was chilled and angry, declaring that he would move out the very next day. But the next day, and the third day, and a week passed—he still hadn’t moved out.

He found it very boring not to see Olga on irregular days, not to hear her voice, not to read the same unchanging tenderness, love, and happiness in her eyes.

However, on the appointed days, he lived as he did in summer, listening enraptured to her singing or gazing into her eyes; and in the presence of witnesses, a single glance from her was enough for him, indifferent to all others, but deep and meaningful to him.

As winter approached, however, their private meetings became rarer. Guests began to visit the Ilyinskys, and for entire days, Oblomov could not say two words to her. They exchanged glances. Her glances sometimes expressed weariness and impatience.

She looked at all the guests with furrowed brows. Oblomov even got bored a couple of times and once after dinner reached for his hat.

“Where?” Olga suddenly asked in astonishment, appearing beside him and grabbing his hat.

“Allow me to go home…”

“Why?” she asked. One eyebrow was raised higher than the other. “What will you do?”

“I just…” he said, barely opening his eyes from sleep.

“Who will allow you? Are you perhaps going to sleep?” she asked, looking at him strictly, alternately into one eye, then the other.

“What are you saying!” Oblomov retorted lively. “Sleep during the day! I’m simply bored.”

And he gave back the hat.

“To the theatre today,” she said.

“Not in the box together,” he added with a sigh.

“So what? Is it nothing that we see each other, that you’ll come to the box during the intermission, approach when we leave, offer your hand to the carriage?… Please go!” she added imperiously. “What are these new developments!”

There was nothing for it; he went to the theatre, yawned as if he wanted to swallow the stage whole, scratched the back of his head, and shifted his legs.

“Ah, if only this would end quickly and I could sit beside her, not drag myself this far here!” he thought. “After such a summer, to see each other in snatches, secretly, to play the role of a lovesick boy… Truth be told, I wouldn’t have gone to the theatre today if I were already married: I’ve heard this opera six times already…”

During the intermission, he went to Olga’s box and barely squeezed his way to her between two fops. Five minutes later, he slipped away and stood by the entrance to the stalls, in the crowd. The act began, and everyone hurried to their places. The fops from Olga’s box were also there and didn’t see Oblomov.

“Who was that gentleman just now in the Ilyinskys’ box?” one asked the other.

“Some Oblomov,” the other replied carelessly.

“What Oblomov?”

“He’s… a landowner, Stolz’s friend.”

“Ah!” the other said meaningfully. “Stolz’s friend. What’s he doing here?”

“Dieu sait!” the other replied, and they all dispersed to their seats. But Oblomov was bewildered by this insignificant conversation.

“What kind of gentleman?… Some Oblomov… What’s he doing here?… Dieu sait,” all this hammered in his head. “‘Some’! What am I doing here? What do you mean ‘what’? I love Olga; I’m her… However, a question has arisen in society: what am I doing here? They noticed… Oh, my God! How can this be, I need to do something…”

He no longer saw what was happening on stage, what knights and women were appearing; the orchestra thundered, but he didn’t hear it. He looked around and counted how many acquaintances were in the theatre: there, there—they were sitting everywhere, everyone asking: “Who was that gentleman who went into Olga’s box?…” “Some Oblomov!” everyone said.

“Yes, I am ‘some’! ” he thought in timid despair. “They know me because I’m Stolz’s friend. Why am I at Olga’s? — ‘Dieu sait!’ There, there, those fops are looking at me, then at Olga’s box!”

He glanced at the box: Olga’s opera glasses were fixed on him.

“Oh, my God!” he thought. “And she doesn’t take her eyes off me! What did she find in me? Such a treasure given! Look, she’s nodding now, pointing to the stage… the fops seem to be laughing, looking at me… Lord, Lord!”

He again frantically scratched the back of his head in agitation, again shifted his leg over the other.

She invited the fops from the theatre to tea, promised to repeat the cavatina, and told him to come.

“No, I won’t go today; I need to settle things quickly, and then… What is this, the attorney isn’t sending an answer from the village?… I would have left long ago, would have gotten engaged to Olga before leaving… Ah, and she’s still looking at me! Trouble, truly!”

He left for home before the end of the opera. Little by little, the impression faded, and he again looked at Olga alone with a tremor of happiness, listened, with suppressed tears of delight, to her singing in front of everyone and, returning home, lay down, without Olga’s knowledge, on the sofa, but not to sleep, not to lie like a dead log, but to dream of her, to mentally play in happiness and to be agitated, looking into the future prospect of his domestic, peaceful life, where Olga would shine—and everything would shine around her. Looking into the future, he sometimes involuntarily, sometimes intentionally, peeked into the half-open door, and at the flashing elbows of the landlady.

One day the silence in nature and in the house was ideal; no clatter of carriages, no slamming of doors; in the hallway, the clock pendulum ticked rhythmically, and the canaries sang; but this did not disturb the silence, but only gave it a certain shade of life.

Ilya Ilyich lay carelessly on the sofa, playing with his slipper, dropping it on the floor, tossing it in the air, twirling it there, it would fall, he would pick it up from the floor with his foot… Zakhar entered and stood by the door.

“What do you want?” Oblomov asked carelessly.

Zakhar remained silent and looked at him almost directly, not sideways.

“Well?” Oblomov asked, looking at him in surprise. “Is the pie ready, perhaps?”

“Have you found an apartment?” Zakhar asked in turn.

“Not yet. Why?”

“Well, I haven’t sorted everything out yet: dishes, clothes, trunks—everything is still piled up in the storeroom. Should I sort it?”

“Wait,” Oblomov said distractedly, “I’m waiting for a reply from the village.”

“So, the wedding will be after Christmas?” Zakhar added.

“What wedding?” Oblomov asked, suddenly standing up.

“You know which one: yours!” Zakhar replied definitively, as if it were a long-decided matter. “You are getting married, aren’t you?”

“I’m getting married! To whom?” Oblomov asked in horror, devouring Zakhar with astonished eyes.

“To the Ilyinsky young la…” Zakhar hadn’t even finished, and Oblomov was almost nose to nose with him.

“What are you, wretch, who put that idea into your head?” Oblomov exclaimed pathetically, in a restrained voice, pressing on Zakhar.

“What wretch am I? Thank God!” Zakhar said, backing towards the door. “Who? The Ilyinsky people were saying so back in the summer.”

“Shhh!…” Oblomov hissed at him, raising a finger and threatening Zakhar. “Not another word!”

“Did I invent it?” Zakhar said.

“Not a word!” Oblomov repeated, looking at him sternly, and pointed him to the door.

Zakhar left and sighed throughout the rooms.

Oblomov couldn’t recover; he remained in the same position, looking in horror at the spot where Zakhar had stood, then in despair he put his hands on his head and sat down in the armchair.

“People know!” it turned over in his head. “Through the servants’ quarters, through the kitchens, rumors are spreading! This is what it has come to! He dared to ask when the wedding was. And Aunt doesn’t suspect yet, or if she does, perhaps something else, something bad… Oh, oh, oh, what might she think! And me? And Olga?”

“Wretch, what have I done!” he said, sprawling on the sofa with his face to the pillow. “A wedding! That poetic moment in the lives of lovers, the crown of happiness—servants, coachmen are talking about it, when nothing is decided yet, when there’s no answer from the village, when my wallet is empty, when no apartment is found…”

He began to analyze the poetic moment, which suddenly lost its colors as soon as Zakhar spoke of it. Oblomov began to see the other side of the coin and painfully turned from side to side, lay on his back, suddenly jumped up, took three steps around the room, and lay down again.

“Well, nothing good will come of it!” Zakhar thought with fear in his anteroom. “What a devil pulled me into this!”

“How do they know?” Oblomov kept repeating, “Olga was silent, I didn’t even dare to think aloud, and in the anteroom, they’ve decided everything! This is what private meetings mean, the poetry of morning and evening glows, passionate glances and enchanting singing! Oh, these love poems, they never end well! One must first get married and then float in a rosy atmosphere!… My God! My God! Run to Aunt, take Olga’s hand and say: ‘This is my fiancée!’ but nothing is ready, there’s no answer from the village, no money, no apartment! No, I must first drive this thought out of Zakhar’s head, extinguish the rumors like a flame, so it doesn’t spread, so there’s no fire and smoke… A wedding! What is a wedding?…”

He smiled faintly, remembering his former poetic ideal of a wedding, the long veil, the orange blossom branch, the whisper of the crowd…

But the colors were no longer the same: right there, in the crowd, was the rude, untidy Zakhar and all the Ilyinskys’ servants, a row of carriages, strange, coldly curious faces. Then, then everything seemed so boring, so terrifying…

“I must drive this thought out of Zakhar’s head, so he considers it absurd,” he decided, sometimes convulsively agitated, sometimes agonizingly lost in thought.

An hour later, he called Zakhar.

Zakhar pretended not to hear and quietly started to make his way to the kitchen. He had already opened the door without a creak, but didn’t fit sideways into one half and bumped his shoulder against the other so that both halves swung open with a crash.

“Zakhar!” Oblomov shouted imperiously.

“What do you want?” Zakhar’s voice came from the anteroom.

“Come here!” Ilya Ilyich said.

“Shall I bring something, perhaps? Just say it, I’ll bring it!” he replied.

“Come here!” Oblomov pronounced slowly and insistently.

“Oh, death won’t come!” Zakhar croaked, squeezing into the room.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked, stuck in the doorway.

“Come closer!” Oblomov said in a solemn, mysterious voice, indicating where Zakhar should stand, and pointed so close that Zakhar would almost have to sit on his master’s lap.

“How can I get over there? It’s cramped, I can hear from here,” Zakhar pleaded, stopping right at the doorway.

“Come, I’m telling you!” Oblomov said menacingly.

Zakhar took a step and stood like a monument, looking out the window at the wandering chickens and offering his master his sideburn, like a brush. Ilya Ilyich changed in an hour from agitation, as if his face had grown hollow; his eyes darted restlessly.

“Well, here it goes!” Zakhar thought, blinking heavily, in mournful anticipation of “pitiful words.”

“How could you ask your master such an absurd question?” Oblomov asked.

“Here it comes!” Zakhar thought, blinking broadly, in mournful anticipation of “pitiful words.”

“I’m asking you, how could you get such nonsense into your head?” Oblomov repeated.

Zakhar remained silent.

“Do you hear, Zakhar? Why do you allow yourself not only to think, but even to speak?..”

“Allow me, Ilya Ilyich, I’d better call Anisya…” Zakhar replied and made a move toward the door.

“I want to talk to you, not Anisya,” Oblomov retorted. “Why did you invent such nonsense?”

“I didn’t invent it,” Zakhar said. “The Ilyinskys’ people were saying it.”

“And who told them?”

“How should I know! Katya told Semyon, Semyon told Nikita, Nikita told Vasilisa, Vasilisa told Anisya, and Anisya told me…” Zakhar said.

“My God, my God! Everyone!” Oblomov exclaimed in horror. “All this is rubbish, absurdity, lies, slander, do you hear me?” Oblomov said, pounding his fist on the table. “This cannot be!”

“Why can’t it be?” Zakhar interrupted indifferently. “It’s an ordinary thing—a wedding! You’re not the only one, everyone gets married.”

“Everyone!” Oblomov said. “You’re good at comparing me to others and to everyone! This cannot be! And it isn’t, and it never was! A wedding is an ordinary thing: do you hear? What is a wedding?”

Zakhar glanced at Oblomov, but saw eyes furiously fixed on him and immediately shifted his gaze to the right, to the corner.

“Listen, I’ll explain to you what it is. ‘A wedding, a wedding,’ idle people will start saying, various women, children, in servants’ quarters, in shops, in markets. A person stops being called Ilya Ilyich or Pyotr Petrovich, and is called ‘the groom.’ Yesterday, no one even wanted to look at him, but tomorrow everyone will stare, as if he were some rogue. They won’t let him pass in the theatre or on the street. ‘There, there’s the groom!’ everyone whispers. And how many people will approach him in a day, everyone trying to make a dumber face, just like yours now! (Zakhar quickly shifted his gaze back to the courtyard) and say something more absurd,” Oblomov continued. “That’s what the beginning is like! And you have to ride every day, like a damned soul, from morning to the bride, always in pale gloves, so your suit is immaculate, so you don’t look bored, so you don’t eat or drink properly, thoroughly, but just live on air and bouquets! That’s three, four months! Do you see? So how can I do that?”

Oblomov stopped and watched if this depiction of the inconveniences of marriage was affecting Zakhar.

“Shall I go, then?” Zakhar asked, turning towards the door.

“No, you stay! You’re good at spreading false rumors, so find out why they’re false.”

“What do I need to find out?” Zakhar said, examining the walls of the room.

“You’ve forgotten all the running around, the commotion for both the groom and the bride. And who will do it for me… will you be running to tailors, shoemakers, to the furniture maker? I can’t tear myself in all directions. Everyone in the city will know. ‘Oblomov is getting married—have you heard?’ ‘Really? To whom? Who is she? When’s the wedding?’,” Oblomov said in different voices. “That’s all the talk will be! And I’ll get exhausted, fall ill from just that, and you invented: a wedding!”

He looked at Zakhar again.

“Shall I call Anisya?” Zakhar asked.

“Why Anisya? You, not Anisya, allowed this ill-considered assumption.”

“Well, why has the Lord punished me today?” Zakhar whispered, sighing so deeply that his shoulders even rose.

“And what about the expenses?” Oblomov continued. “And where’s the money? Did you see how much money I have?” Oblomov asked almost menacingly. “And where’s the apartment? Here I have to pay a thousand rubles, and rent another, give three thousand, and how much for finishing! And then a carriage, a cook, living expenses! Where will I get it?”

“How do others with three hundred souls get married?” Zakhar retorted, but then regretted it himself, because the master almost jumped up from his chair, practically bouncing on it.

“You again with ‘others’? Look!” he said, wagging his finger. “Others live in two, at most three rooms: the dining room and living room—all here; and some even sleep here; children next to them; one maid serves the whole house. The mistress herself goes to the market! And Olga Sergeyevna would go to the market?”

“I can go to the market myself,” Zakhar remarked.

“Do you know how much income we get from Oblomovka?” Oblomov asked. “Do you hear what the elder writes? Income ‘about two thousand less’! And here we need to build a road, establish schools, go to Oblomovka; there’s nowhere to live there, no house yet… What kind of wedding then? What did you invent?”

Oblomov stopped. He himself was horrified by this menacing, bleak prospect. The roses, the orange blossoms, the sparkle of the celebration, the whispers of admiration in the crowd—everything suddenly faded.

His face changed, and he fell into thought. Then, little by little, he came to himself, looked around, and saw Zakhar.

“What are you doing?” he asked gloomily.

“You told me to stand!” Zakhar said.

“Go!” Oblomov impatiently waved him away.

Zakhar quickly stepped into the doorway.

“No, wait!” Oblomov suddenly stopped him.

“First go, then wait!” Zakhar grumbled, holding onto the door.

“How dare you spread such absurd rumors about me?” Oblomov asked in a troubled whisper.

“When did I, Ilya Ilyich, spread them? It wasn’t me, but the Ilyinskys’ people said that the master, they say, proposed…”

“Shhh…” Oblomov hissed, waving his hand menacingly, “not a word, never! Do you hear?”

“I hear,” Zakhar replied timidly.

“You won’t spread this nonsense?”

“I won’t,” Zakhar replied quietly, not understanding half the words and only knowing that they were “pitiful.”

“Watch out then, as soon as you hear—they’ll start talking about it, they’ll ask—say: it’s nonsense, it never was and never can be!” Oblomov added in a whisper.

“Yes, sir,” Zakhar whispered almost inaudibly.

Oblomov looked around and shook his finger at him. Zakhar blinked with frightened eyes and was tiptoeing towards the door.

“Who first said this?” Oblomov asked, catching up to him.

“Katya told Semyon, Semyon told Nikita,” Zakhar whispered, “Nikita told Vasilisa…”

“And you blabbed to everyone! I’ll get you!” Oblomov hissed menacingly. “Spreading slander about your master! Ah!”

“Why do you torment me with such pitiful words?” Zakhar said. “I’ll call Anisya: she knows everything…”

“What does she know? Speak, speak now…”

Zakhar instantly slipped out the door and, with unusual speed, stepped into the kitchen.

“Drop the frying pan, go to the master!” he told Anisya, pointing his thumb at the door.

Anisya handed the frying pan to Akulina, pulled the hem of her skirt from behind her belt, slapped her thighs, and, wiping her nose with her index finger, went to the master. She calmed Ilya Ilyich in five minutes, telling him that no one had said anything about a wedding: it wouldn’t be a sin to swear on it and even take the icon from the wall, and that she was hearing about it for the first time; on the contrary, they were saying something completely different, that the baron, apparently, had proposed to the young lady…

“The baron!” Ilya Ilyich asked, suddenly jumping up, and not only his heart, but his hands and feet turned to ice.

“And that’s nonsense too!” Anisya hastened to say, seeing that she had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. “It was just Katya who told Semyon, Semyon told Marfa, Marfa twisted everything to Nikita, and Nikita said that ‘it would be good if your master, Ilya Ilyich, proposed to the young lady…’”

“What a fool that Nikita is!” Oblomov remarked.

“Exactly a fool,” Anisya confirmed, “even when he drives behind the carriage, it’s as if he’s asleep. And Vasilisa didn’t believe it either,” she rattled on, “she even told her on Dormition Day, and Vasilisa was told by the nanny herself, that the young lady isn’t even thinking of getting married, that it’s impossible that your master hasn’t found a bride long ago if he wanted to get married, and that just recently she saw Samoyla, and he even laughed at it: what kind of wedding, he said? It doesn’t even look like a wedding, but more like a funeral, that the aunt always has a headache, and the young lady cries and is silent; and no dowry is being prepared in the house; the young lady has a huge number of unmended stockings, and they haven’t even managed to mend those; that last week they even pawned the silver…”

“Pawned the silver? And they have no money!” Oblomov thought, his eyes darting across the walls in horror and settling on Anisya’s nose, because there was nothing else to fix them on. It was as if she was speaking all this not with her mouth, but with her nose.

“Watch out then, don’t blab nonsense!” Oblomov remarked, threatening her with his finger.

“Blab what! I don’t even think about it, let alone blab,” Anisya rattled, as if peeling a splinter, “and there’s nothing at all, I’m hearing about it for the first time today, before the Lord God, may I sink through the earth! I was surprised when the master spoke to me, I got scared, even trembled all over! How can this be? What wedding? No one even dreamed of it. I don’t talk to anyone, I just sit in the kitchen. I haven’t seen the Ilyinsky people for a month, I’ve forgotten their names. And who is there to blab with here? With the landlady, the only conversation is about the household; you can’t talk to grandmother: she coughs, and she’s hard of hearing; Akulina is a complete fool, and the yardman is a drunkard; only the children remain: what can you talk about with them? And I’ve even forgotten the young lady’s face…”

“Well, well, well!” Oblomov said, impatiently waving his hand for her to leave.

“How can one talk about what isn’t?” Anisya continued as she left. “And what Nikita said, well, the law isn’t written for fools. It wouldn’t even cross my mind: you toil day in and day out—who has time for that? God knows what it is! There’s the icon on the wall…” And with that, the speaking nose disappeared behind the door, but the chatter was still audible for a minute behind the door.

“So that’s it! And Anisya keeps saying: is it even possible!” Oblomov whispered, clasping his palms together.

“Happiness, happiness!” he then said acerbically. “How fragile you are, how unreliable! Veil, wreath, love, love! But where is the money? And how to live? And you have to be bought, love, a pure, legitimate blessing.”

From that moment, dreams and tranquility abandoned Oblomov. He slept poorly, ate little, and looked at everything distractedly and gloomily.

He had wanted to scare Zakhar and ended up scaring himself more when he delved into the practical side of the marriage question and saw that it was, of course, a poetic, but also a practical, official step towards a substantial and serious reality and a series of strict obligations.

And he hadn’t imagined the conversation with Zakhar that way. He remembered how solemnly he had wanted to announce it to Zakhar, how Zakhar would have cried out with joy and fallen at his feet; he would have given him twenty-five rubles, and Anisya ten…

He remembered everything, and the tremor of happiness then, Olga’s hand, her passionate kiss… and froze: “It has faded, it has gone away!” sounded within him.

“What now?..”

V

Oblomov didn’t know with what eyes he would appear before Olga, what she would say, what he would say, and decided not to go to her on Wednesday, but to postpone the meeting until Sunday, when there were many people there and they wouldn’t be able to speak alone.

He didn’t want to tell her about the foolish rumors people were spreading, so as not to distress her with an incurable evil, but not to speak was also difficult; he wouldn’t be able to pretend with her: she would certainly extract everything from him, no matter how deep in his soul he concealed it.

Having settled on this decision, he felt a little calmer and wrote another letter to his neighbor in the village, his attorney, earnestly asking him to hurry with an answer, as satisfactory as possible.

Then he began to ponder how to spend this long, unbearable day after tomorrow, which would have been so filled with Olga’s presence, the invisible conversation of their souls, her singing. And then suddenly Zakhar saw fit to disturb him so inopportunely!

He decided to go to Ivan Gerasimovich’s and dine with him, so as to notice this unbearable day as little as possible. And then, by Sunday, he would have time to prepare, and perhaps by then, the answer from the village would arrive.

The day after tomorrow arrived.

He was woken by the furious jumping and barking of the dog on its chain. Someone had entered the yard, someone was being asked for. The yardman called Zakhar. Zakhar brought Oblomov a letter from the city post office.

“From the Ilyinsky young lady,” Zakhar said.

“How do you know?” Oblomov asked angrily. “You’re lying!”

“At the dacha, all such letters were brought from her,” Zakhar insisted.

“Is she well? What does this mean?” Oblomov thought, unsealing the letter.

“I don’t want to wait until Wednesday (Olga wrote): I am so bored not seeing you for long periods that I will definitely expect you tomorrow at three o’clock in the Summer Garden.”

And that was all.

Anxiety rose from the depths of his soul again, and he began to toss and turn with worry again, wondering how to talk to Olga, what expression to adopt.

“I don’t know how, I can’t,” he said. “Go ask Stolz!”

But he reassured himself that she would probably come with her aunt or another lady—with Maria Semenovna, for example, who loved her so much, couldn’t get enough of her. In their presence, he somehow hoped to hide his confusion and prepared to be talkative and amiable.

“And right at dinner time: she found the time!” he thought, heading, not without laziness, towards the Summer Garden.

As soon as he entered the long avenue, he saw a woman under a veil rise from a bench and walk towards him.

He couldn’t possibly mistake her for Olga: alone! It couldn’t be! She wouldn’t dare, and there was no excuse for her to leave the house.

However… her gait seemed to be hers: her feet glided so lightly and quickly, as if they were not stepping but moving; the same head and neck slightly inclined forward, as if she were always looking for something on the ground beneath her feet.

Another person would have noticed her by her hat, by her dress, but he, having spent an entire morning with Olga, could never afterwards say what dress and hat she had worn.

There’s hardly anyone in the garden; some elderly gentleman is walking briskly: obviously, taking a constitutional for his health, and two… not ladies, but women, nannies with two children, blue with cold.

The leaves have fallen, everything is visible through and through; the crows in the trees caw so unpleasantly. Nevertheless, it’s a clear, fine day, and if one wraps up well, it’s even warm.

The woman under the veil, closer, closer…

“It’s her!” Oblomov said and stopped in fright, not believing his eyes.

“How, you? What are you doing?” he asked, taking her hand.

“How glad I am that you came,” she said, not answering his question, “I thought you wouldn’t come, I was beginning to be afraid!”

“How did you get here, how?” he asked, flustered.

“Leave it; what’s the matter, what are all these questions for? It’s boring! I wanted to see you and I came—that’s all!”

She squeezed his hand tightly and looked at him cheerfully, carelessly, so clearly and openly enjoying the moment stolen from fate that he even felt envious that he did not share her playful mood. However, no matter how preoccupied he was, he could not help but forget himself for a moment, seeing her face, deprived of that concentrated thought that played on her eyebrows, flowed into a wrinkle on her forehead; now she appeared without that wonderful maturity in her features that had often confused him.

In those moments, her face breathed such childlike trust in fate, in happiness, in him… She was very sweet.

“Oh, how glad I am! How glad I am!” she kept repeating, smiling and looking at him. “I thought I wouldn’t see you today. I was suddenly so sad yesterday—I don’t know why, and I wrote. Are you glad?”

She peered into his face.

“Why are you so frowning today? Silent? Are you not glad? I thought you’d go mad with joy, but he seems to be sleeping. Wake up, sir, Olga is with you!”

She, reproachfully, gently pushed him away from her.

“Are you unwell? What’s wrong with you?” she pressed.

“No, I’m well and happy,” he hastened to say, just to avoid having secrets extracted from his soul. “I’m just worried about you being alone…”

“That’s my concern,” she said impatiently. “Would it be better if I came with ma tante?”

“Better, Olga…”

“If I had known, I would have asked her,” Olga interrupted in an offended voice, releasing his hand from hers. “I thought there was no greater happiness for you than to be with me.”

“And there isn’t, and there can’t be!” Oblomov retorted. “But how are you alone…”

“There’s no need to talk about it for long; let’s talk about something else,” she said carelessly.

“Listen… Oh, there was something I wanted to say, but I forgot.”

“Is it not about how you came here alone?” he said, looking around anxiously.

“Oh, no! You and your usual! How can you not be tired of it! What was it I wanted to say?… Well, never mind, I’ll remember later. Oh, how lovely it is here: all the leaves have fallen, feuilles d’automne—remember Hugo? The sun is over there, the Neva… Let’s go to the Neva, let’s go for a boat ride…”

“What are you saying? God bless you! Such cold, and I’m only in a padded greatcoat…”

“I’m in a padded dress too. What does it matter? Come on, come on.”

She ran, dragging him along. He resisted and grumbled. Nevertheless, he had to get into the boat and go.

“How did you get here alone?” Oblomov kept asking anxiously.

“Shall I tell you how?” she teased slyly, when they were in the middle of the river. “Now I can: you won’t leave here, but there you would have run away…”

“And what?” he asked in fear.

“Will you come to us tomorrow?” she asked instead of an answer.

“Oh, my God!” Oblomov thought. “It’s as if she read my thoughts that I didn’t want to come.”

“I’ll come,” he replied aloud.

“In the morning, for the whole day.”

He hesitated.

“Well then, I won’t tell you,” she said.

“I’ll come for the whole day.”

“You see…” she began seriously, “I called you here today to tell you…”

“What?” he asked with fright.

“That you… come to us tomorrow…”

“Oh, my God!” he interrupted impatiently. “But how did you even get here?”

“Here?” she repeated distractedly. “How did I get here? Well, like this, I came… Wait… but why talk about it!”

She scooped up a handful of water and splashed it on his face. He shut his eyes, shuddered, and she laughed.

“How cold the water is, my hand is quite frozen! My God! How cheerful, how good!” she continued, looking around. “Let’s go again tomorrow, but straight from home…”

“And now, not straight? Where are you from then?” he asked hurriedly.

“From the shop,” she replied.

“Which shop?”

“What do you mean which? I already told you in the garden, which one…”

“No, you didn’t say…” he said impatiently.

“Didn’t say! How strange! I forgot! I left home with a servant to the jeweler’s…”

“Well?”

“Well, there… What church is that?” she suddenly asked the boatman, pointing into the distance.

“Which one? That one over there?” the boatman re-asked.

“Smolny!” Oblomov said impatiently. “Well, so you went to the shop, and then?”

“There… lovely things… Oh, what a bracelet I saw!”

“It’s not about the bracelet!” Oblomov interrupted. “What then?”

“Well, and that’s all,” she added distractedly, looking keenly at the surrounding area.

“Where is the servant?” Oblomov pressed.

“He went home,” she barely replied, gazing at the buildings on the opposite bank.

“And you?” he said.

“How beautiful it is there! Can’t we go there?” she asked, pointing her umbrella at the opposite side. “You live there, after all!”

“Yes.”

“Which street, show me.”

“But what about the servant?” Oblomov asked.

“Oh, he’s fine,” she answered carelessly, “I sent him for the bracelet. He went home, and I came here.”

“How could you do that?” Oblomov said, staring at her.

He made a frightened face. And she purposely made the same one.

“Speak seriously, Olga; stop joking.”

“I’m not joking, it’s true!” she said calmly. “I purposely forgot the bracelet at home, and ma tante asked me to go to the shop. You would never have guessed it!” she added proudly, as if she had accomplished something.

“And if the servant returns?” he asked.

“I told him to wait for me, that I had gone to another shop, and then I came here…”

“And if Maria Mikhailovna asks which other shop you went to?”

“I’ll say I was at the seamstress’s.”

“And if she asks the seamstress?”

“And if the Neva suddenly drains into the sea, and if the boat overturns, and if Morskaia and our house collapse, and if you suddenly stop loving me…” she said and splashed him in the face again.

“But the servant has already returned, he’s waiting…” he said, wiping his face. “Hey, boatman, to the shore!”

“No, no!” she ordered the boatman.

“To the shore! The servant has already returned,” Oblomov insisted.

“Let him be! No need!”

But Oblomov insisted and hurriedly walked with her through the garden, while she, on the contrary, walked slowly, leaning on his arm.

“Why are you hurrying?” she said. “Wait, I want to be with you.”

She walked even more slowly, pressing against his shoulder and looking closely into his face, while he spoke to her heavily and dully about obligations, about duty. She listened distractedly, her head inclined with a languid smile, looking down or again closely into his face, and thinking of something else.

“Listen, Olga,” he finally began solemnly, “at the risk of irritating you, of incurring your reproaches, I must, however, resolutely say that we have gone too far. It is my duty, my obligation, to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?” she asked impatiently.

“That we are doing very wrong by meeting secretly.”

“You said that at the dacha too,” she said thoughtfully.

“Yes, but then I was carried away: with one hand I pushed away, and with the other I held on. You were trusting, and I… as if… deceived you. Then the feeling was still new…”

“And now it’s no longer new, and you’re starting to get bored.”

“Oh, no, Olga! You’re unfair. New, I say, and that’s why there was no time, no possibility to come to my senses. My conscience is killing me: you are young, you know little of the world and people, and besides, you are so pure, you love so sacredly, that it doesn’t even occur to you what strict censure we both are subjected to for what we are doing—most of all, me.”

“What are we doing?” she asked, stopping.

“What do you mean what? You’re deceiving your aunt, secretly leaving home, meeting alone with a man… Try telling all this on Sunday, with guests present…”

“Why not tell them?” she said calmly. “Perhaps I will…”

“And you’ll see,” he continued, “that your aunt will feel unwell, the ladies will rush out, and the men will look at you slyly and boldly…”

She fell into thought.

“But we are engaged!” she countered.

“Yes, yes, dear Olga,” he said, squeezing both her hands, “and all the more strictly we must be, all the more cautious at every step. I want to proudly lead you arm in arm down this very alley, publicly, not secretly, so that glances bow before you with respect, and do not gaze at you boldly and slyly, so that no one’s head would dare to conceive the suspicion that you, a proud girl, could, recklessly, forgetting shame and upbringing, be carried away and violate your duty…”

“I have forgotten neither shame, nor upbringing, nor duty,” she replied proudly, withdrawing her hand from him.

“I know, I know, my innocent angel, but it is not I who say this, it is people, society, who will say it, and they will never forgive you for it. Understand, for God’s sake, what I want. I want you to be pure and irreproachable in the eyes of the world, as you truly are…”

She walked thoughtfully.

“Understand why I’m telling you this: you will be unhappy, and the responsibility for it will fall on me alone. They will say I led you on, deliberately concealing the abyss from you. You are pure and at peace with me, but whom will you convince of this? Who will believe it?”

“That’s true,” she said, shuddering. “Listen then,” she added decisively, “let’s tell ma tante everything, and let her bless us tomorrow…”

Oblomov paled.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Wait, Olga: why such a hurry?…” he added hastily.

His own lips trembled.

“Wasn’t it you, two weeks ago, who rushed me yourself?” she asked, looking at him dryly and intently.

“Yes, but I didn’t think about the preparations then, and there are many!” he said with a sigh. “Let’s just wait for the letter from the village.”

“Why wait for a letter? Can one answer or another change your intention?” she asked, looking at him even more intently.

“There’s a thought! No; but everything is needed for considerations: we will have to tell Aunt when the wedding is. With her, we will not talk about love, but about such matters for which I am completely unprepared now.”

“Then we’ll tell her when you get the letter, and in the meantime, everyone will know that we’re engaged, and we’ll see each other daily. I’m bored,” she added, “I’m languishing through these long days; everyone notices, they pester me, hint slyly about you… All this is annoying me!”

“Hinting about me?” Oblomov barely uttered.

“Yes, thanks to Sonechka.”

“You see, you see? You didn’t listen to me, you got angry then!”

“Well, what do you see? I see nothing, I only see that you’re a coward… I’m not afraid of these hints.”

“Not a coward, but cautious… But let’s go, for God’s sake, from here, Olga; look, a carriage is approaching. Are they acquaintances? Ah! It makes me break out in a sweat… Let’s go, let’s go…” he said timidly and infected her with his fear.

“Yes, let’s go faster,” she also whispered hurriedly.

And they almost ran down the alley to the end of the garden, without saying a word: Oblomov, looking around anxiously in all directions, and she, with her head completely bowed and veiled.

“So, tomorrow!” she said when they were near the shop where her servant was waiting.

“No, better the day after tomorrow… or no, on Friday or Saturday,” he replied.

“Why?”

“Well… you see, Olga… I keep thinking, will the letter arrive?”

“Perhaps. But come tomorrow like this, for dinner, do you hear?”

“Yes, yes, good, good!” he added hurriedly, and she entered the shop.

“Oh, my God, what has it come to! What a stone has suddenly fallen upon me! What will I do now? Sonechka! Zakhar! Fops…”

VI

He didn’t notice that Zakhar had served him a completely cold dinner, nor did he notice how he then found himself in bed and fell into a deep, stone-like sleep.

The next day, he shuddered at the thought of going to Olga’s: how could he! He vividly imagined how everyone would look at him significantly.

The doorman already greeted him with a special warmth. Semyon would rush headlong when he asked for a glass of water. Katya, the nanny, saw him off with a friendly smile.

“The groom, the groom!” it was written on everyone’s forehead, and he hadn’t even asked his aunt for her consent, he had not a penny of money, and he didn’t even know when he would have any, nor how much income he would receive from the village this year; there was no house in the village—what a fine groom!

He decided that until he received positive news from the village, he would only see Olga on Sunday, in the presence of witnesses. Therefore, when tomorrow came, he did not think of starting to prepare to go to Olga’s in the morning.

He didn’t shave, didn’t dress, lazily leafed through the French newspapers he had taken from the Ilyinskys the previous week, didn’t constantly look at his watch, and didn’t frown because the hand moved slowly.

Zakhar and Anisya thought that he, as usual, would not dine at home, and did not ask him what to prepare.

He scolded them, declaring that he did not dine at the Ilyinskys every Wednesday, that it was “slander,” that he had dined at Ivan Gerasimovich’s, and that in the future, except perhaps on Sundays, and not every one of those, he would dine at home.

Anisya rushed to the market for giblets for Oblomov’s favorite soup.

The landlady’s children came to him: he checked Vanya’s addition and subtraction and found two errors. For Masha, he ruled a notebook and wrote large alphabet letters, then listened to the canaries chirping, and looked through the half-open door at the landlady’s flashing and moving elbows.

Around two o’clock, the landlady asked from behind the door if he would like a snack: they were baking vatrushkas. Vatrushkas and a shot glass of currant vodka were served.

Ilya Ilyich’s agitation calmed down a little, and he was left with only a dull pensiveness, in which he remained almost until dinner.

After dinner, just as he was lying on the sofa, starting to nod, overcome by drowsiness, the door from the landlady’s side opened, and Agafya Matveevna appeared from there with two pyramids of stockings in both hands.

She placed them on two chairs, and Oblomov jumped up and offered her a third one, but she didn’t sit; it wasn’t her habit: she was always on her feet, always busy and in motion.

“Today I’ve sorted out your stockings,” she said, “fifty-five pairs, and almost all of them worn out…”

“How kind of you!” Oblomov said, approaching her and playfully taking her lightly by the elbows.

She smiled faintly.

“Why are you bothering? I’m truly embarrassed.”

“It’s nothing, it’s our хозяйственное дело (household business): you have no one to sort them, and I enjoy it,” she continued. “Here, twenty pairs are completely unusable: it’s not even worth darning them.”

“No, leave them all, please! Why are you bothering with this rubbish? One can buy new ones…”

“Leave them, why? These can all be mended.” And she began briskly counting the stockings.

“Please sit down; why are you standing?” he offered her.

“No, thank you kindly, no time to sit down,” she replied, again evading the chair. “It’s laundry day for us today; I need to prepare all the linen.”

“You’re a marvel, not just a landlady!” he said, fixing his eyes on her throat and chest.

She smiled faintly.

“So, what about it,” she asked, “should I mend the stockings? I’ll order paper and thread. An old woman from the village brings them to us, and it’s not worth buying them here: everything’s rotten.”

“If you are so kind, please do me the favor,” Oblomov said, “but I truly feel ashamed that you are taking so much trouble.”

“It’s nothing; what else are we to do? I’ll mend this myself, these I’ll give to Grandmother; tomorrow my sister-in-law will come to visit: there’ll be nothing to do in the evenings, and we’ll mend them. My Masha is already starting to knit, only she keeps pulling out the needles: they’re too big for her hands.”

“Is Masha getting used to it already?” Oblomov asked.

“Honestly, it’s true.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Oblomov said, looking at her with the same pleasure with which he had looked at the hot vatrushka in the morning. “Very, very grateful to you, and I won’t remain in your debt, especially to Masha: I’ll buy her silk dresses, I’ll dress her up like a doll.”

“What are you saying? What thanks? What would she do with silk dresses? Calico ones are hard enough to come by; everything just wears out on her, especially shoes: we can’t keep up with buying them at the market.”

She stood up and took the stockings.

“Why are you rushing?” he said. “Sit down, I’m not busy.”

“Another time, perhaps, on a holiday; and you, you are welcome to come to us for coffee. But now it’s laundry day: I’m going to see if Akulina has started…”

“Well, God be with you, I dare not detain you,” Oblomov said, watching her back and elbows as she left.

“I also got your dressing gown out of the closet,” she continued, “it can be repaired and washed: the material is so splendid! It will last a long time.”

“No need! I don’t wear it anymore, I’ve given it up, I don’t need it.”

“Oh well, let them wash it anyway: perhaps you’ll wear it someday… for the wedding!” she finished, smiling and closing the door.

Suddenly, his sleep vanished, his ears perked up, and his eyes widened.

“And she knows—everyone!” he said, sinking into the chair she had just vacated. “Oh, Zakhar, Zakhar!”

Again, “pitiful” words poured over Zakhar, again Anisya spoke through her nose, saying that “she heard about the wedding for the first time from the landlady, that there wasn’t even a mention of it in her conversations with her, and there’s no wedding, and is it even possible? This must have been invented by the enemy of the human race, may she sink through the earth right now, and that the landlady is also ready to take the icon from the wall, that she hasn’t even heard of the Ilyinsky young lady, and meant some other bride…”

And Anisya talked a lot, so much so that Ilya Ilyich waved his hand. Zakhar tried to ask the next day to visit the old house in Gorokhovaya Street, to go visiting, but Oblomov gave him such a dressing-down that he barely escaped.

“They don’t know there yet, so we need to spread slander. Stay home!” Oblomov added menacingly.

Wednesday passed. On Thursday, Oblomov again received a letter from Olga by city post, asking what was wrong, what had happened, why he hadn’t been there. She wrote that she had cried all evening and hardly slept all night.

“She cries, that angel doesn’t sleep!” Oblomov exclaimed. “My God! Why does she love me? Why do I love her? Why did we meet? It’s all Andrei: he inoculated us both with love, like smallpox. And what kind of life is this, all agitation and worries! When will there be peaceful happiness, tranquility?”

He lay down with heavy sighs, got up, even went out into the street, always seeking the norm of life, an existence that would be both full of content and flow quietly, day by day, drop by drop, in silent contemplation of nature and the quiet, barely moving phenomena of family, peacefully bustling life. He did not want to imagine it as a wide, boisterous river, with surging waves, as Stolz imagined it.

“It’s a disease,” Oblomov said, “a fever, a leaping over rapids, with dam breaches, with floods.”

He wrote to Olga that he had caught a slight cold in the Summer Garden, had to drink hot herbal tea and stay home for a couple of days, that everything had passed now and he hoped to see her on Sunday.

She wrote him a reply and praised him for taking care of himself, advised him to stay home on Sunday as well if necessary, and added that she would rather be bored for a week just so he would take care of himself.

The reply was brought by Nikita, the very one who, according to Anisya, was the main culprit of the gossip. He brought new books from the young lady, with instructions from Olga to read them and say, at their meeting, whether they were worth her reading herself.

She demanded an answer about his health. Oblomov, having written the answer, handed it to Nikita himself and escorted him directly from the anteroom into the courtyard, watching him until he reached the gate, so that he wouldn’t think of going into the kitchen and repeating his “slander” there, and so that Zakhar wouldn’t go to see him off to the street.

He was glad of Olga’s suggestion to take care of himself and not come on Sunday, and he wrote to her that, indeed, for complete recovery he needed to stay home for a few more days.

On Sunday, he paid a visit to the landlady, drank coffee, ate hot pie, and for dinner sent Zakhar to the other side for ice cream and sweets for the children.

Zakhar was barely ferried back across the river; the bridges had already been removed, and the Neva was about to freeze. Oblomov could not even think of going to Olga’s on Wednesday.

Of course, he could have rushed to the other side at once, stayed for a few days at Ivan Gerasimovich’s, and even dined with Olga every day.

The excuse was legitimate: the Neva had frozen on the other side, and he hadn’t managed to cross.

Oblomov’s first impulse was this thought, and he quickly lowered his feet to the floor, but, after thinking a little, with a worried face and a sigh, he slowly lay down again in his place.

“No, let the rumors die down, let the outsiders visiting Olga’s house forget him a little and see him there again every day only when they are announced as fiancés.”

“It’s boring to wait, but there’s nothing to be done,” he added with a sigh, picking up the books sent by Olga.

He read about fifteen pages. Masha came to call him, asking if he wanted to go to the Neva: everyone was going to see the river freeze. He went and returned for tea.

Days passed like this. Ilya Ilyich was bored, he read, he walked in the street, and at home he would peek into the landlady’s door, just to exchange a word or two out of boredom. He even ground about three pounds of coffee for her once with such diligence that his forehead became wet.

He had meant to give her a book to read. She, moving her lips slowly, read the title to herself and returned the book, saying that when Christmastide came, she would take it from him and make Vanya read it aloud, and then Grandmother would listen, but now there was no time.

Meanwhile, planks were laid across the Neva, and one day the dog’s jumping on its chain and desperate barking announced Nikita’s second arrival with a note, asking about his health and with a book.

Oblomov was afraid that he too might have to cross the planks to the other side, so he hid from Nikita, writing in reply that he had developed a small swelling in his throat, that he dared not leave the house yet, and that “cruel fate deprived him of the happiness of seeing his beloved Olga for a few more days.”

He strictly forbade Zakhar from daring to talk to Nikita and again watched the latter with his eyes until he reached the gate, and he wagged his finger at Anisya when she showed her nose from the kitchen and wanted to ask Nikita something.

VII

A week passed. Oblomov, waking up in the morning, first of all anxiously asked if the bridges had been built.

“Not yet,” they told him, and he peacefully spent the day, listening to the ticking of the pendulum, the crackling of the coffee grinder, and the singing of the canaries.

The chicks no longer chirped; they had long since become adult chickens and hid in the coops. He hadn’t managed to read the books Olga had sent: the book lay as he had left it, turned cover-up, on page one hundred and five, for several days now.

Instead, he spent more time with the landlady’s children. Vanya was such an intelligent boy, he memorized the main cities in Europe three times over, and Ilya Ilyich promised to give him a small globe as soon as he went to the other side; and little Masha hemmed three handkerchiefs for him—badly, it’s true, but then she worked so comically with her little hands and kept running to show him every hemmed inch.

He conversed with the landlady incessantly, as soon as he caught sight of her elbows through the half-open door. He had already learned to recognize what the landlady was doing by the movement of her elbows: whether she was sifting, grinding, or ironing.

He even tried to talk to the grandmother, but she could never finish a conversation: she would stop mid-sentence, press her fist against the wall, bend over, and start coughing, as if performing some difficult task, then sigh—and that would be the end of the conversation.

Only his brother he didn’t see at all, or saw a large package flash past the windows, but he himself seemed unheard in the house. Even when Oblomov accidentally entered the room where they were dining, huddled in a tight group, his brother quickly wiped his lips with his fingers and disappeared into his bright room.

One day, as soon as Oblomov woke up carelessly in the morning and began drinking coffee, Zakhar suddenly announced that the bridges had been built. Oblomov’s heart pounded.

“And tomorrow is Sunday,” he said, “I have to go to Olga’s, bravely endure the significant and curious glances of outsiders all day, then tell her when I intend to speak with her aunt.” And he was still at the same point of being unable to move forward.

He vividly imagined himself being announced as engaged, how on the second, on the third day, various ladies and gentlemen would arrive, how he would suddenly become an object of curiosity, how an official dinner would be given, and his health would be drunk. Then… then, by right and duty of a fiancé, he would bring his fiancée a gift…

“A gift!” he said to himself in horror and laughed a bitter laugh.

A gift! And he had two hundred rubles in his pocket! If money was sent, it would be by Christmas, or perhaps later, when the bread was sold, and when it was sold, how much of it there was and how large the sum received would be—all this should be explained by a letter, but there was no letter. What was to be done? Farewell, two weeks of peace!

Amidst these worries, the beautiful face of Olga appeared to him, her fluffy, expressive eyebrows and those intelligent gray-blue eyes, and her whole head, and her braid, which she wore low on the back of her head, so that it continued and complemented the nobility of her entire figure, from head to shoulders and waist.

But as soon as he trembled with love, immediately, like a stone, the heavy thought fell upon him: what to do, how to approach the question of marriage, where to get money, how to live afterwards?…

“I’ll wait a little longer; maybe the letter will come tomorrow or the day after tomorrow.” And he began to calculate when his letter should arrive in the village, how long his neighbor might delay, and how long it would take for a reply to be sent.

“It should arrive within these three, at most four, days; I’ll wait to go to Olga’s,” he decided, especially since she hardly knew that the bridges had been built…

“Katya, have the bridges been built?” Olga asked her maid, waking up that same morning.

And this question was repeated every day. Oblomov did not suspect this.

“I don’t know, young lady; I haven’t seen the coachman or the yardman today, and Nikita doesn’t know.”

“You never know what I need!” Olga said with displeasure, lying in bed and examining the chain around her neck.

“I’ll find out right away, young lady. I didn’t dare to leave, I thought you would wake up, otherwise I would have run down long ago.” And Katya disappeared from the room.

And Olga pulled out the table drawer and took out Oblomov’s last note. “Sick, poor thing,” she thought anxiously, “he’s there alone, bored… Oh, my God, how soon…”

She did not finish her thought, as a flushed Katya flew into the room.

“They’re built, they were built last night!” she said joyfully and quickly took the young lady, who had jumped out of bed, into her arms, threw a blouse over her, and pulled up tiny slippers. Olga quickly opened a drawer, took something out, and dropped it into Katya’s hand, and Katya kissed her hand. All this—the jump from bed, the coin dropped into Katya’s hand, and the kiss of the young lady’s hand—happened at the same moment. “Oh, tomorrow is Sunday: how timely! He will come!” Olga thought and quickly dressed, hastily drank tea, and went with her aunt to the shop.

“Let’s go, ma tante, tomorrow to Smolny, for morning service,” she asked.

Her aunt squinted a little, thought, then said:

“Perhaps; but what a distance, ma chère! What an idea to have in winter!”

And Olga had the idea only because Oblomov had pointed out that church to her from the river, and she wanted to pray in it… for him, that he might be well, that he might love her, that he might be happy with her, that… this indecision, this uncertainty might end sooner… Poor Olga!

Sunday arrived. Olga somehow skillfully managed to arrange the entire dinner to Oblomov’s taste.

She put on a white dress, hid the bracelet he had given her under lace, styled her hair as he liked; the day before, she had ordered the piano tuned and in the morning tried to sing Casta diva. And her voice was as resonant as it hadn’t been since the dacha. Then she waited.

The Baron found her in this state of anticipation and said that she had grown more beautiful again, as in summer, but that she had lost a little weight.

“The absence of country air and a slight disorder in your way of life have noticeably affected you,” he said. “You, dear Olga Sergeevna, need the air of the fields and the countryside.”

He kissed her hand several times, so that his dyed mustache even left a small stain on her fingers.

“Yes, the countryside,” she replied thoughtfully, but not to him, but as if to someone, to the air.

“A propos of the countryside,” he added. “Next month your business will be concluded, and in April you can go to your estate. It is not large, but the location is a marvel! You will be pleased. What a house! A garden! There is a pavilion on the hill: you will love it. A view of the river… you don’t remember, you were five years old when Papa moved out of there and took you away.”

“Oh, how happy I’ll be!” she said and fell into thought.

“Now it’s decided,” she thought, “we’ll go there, but he won’t find out about it until…”

“Next month, Baron?” she asked animatedly. “Is that certain?”

“As certain as you are beautiful in general, and especially today,” he said and went to her aunt.

Olga remained in her place and dreamed of imminent happiness, but she decided not to tell Oblomov about this news, about her future plans.

She wanted to follow through to the end how love would bring about a revolution in his lazy soul, how the oppression would finally fall away from him, how he would not resist the impending happiness, receive a favorable reply from the village, and, radiant, would run, fly, and lay it at her feet, how they both, racing each other, would rush to her aunt, and then…

Then suddenly she would tell him that she also had a village, a garden, a pavilion, a river view, and a house, all ready for living, that they should go there first, then to Oblomovka.

“No, I don’t want a favorable answer,” she thought, “he’ll become proud and won’t even feel joy that I have my own estate, house, garden… No, let him rather come distressed by an unpleasant letter, that there’s disorder in the village, that he needs to go there himself. He’ll rush headlong to Oblomovka, quickly make all the necessary arrangements, forget a lot, fail to do things properly, all haphazardly, and rush back, and suddenly find out that there was no need to rush—that there’s a house, a garden, and a pavilion with a view, that there’s a place to live even without his Oblomovka… Yes, yes, she won’t tell him for anything, she’ll hold out to the end; let him go there, let him stir himself, come alive—all for her, in the name of future happiness! Or? no: why send him to the village, to part? No, when he comes to her in traveling clothes, pale, sad, to say goodbye for a month, she will suddenly tell him that there’s no need to go until summer: then they’ll go together…”

So she dreamed and ran to the Baron and skillfully warned him not to tell anyone about this news prematurely, absolutely no one. By “no one” she meant only Oblomov.

“Yes, yes, why?” he confirmed. “Only Monsieur Oblomov, if the subject comes up…”

Olga composed herself and said indifferently:

“No, don’t tell him either.”

“Your will, you know, is law to me…” the Baron added courteously.

She was not without cunning. If she very much wanted to look at Oblomov in the presence of witnesses, she would first look alternately at three others, then at him.

So many considerations—all for Oblomov! How many times did two spots flare up on her cheeks! How many times would she touch one key, then another, to find out if the piano was tuned too high, or move notes from one place to another! And suddenly he wasn’t there! What did this mean?

Three, four hours—still no sign! At half past four, her beauty, her blossoming began to fade: she visibly wilted and sat down at the table, pale.

And the others were fine: no one even noticed—everyone ate the dishes that had been prepared for him, talking so cheerfully, indifferently.

After dinner, in the evening—he was not there, not there. Until ten o’clock she was agitated by hope, by fear; at ten o’clock she went to her room.

At first, she mentally poured all the bitterness that had boiled up in her heart onto his head; there was no caustic sarcasm, no heated word in her lexicon that she would not have mentally used to punish him.

Then suddenly, as if her whole body filled with fire, then with ice.

“He’s sick; he’s alone; he can’t even write…” flashed through her mind.

This conviction completely took hold of her and kept her awake all night. She feverishly dozed for two hours, was delirious at night, but then, in the morning, she rose, though pale, yet so calm, so resolute.

On Monday morning, the landlady peered into Oblomov’s study and said:

“Some girl is asking for you.”

“Me? Impossible!” Oblomov replied. “Where is she?”

“Here she is: she made a mistake, came to our porch. Shall I let her in?”

Oblomov didn’t yet know what to decide, when Katya appeared before him. The landlady left.

“Katya!” Oblomov said in astonishment. “How are you? What are you doing?”

“The young lady is here,” she whispered, “she told me to ask…”

Oblomov’s face changed.

“Olga Sergeevna!” he whispered in horror. “It’s not true. Katya, you’re joking! Don’t torment me!”

“Honestly, it’s true: in a hired carriage, they stopped at the tea shop, waiting, they want to come here. They sent me to tell you to send Zakhar somewhere. They’ll be here in half an hour.”

“I’d better go myself. How can she come here?” Oblomov said.

“You won’t make it: they’ll be in any minute; they think you’re unwell. Goodbye, I’ll run: they’re alone, waiting for me…”

And she left.

Oblomov, with unusual speed, put on his tie, waistcoat, boots, and called Zakhar.

“Zakhar, you recently asked me to visit the other side, Gorokhovaya, or something, well, go now!” Oblomov said with feverish excitement.

“I won’t go,” Zakhar replied decisively.

“No, you go!” Oblomov insisted.

“What kind of visiting on a weekday? I won’t go!” Zakhar stubbornly said.

“Go then, have fun, don’t be stubborn when the master is being gracious, letting you go… go to your friends!”

“To hell with them, my friends!”

“Don’t you want to see them?”

“They’re all such scoundrels that sometimes I wouldn’t even look at them!”

“Go then, go!” Oblomov insisted, and the blood rushed to his head.

“No, I’ll stay home all day today, but on Sunday, perhaps!” Zakhar replied indifferently.

“Now, right now!” Oblomov urged him in agitation. “You must…”

“But where will I go seven versts to eat kissel?” Zakhar argued.

“Well, go for a walk for two hours: see, how sleepy your face is—get some fresh air!”

“My face is like any other face: just as it usually is for the likes of us!” Zakhar said, lazily looking out the window.

“Oh, my God, she’ll be here any minute!” Oblomov thought, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Well, please, go for a walk, you’re asked to! Here, take a twenty-kopeck piece: have a beer with a friend.”

“I’d rather stay on the porch: otherwise, where will I go in the frost? I can sit by the gate, perhaps, that I can do…”

“No, further from the gate,” Oblomov said quickly, “go to another street, over there, to the left, to the garden… to the other side.”

“What a strange thing!” Zakhar thought. “He’s chasing me out for a walk; that’s never happened before.”

“I’d rather on Sunday, Ilya Ilyich…”

“Will you leave?” Oblomov said, clenching his teeth, pressing on Zakhar.

Zakhar disappeared, and Oblomov called Anisya.

“Go to the market,” he told her, “and buy some… for dinner…”

“Everything for dinner has been bought; it will be ready soon…” her nose began to say.

“Silence and listen!” Oblomov shouted, so that Anisya became timid.

“Buy… asparagus, at least…” he finished, thinking and not knowing what to send her for.

“What asparagus now, dear sir? And where would you find it here…”

“March!” he shouted, and she ran away. “Run as fast as you can there,” he shouted after her, “and don’t look back, and from there go as quietly as possible, don’t show your face before two hours.”

“What a strange thing!” Zakhar said to Anisya, bumping into her outside the gate. “The master chased me out for a walk and gave me a twenty-kopeck piece. Where will I go for a walk?”

“It’s the master’s business,” the shrewd Anisya remarked, “you go to Artemy, the count’s coachman, give him some tea: he always gives you tea, and I’ll run to the market.”

“What a strange thing, Artemy?” Zakhar said to him. “The master chased me out for a walk and gave me money for beer…”

“Didn’t he perhaps get drunk himself?” Artemy shrewdly guessed. “So he gave you some too, so you wouldn’t be envious. Let’s go!”

He winked at Zakhar and gestured with his head towards some street.

“Let’s go!” Zakhar repeated and also gestured with his head towards that street.

“What a strange thing: he chased me out for a walk!” he hissed to himself with a smirk.

They left, and Anisya, reaching the first crossroads, squatted behind a wattle fence, in a ditch, and waited to see what would happen.

Oblomov listened and waited: someone took hold of the ring on the gate, and at the same moment, desperate barking erupted and the dog began to jump on its chain.

“Damned dog!” Oblomov gritted his teeth, grabbed his cap, and rushed to the gate, opened it, and almost carried Olga in his arms to the porch.

She was alone. Katya was waiting for her in the carriage, not far from the gate.

“Are you well? Are you not lying down? What’s wrong with you?” she asked quickly, without removing her cloak or hat, and looking him over from head to toe when they entered the study.

“I’m better now, my throat is better… almost completely,” he said, touching his throat and coughing slightly.

“Why weren’t you here yesterday?” she asked, looking at him with such a probing gaze that he couldn’t say a word.

“How did you decide, Olga, on such an act?” he began in horror. “Do you know what you’re doing…”

“About that later!” she interrupted impatiently. “I’m asking you: what does it mean that you’re not to be seen?”

He was silent.

“Did you get a stye?” she asked.

He was silent.

“You weren’t sick; your throat didn’t hurt,” she said, frowning.

“I wasn’t,” Oblomov replied in a schoolboy’s voice.

“You deceived me!” She looked at him in astonishment. “Why?”

“I’ll explain everything to you, Olga,” he justified himself, “an important reason prevented me from being here for two weeks… I was afraid…”

“Of what?” she asked, sitting down and taking off her hat and cloak.

He took both and placed them on the sofa.

“Of rumors, gossip…”

“And you weren’t afraid that I didn’t sleep all night, thought God knows what, and almost took to my bed?” she said, giving him a scrutinizing look.

“You don’t know, Olga, what’s going on here inside me,” he said, pointing to his heart and head, “I’m all agitated, as if on fire. Don’t you know what happened?”

“What else happened?” she asked coldly.

“How far the rumor about you and me has spread! I didn’t want to alarm you and was afraid to show myself.”

He told her everything he had heard from Zakhar, from Anisya, recalled the dandies’ conversation, and concluded by saying that since then he hadn’t slept, that in every glance he saw a question, or a reproach, or sly hints about their meetings.

“But we decided to announce it to ma tante this week,” she countered, “then these rumors should die down…”

“Yes; but I didn’t want to talk to aunt until this week, until I received the letter. I know she won’t ask about my love, but about the estate, she’ll go into details, and I can’t explain any of that until I get an answer from my attorney.”

She sighed.

“If I didn’t know you,” she said thoughtfully, “God knows what I might think. You were afraid to trouble me with the gossip of lackeys, but you weren’t afraid to trouble me! I’m ceasing to understand you.”

“I thought their chatter would upset you. Katya, Martha, Semyon, and that fool Nikita say God knows what…”

“I’ve known what they say for a long time,” she said indifferently.

“How—you know?”

“Like this. Katya and the nanny told me about it long ago, asked about you, congratulated me.”

“Did they really congratulate you?” he asked in horror. “What did you do?”

“Nothing, I thanked them; I gave the nanny a handkerchief, and she promised to walk to Sergius. I undertook to arrange for Katya to marry the confectioner: she has her own romance…”

He looked at her with frightened and astonished eyes.

“You visit us every day: it’s quite natural that people talk about it,” she added, “they are the first to start talking. It was the same with Sonechka; why does this frighten you so much?”

“So that’s where these rumors come from?” he said slowly.

“Are they unfounded then? Is it not true?”

“True!” Oblomov repeated, neither questioningly nor negatively. “Yes,” he added then, “indeed, you are right: I just don’t want them to know about our meetings, that’s why I’m afraid…”

“You’re afraid, you tremble, like a boy… I don’t understand! Are you stealing me?”

He was uncomfortable; she looked at him intently.

“Listen,” she said, “there’s some kind of lie here, something isn’t right… Come here and tell me everything that’s on your mind. You could have been away for a day, two—perhaps a week, out of caution, but you would have warned me, written. You know, I’m not a child anymore and I’m not so easily confused by nonsense. What does all this mean?”

He thought for a moment, then kissed her hand and sighed.

“Here’s what, Olga, I think,” he said, “all this time my imagination has been so frightened by these horrors for you, my mind so tormented by worries, my heart aching now from hopes fulfilled, now from hopes lost, from expectations, that my whole being is shaken: it goes numb, it demands at least temporary calm…”

“Why doesn’t mine go numb, and I seek calm only by your side?”

“You have young, strong forces, and you love clearly, calmly, and I… but you know how I love you!” he said, sliding to the floor and kissing her hands.

“Not yet, I know little,” you are so strange that I get lost in thought; my mind and hope are fading… soon we will stop understanding each other: then it will be bad!”

They fell silent.

“What have you been doing these days?” she asked, looking around the room for the first time. “It’s not good here: what low rooms! Small windows, old wallpaper… Where else are your rooms?”

He rushed to show her the apartment, to avoid the question of what he had been doing these days. Then she sat on the sofa, and he again settled on the carpet, at her feet.

“So what have you been doing for two weeks?” she interrogated him.

“Reading, writing, thinking about you.”

“Have you read my books? What are they? I’ll take them with me.”

She took the book from the table and looked at the open page: the page was dusty.

“You haven’t read it!” she said.

“No,” he replied.

She looked at the crumpled, embroidered cushions, at the disorder, at the dusty windows, at the writing desk, leafed through several dust-covered papers, stirred the pen in the dry inkwell, and looked at him in astonishment.

“What have you been doing?” she repeated. “You haven’t been reading or writing?”

“There was little time,” he began, stammering, “in the morning you get up, they clean the rooms, they interfere, then discussions about dinner begin, then the landlady’s children come, asking to check their homework, and then dinner. After dinner… when to read?”

“You slept after dinner,” she said so positively that after a moment’s hesitation he quietly replied:

“I slept…”

“Why?”

“So as not to notice time: you weren’t with me, Olga, and life is boring, unbearable without you.”

He paused, and she looked at him sternly.

“Ilya!” she began seriously. “Do you remember, in the park, when you said that life had ignited within you, assured me that I was the goal of your life, your ideal, took my hand and said it was yours—do you remember how I gave you my consent?”

“How could I forget that? Hasn’t it turned my whole life upside down? Don’t you see how happy I am?”

“No, I don’t see; you deceived me,” she said coldly, “you’re sinking again…”

“Deceived! Is it not a sin for you? By God, I would throw myself into the abyss right now!…”

“Yes, if the abyss were right here, under your feet, at this very moment,” she interrupted, “but if it were postponed for three days, you would change your mind, get scared, especially if Zakhar or Anisya started gossiping about it… This is not love.”

“You doubt my love?” he said hotly. “Do you think I’m delaying out of fear for myself, and not for you? Am I not guarding your name like a wall, not watching over it like a mother, so that no rumor dares to touch you… Oh, Olga! Demand proof! I repeat to you, if you could be happier with another, I would yield my rights without a murmur; if I had to die for you, I would die with joy!” he finished with tears.

“None of that is needed, no one demands it! Why do I need your life? You do what needs to be done. It’s a trick of cunning people to offer sacrifices that are not needed or cannot be made, so as not to make the necessary ones. You are not cunning—I know, but…”

“You don’t know how much health these passions and worries have taken from me!” he continued. “I’ve had no other thought since I’ve known you… Yes, and now, I repeat, you are my goal, and you alone. I will die right now, go mad, if you are not with me! I now breathe, look, think, and feel through you. Why are you surprised that on those days when I don’t see you, I fall asleep and collapse? Everything is repugnant to me, everything is boring; I am a machine: I walk, I do things and don’t notice what I’m doing. You are the fire and strength of this machine,” he said, kneeling and straightening up.

His eyes sparkled, as they used to in the park. Again, pride and willpower shone in them.

“I am ready to go wherever you command, to do whatever you wish. I feel that I live when you look at me, speak, sing…”

Olga listened to these outpourings of passion with stern thoughtfulness.

“Listen, Ilya,” she said, “I believe in your love and my power over you. Why then do you frighten me with your indecision, lead me to doubts? You are my goal, you say, and you go towards it so timidly, slowly; and you still have a long way to go; you must rise above me. I expect that from you! I have seen happy people, how they love,” she added with a sigh, “everything boils within them, and their peace is not like yours; they do not drop their heads; their eyes are open; they barely sleep, they act! And you… no, it doesn’t seem that love, that I am your goal…”

She shook her head doubtfully.

“You, you!…” he said, kissing her hands again and agitated at her feet. “Only you! My God, what happiness!” he kept repeating, as if in a delirium. “And you think—is it possible to deceive you, to fall asleep after such an awakening, not to become a hero! You will see, you and Andrei,” he continued, looking around with inspired eyes, “to what heights the love of a woman like you raises a man! Look, look at me: have I not risen, am I not living at this moment? Let’s go from here! Out! Out! I cannot stay here for a minute; I feel suffocated, disgusted!” he said, looking around with unfeigned aversion. “Let me live this feeling today… Oh, if this same fire that burns me now would burn me tomorrow and always! Otherwise, without you—I fade, I fall! Now I am alive, resurrected. It seems to me, I… Olga, Olga!—You are more beautiful than anything in the world, you are the first woman, you… you…”

He pressed his face to her hand and froze. Words no longer came to his tongue. He pressed her hand to his heart to calm his agitation, fixed his passionate, moist gaze on Olga, and became motionless.

“Tender, tender, tender!” Olga mentally repeated, but with a sigh, not as it used to be in the park, and fell into deep thought.

“It’s time for me to go!” she said gently, regaining her composure.

He suddenly sobered up.

“You’re here, my God! At my place?” he said, and his inspired gaze was replaced by a timid glance around. The passionate speech no longer flowed from his tongue.

He hurriedly grabbed her hat and cloak and, in a flurry, tried to put the cloak on her head.

She laughed.

“Don’t be afraid for me,” she reassured him, “ma tante has gone for the whole day; at home only the nanny knows I’m not there, and Katya. See me out.”

She gave him her hand and, without trembling, calmly, in the proud consciousness of her innocence, crossed the yard, amidst the desperate jumping and barking of the dog on its chain, got into the carriage, and drove away.

From the windows of the landlady’s half, heads peered out; from around the corner, behind the wattle fence, Anisya’s head emerged from the ditch.

When the carriage turned into another street, Anisya came and said that she had searched the entire market and there was no asparagus. Zakhar returned about three hours later and slept for a whole day.

Oblomov walked around the room for a long time and felt as if his feet weren’t touching the ground, he didn’t hear his own footsteps: he walked as if a quarter of an inch above the floor.

As soon as the creak of the carriage wheels on the snow, which carried away his life, his happiness, fell silent, his anxiety passed, his head and back straightened, an inspired radiance returned to his face, and his eyes were moist with happiness, with tenderness. A certain warmth, freshness, and vigor spread throughout his body. And again, as before, he suddenly wanted to go everywhere, somewhere far away: to Stolz, with Olga, and to the village, to the fields, to the groves, he wanted to seclude himself in his study and immerse himself in work, and to go to the Rybinsk pier himself, and to spend the journey reading a newly published book that everyone was talking about, and to the opera—today…

Yes, today she is at his place, he is at hers, then at the opera. How full the day is! How easily one breathes in this life, in Olga’s sphere, in the rays of her virginal brilliance, vigorous strength, young, but subtle and profound, sound mind! He walks as if he flies; someone seems to be carrying him around the room.

“Forward, forward!” Olga says, “higher, higher, to that line where the power of tenderness and grace loses its rights and where the kingdom of man begins!”

How clearly she sees life! How she reads her path in this intricate book and instinctively guesses his way too! Both lives, like two rivers, must merge: he is her guide, her leader!

She sees his strengths, his abilities, knows how much he can do, and humbly awaits his dominion. Wonderful Olga! Unperturbed, not timid, simple, but resolute woman, natural as life itself!

“How disgusting it really is here!” he said, looking around. “And this angel descended into a swamp, consecrated it with her presence!”

He looked lovingly at the chair where she had sat, and suddenly his eyes sparkled: on the floor, near the chair, he saw a tiny glove.

“A pledge! Her hand: it’s an omen! Oh!…” he moaned passionately, pressing the glove to his lips.

The landlady looked out the door with an offer to look at some linen: it had been brought for sale, so perhaps he would need it?

But he thanked her dryly, didn’t think to look at her elbows, and apologized, saying he was very busy. Then he delved into memories of summer, went through all the details, remembered every tree, bush, bench, every word spoken, and found it all more charming than it had been at the time when he was enjoying it.

He completely lost control of himself, sang, spoke kindly to Anisya, joked that she had no children, and promised to baptize one as soon as a child was born. He made such a fuss with Masha that the landlady looked out and sent Masha home, so as not to disturb the lodger’s “studies.”

The rest of the day reduced the madness. Olga was cheerful, sang, and then they sang again at the opera, then he drank tea at their place, and over tea there was such a heartfelt, sincere conversation between him, her aunt, the Baron, and Olga, that Oblomov felt himself completely a member of this small family. Enough of living alone: he now had a corner; he had firmly wound up his life; he had light and warmth—how good it was to live with that!

That night he slept little: he kept reading the books Olga had sent and read one and a half volumes.

“Tomorrow the letter should arrive from the village,” he thought, and his heart pounded… pounded… At last!

VIII

The next day, as Zakhar was cleaning the room, he found a small glove on the writing desk. He examined it for a long time, smirked, and then handed it to Oblomov.

“The Ilyinsky young lady must have forgotten it,” he said.

“Devil!” Ilya Ilyich thundered, snatching the glove from his hands. “You’re lying! What Ilyinsky young lady! That was a seamstress who came from the shop to fit shirts. How dare you invent things!”

“What devil? What am I inventing? Look, they’re already talking about it in the landlady’s half.”

“What are they saying?” Oblomov asked.

“Well, listen, they say the Ilyinsky young lady was here with a girl…”

“My God!” Oblomov exclaimed in horror. “And how do they know the Ilyinsky young lady? You or Anisya must have blabbed…”

Suddenly, Anisya poked half of herself out of the front door.

“How can you, Zakhar Trofimych, babble nonsense? Don’t listen to him, dear sir,” she said, “no one said anything or knows anything, by Christ and God…”

“Now, now, now!” Zakhar croaked at her, raising his elbow to her chest. “Don’t stick your nose where it’s not wanted.”

Anisya disappeared. Oblomov threatened Zakhar with both fists, then quickly opened the door to the landlady’s half. Agafya Matveevna was sitting on the floor, sorting through junk in an old chest; around her lay piles of rags, wadding, old dresses, buttons, and pieces of fur.

“Listen,” Oblomov began gently but anxiously, “my servants are talking all sorts of nonsense; for God’s sake, don’t believe them.”

“I haven’t heard anything,” said the landlady. “What are they babbling about?”

“Regarding yesterday’s visit,” Oblomov continued, “they are saying that some young lady came…”

“What does it matter to us who visits the lodgers?” said the landlady.

“But no, please, don’t believe it: it’s a complete fabrication! There was no young lady: it was simply a seamstress who sews shirts. She came to fit them…”

“And where did you order your shirts? Who sews for you?” the landlady asked eagerly.

“At the French shop…”

“Show them when they bring them: I have two girls who sew so well, they make such a stitch that no Frenchwoman could do it. I saw them, they brought some to show, they’re sewing for Count Metlinsky: no one else sews like that. Where are yours, these ones, the ones you’re wearing…”

“Very well, I’ll remember. Just, for God’s sake, don’t think that was a young lady…”

“What does it matter who visits a lodger? Even if it was a young lady…”

“No, no!” Oblomov protested. “Have mercy, the young lady Zakhar is babbling about is enormous, speaks in a bass voice, while this one, the seamstress, you surely heard, speaks with such a thin voice, she has a wonderful voice. Please, don’t think…”

“What does it matter to us?” said the landlady as he left. “So don’t forget, when you need shirts sewn, tell me: my acquaintances make such a stitch… their names are Lizaveta Nikolaevna and Maria Nikolaevna.”

“Alright, alright, I won’t forget; just don’t think anything, please.”

And he left, then got dressed and went to Olga’s.

Returning home in the evening, he found a letter from the village on his table, from his neighbor, his attorney. He rushed to the lamp, read it—and his hands dropped.

“I humbly request you to transfer the power of attorney to another person,” (the neighbor wrote) “as I have accumulated so much business that, in all conscience, I cannot properly look after your estate. It would be best for you to come here yourself, and even better to settle on the estate. The estate is good, but greatly neglected. First of all, it is necessary to distribute the corvée and quitrent more accurately; this cannot be done without the master: the peasants are spoiled, they do not listen to the new elder, and the old one is cunning, he needs to be watched. The amount of income cannot be determined. With the current disorder, you will hardly receive more than three thousand, and that only if you are here yourself. I am calculating the income from grain, and there is little hope from the quitrent payers: they need to be taken in hand and arrears collected—all this will take about three months. The grain was good and well-priced, and in March or April you will receive money if you supervise the sale yourself. At present, there is not a penny in cash. As for the road through Verkhlevo and the bridge, not having received an answer from you for a long time, I have already decided with Odontsov and Belovodov to build a road from my place to Nelki, so Oblomovka remains far to the side. In conclusion, I repeat my request to come as soon as possible: in three months, one can ascertain what to hope for for next year. By the way, there are elections now: would you not wish to run for district judge? Hurry. Your house is very bad (added at the end). I ordered the cowherd, the old coachman, and two old maids to move from there into a hut: it would have been dangerous to stay longer.”

Attached to the letter was a note detailing how many quarters of grain had been harvested, threshed, how much had been stored, how much was designated for sale, and other such household details.

“Not a penny of money, three months, come yourself, sort out the peasants’ affairs, ascertain the income, serve in elections,”—all this surrounded Oblomov like ghosts. He found himself as if in a forest, at night, when every bush and tree seemed to be a robber, a corpse, a beast.

“However, this is a disgrace: I will not give in!” he repeated, trying to get acquainted with these ghosts, just as a coward tries, through squeezed eyelids, to look at phantoms and feels only cold at heart and weakness in his hands and feet.

What was Oblomov hoping for? He thought that the letter would state definitively how much income he would receive and, of course, as much as possible—for example, six or seven thousand; that the house was still good, so that if necessary, he could live in it while a new one was being built; that, finally, the attorney would send three or four thousand—in short, that in the letter he would read the same laughter, the same play of life and love that he read in Olga’s notes.

He no longer walked a quarter of an inch above the floor in the room, no longer joked with Anisya, no longer agitated himself with hopes of happiness: they had to be postponed for three months; no! In three months, he would only sort out his affairs, get to know his estate, and the wedding…

“The wedding cannot even be thought of for less than a year,” he said fearfully: “yes, yes, in a year, not before! He still needs to finish his plan, he needs to decide with the architect, then… then…” He sighed.

“Borrow!” the thought flashed in his head, but he pushed it away.

“How could I! What if I can’t pay it back on time? If things go badly, then they will demand payment, and the name of Oblomov, hitherto clean, inviolable…” God forbid! Then goodbye to his peace, his pride… no, no! Others borrow and then rush around, work, don’t sleep, as if they’ve let a demon inside themselves. Yes, debt is a demon, a devil, that nothing but money can expel!

There are such fellows who live their whole lives at someone else’s expense, accumulate, grab from right and left, and don’t care at all! How they can peacefully fall asleep, how they eat—it’s incomprehensible! Debt! Its consequences—either endless labor, like a convict, or dishonor.

Mortgage the village? Is that not the same debt, only inexorable, unpostponable? Pay every year—and perhaps nothing will be left for living expenses.

Happiness was postponed for another year! Oblomov groaned painfully and was about to fall onto the bed, but suddenly he came to his senses and stood up. And what had Olga said? How she appealed to him, as to a man, trusted in his strength? She was waiting for him to move forward and reach that height where he would extend his hand to her and lead her, show her the way! Yes, yes! But where to begin?

He thought and thought, then suddenly slapped himself on the forehead and went to the landlady’s half.

“Is your brother home?” he asked the landlady.

“Home, but he’s gone to bed.”

“Then ask him to come see me tomorrow,” Oblomov said, “I need to see him.”

IX

The brother entered the room in the same way, sat down carefully on the chair, tucked his hands into his sleeves, and waited for Ilya Ilyich to speak.

“I received a very unpleasant letter from the village, in response to the power of attorney I sent—do you remember?” Oblomov said. “Please, take a moment to read it.”

Ivan Matveevich took the letter and his accustomed eyes scanned the lines, the letter trembling slightly in his fingers. Having read it, he placed the letter on the table, and hid his hands behind his back.

“What do you think should be done now?” Oblomov asked.

“They advise you to go there,” said Ivan Matveevich. “Well, twelve hundred versts is not that far! The road will be established in a week, so you could go.”

“I’m completely out of the habit of traveling; unaccustomed, and in winter too, I confess, it would be difficult for me, I wouldn’t want to… Besides, it’s very boring alone in the village.”

“And do you have many quitrent peasants?” Ivan Matveevich asked.

“Yes… I don’t know: I haven’t been to the village in a long time.”

“You need to know, sir: without that, how can it be? You can’t get information on how much income you’ll receive.”

“Yes, I should,” Oblomov repeated, “and the neighbor also writes, but the thing is, winter is approaching.”

“And how much quitrent do you estimate?”

“Quitrent? It seems… wait, I had a schedule somewhere… Stolz even drew it up back then, but it’s hard to find: Zakhar must have put it somewhere. I’ll show you later… I think, thirty rubles per tilling unit.”

“What are your peasants like? How do they live?” Ivan Matveevich asked. “Rich or ruined, poor? What’s the corvée like?”

“Listen,” Oblomov said, approaching him and trustingly taking hold of both lapels of his uniform jacket.

Ivan Matveevich quickly stood up, but Oblomov made him sit down again.

“Listen,” he repeated slowly, almost in a whisper, “I don’t know what corvée is, what rural labor is, what a poor peasant means, or a rich one; I don’t know what a quarter of rye or oats means, what it costs, in which month and what is sown and harvested, how and when it’s sold; I don’t know if I am rich or poor, whether I will be well-fed in a year or be a beggar—I know nothing!” he concluded dejectedly, letting go of the uniform jacket’s lapels and stepping back from Ivan Matveevich. “Therefore, speak and advise me as you would a child…”

“Well, sir, you need to know: without that, you can’t figure anything out,” Ivan Matveevich said with a submissive smile, standing up slightly and placing one hand behind his back and the other inside his jacket. “A landowner should know his estate, how to manage it…” he said instructively.

“But I don’t know. Teach me, if you can.”

“I myself have not engaged in this subject, one must consult with knowledgeable people. But here, sir, they write to you in the letter,” Ivan Matveevich continued, pointing with his middle finger, nail down, to the page of the letter, “that you serve in the elections: that would be splendid! You would live there, serve in the district court, and in the meantime, you would also learn about estate management.”

“I don’t know what a district court is, what they do there, how one serves!” Oblomov said expressively, but in a low voice again, moving right up to Ivan Matveevich’s nose.

“You’ll get used to it, sir. You served here, in the department: the work is the same everywhere, only there will be a small difference in forms. Everywhere, regulations, communications, protocol… As long as there’s a good secretary, what worries do you have? Just sign. If you know how things are done in departments…”

“I don’t know how things are done in departments,” Oblomov said monotonously.

Ivan Matveevich cast his double glance at Oblomov and was silent.

“You must have been reading books, sir?” he remarked with the same submissive smile.

“Books!” Oblomov retorted bitterly and stopped.

He lacked the courage and there was no need to lay bare the depths of his soul before a civil servant. “I don’t even know books,” stirred within him, but it did not come to his tongue and expressed itself in a sad sigh.

“You must have been engaged in something,” Ivan Matveevich added humbly, as if finishing Oblomov’s answer about books in his mind, “it’s impossible that…”

“It’s possible, Ivan Matveich: here’s living proof—me! Who am I? What am I? Go ask Zakhar, and he’ll tell you: ‘the master!’ Yes, I am the master and I can’t do anything! You do it, if you know how, and help if you can, and for your trouble, take whatever you want—that’s what expertise is for!”

He began to walk around the room, while Ivan Matveevich stood in his place and each time slightly turned his entire body towards the corner where Oblomov would go. Both of them were silent for some time.

“Where did you study?” Oblomov asked, stopping again in front of him.

“I started in the gymnasium, but my father took me out of the sixth grade and placed me in administration. What is our learning! Reading, writing, grammar, arithmetic, and I didn’t go further, sir. I somehow adapted to the work, and I’m getting by little by little. Your case is different, sir: you went through real sciences…”

“Yes,” Oblomov confirmed with a sigh, “it’s true, I studied higher algebra, and political economy, and law, but I never adapted to practical matters. You see, with higher algebra, I don’t know how much income I have. I came to the village, listened, looked—how things were done in our house and on the estate and around us—it was completely different laws. I left for here, thinking I would somehow make my way in the world with political economy… And they told me that sciences would be useful to me in time, perhaps in old age, but first one needed to get promoted, and for that, only one science was needed—writing papers. So I didn’t adapt to practical matters, but simply became a gentleman, and you adapted: well, then decide how to get by.”

“It’s possible, sir, nothing,” Ivan Matveevich finally said.

Oblomov stopped in front of him and waited for what he would say.

“You could entrust all this to a knowledgeable person and transfer the power of attorney to him,” Ivan Matveevich added.

“And where can I find such a person?” Oblomov asked.

“I have a colleague, Isai Fomich Zaterty: he stutters a bit, but he is a business-minded and knowledgeable man. For three years he managed a large estate, but the landowner dismissed him for that very reason, because he stutters. So he joined us.”

“But can he be relied upon?”

“The most honest soul, please do not worry! He lives by his own means, only to please his client. He has been in our service for twelve years.”

“How can he go if he’s serving?”

“It’s nothing, sir, he’ll take four months’ leave. You please make up your mind, and I will bring him here. After all, he won’t go for nothing…”

“Of course not,” Oblomov confirmed.

“You should set his travel expenses, and daily living expenses, whatever is necessary, and then, upon completion of the work, remuneration, by agreement. He will go, sir, it’s nothing!”

“I am very grateful to you: you will save me a lot of trouble,” Oblomov said, extending his hand. “What was his name?…”

“Isai Fomich Zaterty,” Ivan Matveevich repeated, quickly wiping his hand on the cuff of his other sleeve, and, taking Oblomov’s hand for a moment, immediately hid his own in his sleeve. “I will talk to him tomorrow, sir, and bring him.”

“And please come for dinner, and we can discuss it. — Very, very grateful to you!” Oblomov said, seeing Ivan Matveevich to the door.

X

That same evening, in a two-story house that faced the street where Oblomov lived on one side, and the embankment on the other, Ivan Matveevich and Tarantyev sat in one of the rooms on the upper floor.

This was a so-called “establishment,” at the door of which two or three empty droshkies always stood, and the cab drivers sat on the lower floor, with saucers in their hands. The upper floor was intended for the “gentlemen” of the Vyborg side.

Before Ivan Matveevich and Tarantyev stood tea and a bottle of rum.

“Purest Jamaican,” Ivan Matveevich said, pouring rum into his glass with a trembling hand, “don’t scorn the treat, koum.”

“Confess, there’s a good reason for the treat,” Tarantyev retorted: “the house would have rotted away, and such a lodger would never have been found…”

“True, true,” Ivan Matveevich interrupted. “And if our plan succeeds and Zaterty goes to the village—there’ll be a good drink to celebrate!”

“But you’re stingy, koum: one has to haggle with you,” Tarantyev said. “Fifty rubles for such a lodger!”

“I’m afraid, he threatens to move out,” Ivan Matveevich remarked.

“Oh, you: and you call yourself an expert! Where would he move to? You can’t drive him out now.”

“And the wedding? They say he’s getting married.”

Tarantyev burst out laughing.

“He’s getting married! Want to bet he won’t?” he retorted. “Why, Zakhar even helps him sleep, let alone get married! Until now, I’ve been benevolent to him: without me, my brother, he would have died of hunger or ended up in prison. The supervisor comes, the house owner asks something, and he doesn’t understand a thing—it’s always me! He understands nothing…”

“Indeed, nothing: in the district court, he says, I don’t know what they do, in the department it’s the same; what kind of peasants he has—he doesn’t know. What a head! It even made me laugh…”

“And the contract, what kind of contract did you conclude?” Tarantyev boasted. “You’re a master, brother, at drafting papers, Ivan Matveevich, by God, a master! You’d remember your late father! And I was good at it too, but I’m out of practice, God knows, out of practice! I sit down: tears just stream from my eyes. He didn’t read it, just signed it right away! And there are gardens, and stables, and barns.”

“Yes, koum, as long as there are blockheads in Russia who sign papers without reading them, our kind can live. Otherwise, we might as well perish, things have gotten bad! You hear from the old-timers, it’s not like that! In twenty-five years of service, what capital have I amassed? One can live on the Vyborg side without sticking one’s nose out into God’s light: there will be a good piece, I don’t complain, you won’t eat too much bread! But to have apartments on Liteiny, carpets, and marry a rich woman, bring up children among the nobility—those times are long gone! And the face, you hear, is not the same, and the fingers, you see, are red, why do you drink vodka… And how can you not drink it? Try it! Worse than a lackey, they say: nowadays even a lackey doesn’t wear such boots and changes his shirt every day. The upbringing is not the same—all the greenhorns have beaten us: they posture, read, and speak French…”

“But they don’t understand business,” Tarantyev added.

“No, brother, they do understand: business is not the same these days; everyone wants it simpler, they all spoil things for us. So, there’s no need to write: it’s unnecessary correspondence, a waste of time; it can be done faster… they spoil things!”

“But the contract is signed: they haven’t spoiled that!” Tarantyev said.

“That, of course, is sacred. Let’s drink, koum! He’ll send Zaterty to Oblomovka, who will suck a bit out of it: let the heirs get what’s left then…”

“Let them!” Tarantyev remarked. “But what kind of heirs are they: third cousins, seventh water on kissel.”

“I’m just afraid of the wedding!” said Ivan Matveevich.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m telling you. You mark my words.”

“Oh really?” Ivan Matveevich replied cheerfully. “And he’s staring at my sister…” he added in a whisper.

“What are you saying?” Tarantyev said in astonishment.

“Just keep quiet! By God, it’s true…”

“Well, brother,” Tarantyev marveled, barely recovering, “I wouldn’t have dreamed it in my sleep! So, what about her?”

“What about her? You know her—that’s what!”

He thumped his fist on the table.

“Does she even know how to look out for her own interests? A cow, a veritable cow: hit her, hug her—she just smirks, like a horse at oats. Another woman… oh-oh! But I won’t take my eyes off her—you understand what this smells like!”

XI

“Four months! Another four months of constraints, secret meetings, suspicious faces, smiles! — Oblomov thought, ascending the stairs to the Ilyinskys’. — My God! when will this end? And Olga will hurry me: today, tomorrow. She is so persistent, unyielding! It’s hard to convince her…”

Oblomov reached Olga’s room almost without meeting anyone. Olga was sitting in her small living room, in front of the bedroom, engrossed in reading some book.

He suddenly appeared before her, making her start; then she gently, with a smile, extended her hand to him, but her eyes still seemed to be finishing the book: she looked distractedly.

“Are you alone?” he asked her.

“Yes; ma tante went to Tsarskoye Selo; she invited me with her. We’ll dine almost alone: only Marya Semyonovna will come; otherwise, I couldn’t receive you. Today you cannot explain yourself. How boring all this is! But tomorrow…” she added and smiled. “And what if I had gone to Tsarskoye Selo today?” she asked playfully.

He was silent.

“Are you preoccupied?” she continued.

“I received a letter from the village,” he said monotonously.

“Where is it? With you?”

He handed her the letter.

“I can’t make anything out of it,” she said, looking at the paper.

He took the letter from her and read it aloud. She fell into thought.

“What now?” she asked after a silence.

“I consulted with the landlady’s brother today,” Oblomov replied, “and he recommended an attorney, Isai Fomich Zaterty: I will entrust all this business to him.”

“To a stranger, an unknown person!” Olga countered in surprise. “To collect quitrent, to sort out the peasants, to oversee the sale of grain…”

“He says he’s the most honest soul, has served with him for twelve years… Only stutters a little.”

“And what about your landlady’s brother himself? Do you know him?”

“No; but he seems to be such a sensible, business-like man, and besides, I live in his house: he would be ashamed to deceive me!”

Olga was silent and sat with downcast eyes.

“Otherwise, I would have to go myself,” Oblomov said, “and to be honest, I wouldn’t want to. I’ve completely lost the habit of traveling on roads, especially in winter… I’ve never even traveled.”

She kept looking down, wiggling the toe of her boot.

“Even if I do go,” Oblomov continued, “absolutely nothing will come of it: I won’t get any sense out of them; the peasants will deceive me; the elder will say whatever he wants—I’ll have to believe everything; he’ll give whatever money he fancies. Ah, Andrei isn’t here: he would have sorted everything out!” he added with vexation.

Olga smiled, that is, only her lips smiled, not her heart: there was bitterness in her heart. She began to look out the window, squinting one eye slightly and following every passing carriage.

“Meanwhile, this attorney managed a large estate,” he continued, “but the landowner sent him away precisely because he stutters. I will give him power of attorney, hand over the plans: he will arrange the purchase of materials for building the house, collect quitrent, sell grain, bring the money, and then… How glad I am, dear Olga,” he said, kissing her hand, “that I don’t have to leave you! I wouldn’t bear the separation; without you in the village, alone… it’s a horror! But now we need to be very careful.”

She looked at him with such a vast gaze and waited.

“Yes,” he began to speak slowly, almost stammering, “to meet rarely; yesterday they started talking again, even on the landlady’s side… and I don’t want that… As soon as all matters are settled, the attorney will arrange the construction and bring the money… all this will be over in about a year… then there will be no more separation, we will tell aunt everything, and… and…”

He looked at Olga: she was unconscious. Her head was tilted to the side, her teeth visible through her bluish lips. He didn’t notice, in the excess of joy and dreaming, that at the words: “when matters are settled, the attorney will arrange,” Olga had grown pale and hadn’t heard the conclusion of his sentence.

“Olga!… My God, she’s ill!” he said and tugged the bell.

“The young lady is ill,” he told Katya, who came running. “Quickly, water!… spirits…”

“Lord! They were so cheerful all morning… What’s wrong with them?” Katya whispered, bringing spirits from her aunt’s table and bustling with a glass of water.

Olga regained consciousness, got up from the armchair with the help of Katya and Oblomov, and, swaying, went to her bedroom.

“It will pass,” she said faintly, “it’s nerves; I slept badly last night. Katya, close the door, and you wait for me: I’ll recover and come out.”

Oblomov was left alone, pressing his ear to the door, looking through the keyhole, but heard and saw nothing.

After half an hour, he went down the corridor to the maid’s room and asked Katya: “How is the young lady?”

“Nothing,” Katya said, “they lay down, and sent me away; then I went in: they are sitting in the armchair.”

Oblomov went back to the living room, looked at the door again—nothing was heard.

He tapped lightly with his finger—no answer.

He sat down and became thoughtful. He thought a lot in those hour and a half, much changed in his thoughts, many new decisions he made. Finally, he settled on the idea that he would go to the village himself with the attorney, but first he would ask the aunt’s consent for the marriage, get engaged to Olga, instruct Ivan Gerasimovich to find an apartment and even borrow some money… just a little, to have the wedding.

This debt could be paid from the proceeds of the grain sale. Why had he been so despondent? Oh, my God, how everything can change its appearance in an instant! And there, in the village, he and the attorney would arrange to collect the quitrent; and finally, he would write to Stolz: he would give him money and then come and set up Oblomovka splendidly, he would build roads everywhere, and bridges, and establish schools… And then they, with Olga!… God! here it is, happiness!… How had all this not occurred to him!

Suddenly he felt so light, so cheerful; he began to walk from corner to corner, even quietly snapping his fingers, almost cried out with joy, went to Olga’s door, and softly called her in a cheerful voice:

“Olga, Olga! What I have to tell you!” he said, pressing his lips to the door. “You won’t expect it at all…”

He even decided not to leave her today, but to wait for her aunt. “Today we’ll tell her, and I’ll leave here as her fiancé.”

The door quietly opened, and Olga appeared; he looked at her and suddenly lost heart: his joy vanished as if into water: Olga seemed to have aged a little. She was pale, but her eyes shone; in her tightly closed lips, in every feature, there lurked an inner, intense life, shackled, as if by ice, by forced calm and immobility.

In her gaze, he read a decision, but what it was—he did not yet know, only his heart pounded as it had never pounded before. Such moments had never occurred in his life.

“Listen, Olga, don’t look at me like that: I’m scared!” he said. “I’ve changed my mind: it must be arranged quite differently…” he continued then, gradually lowering his tone, pausing and trying to grasp the new meaning he saw in her eyes, lips, and expressive eyebrows. “I decided to go to the village myself, together with the attorney… so that there…” he barely audibly finished.

She was silent, gazing at him intently, like a ghost.

He vaguely guessed what verdict awaited him, and took his hat, but hesitated to ask: he was afraid to hear the fateful decision and, perhaps, without appeal. Finally, he mastered himself.

“Did I understand correctly?…” he asked her in an altered voice.

She slowly, meekly, bowed her head in agreement. Although he had guessed her thought before this, he turned pale and still stood before her.

She was somewhat languid, but seemed so calm and motionless, as if a stone statue. This was that supernatural calm when a concentrated intention or a struck feeling suddenly gives a person all the strength to restrain themselves, but only for a moment. She resembled a wounded person who has pressed her hand to the wound to say what is necessary, and then die.

“You won’t hate me?” he asked.

“For what?” she said faintly.

“For everything I’ve done to you…”

“What have you done?”

“Loved you: that’s an insult!”

She smiled with pity.

“For that,” he said, bowing his head, “that you were mistaken… Perhaps you will forgive me if you remember that I warned you how ashamed you would be, how you would regret it…”

“I don’t regret it. It hurts so much, so much…” she said and paused to catch her breath.

“I feel worse,” Oblomov replied, “but I deserve this: why are you suffering?”

“For pride,” she said, “I am punished, I relied too much on my own strength—that’s where I was mistaken, not in what you feared. I did not dream of first youth and beauty: I thought that I would revive you, that you could still live for me—but you have long been dead. I did not foresee this mistake, but I kept waiting, hoping… and here!…” she finished with difficulty, with a sigh.

She fell silent, then sat down.

“I can’t stand: my legs are trembling. A stone would come alive from what I’ve done,” she continued in a languid voice. “Now I can do nothing, not a step, I won’t even go to the Summer Garden: everything is useless—you are dead!… Do you agree with me, Ilya?” she added then, after a pause. “You will never reproach me that I broke up with you out of pride or caprice?”

He shook his head negatively.

“Are you convinced that nothing is left for us, no hope?”

“Yes,” he said, “that’s true… But perhaps…” he then added hesitantly, “in a year…” He lacked the courage to strike a decisive blow to his own happiness.

“Do you really think that in a year you would have settled your affairs and your life?” she asked. “Think!”

He sighed and fell into thought, struggling with himself. She read this struggle on his face.

“Listen,” she said, “I just spent a long time looking at my mother’s portrait and it seems I drew advice and strength from her eyes. If you now, as an honest man… Remember, Ilya, we are not children and we are not joking: it is about a whole life! Ask your conscience strictly and say—I will believe you, I know you: will you be enough for a whole life? Will you be what I need for me? You know me, therefore you understand what I mean. If you say boldly and thoughtfully yes, I take back my decision: here is my hand, and let’s go wherever you want, abroad, to the village, even to the Vyborg side!”

He was silent.

“If only you knew how much I love…”

“I am waiting not for assurances of love, but for a brief answer,” she interrupted almost dryly.

“Don’t torment me, Olga!” he pleaded disconsolately.

“Well, Ilya, am I right or not?”

“Yes,” he said clearly and decisively, “you are right!”

“Then it’s time for us to part,” she decided, “before they find you and see how upset I am!”

He still didn’t move.

“Even if you did get married, what then?” she asked.

He was silent.

“You would fall asleep deeper and deeper each day—wouldn’t you? And me? You see what I am like? I will never grow old, never tire of living. But with you, we would live day by day, waiting for Christmas, then Shrovetide, visiting, dancing, and thinking of nothing; we would go to bed and thank God that the day passed quickly, and in the morning we would wake up wishing that today resembled yesterday… is that our future—yes? Is that life? I would wither, die… why, Ilya? Would you be happy…”

He painfully swept his eyes across the ceiling, wanted to leave his seat, to run—his legs would not obey. He wanted to say something: his mouth was dry, his tongue would not move, his voice would not come from his chest. He extended his hand to her.

“Therefore…” he began in a fallen voice, but did not finish and with a glance said: “forgive me!”

And she wanted to say something, but said nothing, extended her hand to him, but her hand, without touching his, fell; she also wanted to say: “farewell,” but her voice broke mid-word and struck a false note; her face contorted with a spasm, she placed her hand and head on his shoulder and sobbed. It was as if a weapon had been torn from her hands. The clever woman was gone—only a simple woman remained, defenceless against grief.

“Farewell, farewell…” escaped her amidst sobs.

He was silent and listened in horror to her tears, not daring to interrupt them. He felt no pity for her, nor for himself; he himself was pitiful. She sank into the armchair and, pressing her head to her handkerchief, leaned on the table and wept bitterly. The tears flowed not as a hot stream, bursting forth instantly from sudden and temporary pain, as in the park then, but poured out disconsolately, in cold torrents, like an autumn rain mercilessly drenching the fields.

“Olga,” he finally said, “why are you tormenting yourself? You love me, you won’t bear the separation! Take me as I am, love what is good in me.”

She shook her head negatively, without lifting it.

“No… no…” she struggled to utter then, “don’t worry about me and my grief. I know myself: I will cry it out and then I won’t cry anymore. But now don’t stop me from crying… go away… Ah, no, wait!… God is punishing me!… It hurts, oh, how it hurts… here, near my heart.”

The sobs resumed.

“And what if the pain doesn’t pass,” he said, “and your health is shaken? Such tears are poisonous. Olga, my angel, don’t cry… forget everything…”

“No, let me cry! I’m crying not for the future, but for the past…” she said with difficulty, “it has ‘faded, gone away’… It’s not me crying, memories are crying!… Summer… the park… remember? I regret our alley, the lilacs… All of that has grown into my heart: it hurts to tear it away!…”

She, in despair, shook her head and sobbed, repeating:

“Oh, how it hurts, it hurts!”

“What if you die?” he suddenly said in horror. “Think, Olga…”

“No,” she interrupted, raising her head and trying to look at him through her tears. “I only recently learned that I loved in you what I wanted there to be in you, what Stolz pointed out to me, what we invented with him. I loved the future Oblomov! You are gentle, honest, Ilya; you are tender… a dove; you hide your head under your wing—and want nothing more; you are ready to coo your whole life under a roof… but I am not like that: this is not enough for me, I need something else, and what it is—I don’t know! Can you teach me, tell me what it is that I lack, give me all that, so that I… And tenderness… where is it not found!”

Oblomov’s legs gave way; he sat down in the armchair and wiped his hands and forehead with a handkerchief.

The word was cruel; it deeply wounded Oblomov: inside it seemed to burn him, outside it blew cold on him. In response, he smiled somewhat pitifully, painfully, shyly, like a beggar reproached for his nakedness. He sat with that smile of powerlessness, weakened by agitation and offense; his extinguished gaze clearly said: “Yes, I am meager, pathetic, poor… beat me, beat me!…”

Olga suddenly saw how much poison was in her word; she rushed to him.

“Forgive me, my friend!” she spoke tenderly, as if with tears. “I don’t remember what I’m saying: I’m mad! Forget everything; let’s go on as before; let everything remain as it was…”

“No!” he said, suddenly standing up and dismissing her impulse with a resolute gesture. “It will not remain! Don’t worry that you spoke the truth: I am worthy…” he added despondently.

“I am a dreamer, a fantasizer!” she said. “I have an unhappy character. Why are others, why is Sonechka so happy…”

She began to cry.

“Go away!” she decided, tearing at her wet handkerchief with her hands. “I can’t bear it; the past is still dear to me.”

She again covered her face with her handkerchief and tried to stifle her sobs.

“Why did everything perish?” she suddenly asked, raising her head. “Who cursed you, Ilya? What have you done? You are kind, intelligent, gentle, noble… and… perishing! What has ruined you? There is no name for this evil…”

“There is,” he said barely audibly.

She looked at him questioningly, with tear-filled eyes.

“Oblomovism!” he whispered, then took her hand, wanted to kiss it, but couldn’t, only pressed it firmly to his lips, and hot tears dripped onto her fingers. Without raising his head, without showing her his face, he turned and left.

XII

God knows where he wandered, what he did all day, but he returned home late at night. The landlady was the first to hear the knock at the gate and the dog’s bark, and she shook Anisya and Zakhar awake, saying that the master had returned.

Ilya Ilyich barely noticed Zakhar undressing him, pulling off his boots, and throwing—a dressing gown!—over him.

“What’s this?” he only asked, looking at the dressing gown.

“The landlady brought it today: they washed and mended the dressing gown,” Zakhar said.

Oblomov remained in the armchair just as he had sat down.

Everything around him was plunged into sleep and darkness. He sat, leaning on his hand, not noticing the gloom, not hearing the clock strike. His mind was drowned in a chaos of shapeless, vague thoughts; they drifted like clouds in the sky, without purpose or connection—he caught not a single one.

His heart was dead: life there was temporarily quiet. The return to life, to order, to the regular flow of accumulated vital forces was slow.

The current was very strong, and Oblomov felt no body on himself, felt neither fatigue nor any need. He could lie like a stone for whole days or walk, ride, move like a machine for whole days.

Gradually, by a difficult path, a person develops either submission to fate—and then the organism slowly and gradually enters into all its functions—or grief breaks the person, and they will not rise again, depending on the grief and also on the person.

Oblomov didn’t remember where he was sitting, or even if he was sitting: he looked mechanically and didn’t notice the dawn breaking; he heard and didn’t hear the old woman’s dry cough, the yardman chopping wood in the yard, the clatter and rumble in the house; he saw and didn’t see the landlady and Akulina going to the market, a package flashing past the fence.

Neither the roosters, nor the dog’s barking, nor the creak of the gate could rouse him from his stupor. Cups clattered, the samovar hissed.

Finally, at about ten o’clock, Zakhar opened the door to the study with a tray, kicked backwards with his foot, as usual, to close it, and, as usual, missed, but managed to keep hold of the tray: he was used to it from long practice, and besides, he knew Anisya was watching him from behind the door, and if he dropped anything, she would immediately pounce and embarrass him.

He safely reached the bed, his beard buried in the tray and clutching it tightly, and was just about to place the cups on the table beside the bed and wake the master—when he looked, the bed wasn’t rumpled, the master wasn’t there!

He started, and a cup flew to the floor, followed by the sugar bowl. He tried to catch things in the air and shook the tray, others flew. He only managed to keep a spoon on the tray.

“What kind of misfortune is this?” he said, watching Anisya pick up pieces of sugar, fragments of the cup, bread. “Where is the master?”

And the master was sitting in the armchair, utterly pale. Zakhar looked at him with an open mouth.

“Why, Ilya Ilyich, did you sit in the armchair all night, and not lie down?” he asked.

Oblomov slowly turned his head towards him, looked distractedly at Zakhar, at the spilled coffee, at the sugar scattered on the carpet.

“And why did you break the cup?” he said, then walked to the window.

Snow was falling in thick flakes and thickly covering the ground.

“Snow, snow, snow!” he repeated senselessly, looking at the snow, which covered the fence, the wattle, and the garden beds in a thick layer. “Covered everything!” he then whispered desperately, lay down on the bed, and fell into a leaden, cheerless sleep.

It was already past noon when he was awakened by the creak of the door from the landlady’s half; a bare arm with a plate protruded from the door; a pie was steaming on the plate.

“Today is Sunday,” a gentle voice said, “we baked a pie; would you care for a bite?”

But he answered nothing: he had a fever.

PART FOUR

I

A year has passed since Ilya Ilyich Oblomov’s illness. While the world outside experienced various upheavals and changes, life on the Vyborg side, in the home of the widow Pshenitsyna, flowed peacefully, though not without its own slow, geological shifts.

Oblomov’s Recovery and Estate Affairs

Ilya Ilyich has recovered from his illness. His attorney, Zaterty, traveled to the village and sent the full proceeds from the grain sale, satisfying Oblomov’s immediate financial concerns. However, Zaterty reported difficulties in collecting quitrent, with some peasants ruined and others having left, making collection impossible for now. He also mentioned that the villagers preferred the old, difficult path over building new roads and bridges. Thus, Oblomov was reassured that he wouldn’t need to visit the estate himself until the following year. Regarding the construction of his new house, Zaterty had consulted with an architect and made initial arrangements for materials, leaving Oblomov only to oversee the building personally in the spring.

Initially, after his illness, Oblomov remained gloomy and lost in thought, sometimes even weeping. Gradually, this intense sorrow gave way to a quiet indifference. He spent hours watching the snow fall, covering everything in a blanket, and passively observed the daily life around him.

Life at Pshenitsyna’s Household

Life in Agafya Matveevna Pshenitsyna’s house flourished. She was an exemplary housekeeper, a calling she embraced. Her brother, Ivan Matveevich Mukhoiarov, contributed significantly to the household’s prosperity through his epicurean tastes. Despite his frugal personal habits, he spared no expense when it came to food, ensuring top-quality produce for their table.

A significant change occurred when Oblomov, in jest, suggested that Agafya Matveevna take over all his domestic needs. To his surprise, she joyfully accepted. All of Oblomov’s kitchen items, silverware, and dishes were moved to Pshenitsyna’s kitchen, and his former cook was reassigned. Her domestic sphere expanded, and she and Anisya, the maid, managed the house with newfound vigor and efficiency. Oblomov now dined with the family, and Agafya Matveevna herself brought him tea and coffee. The household, once meticulously organized, gained a subtle, lively new nuance.

Agafya Matveevna’s Transformation and Oblomov’s Perception

Agafya Matveevna herself underwent the most profound change, though neither she nor anyone else fully realized it. She became increasingly attentive and agitated, particularly regarding Oblomov’s well-being. Where she once calmly reprimanded her cook, she now flew into a rage if something went wrong in the kitchen concerning Oblomov’s meals. She found herself unable to sleep if he was out late, anxiously listening for his return. During his illness, she guarded his room fiercely, spending sleepless nights by his bedside, praying for his recovery, then rushing to the market to buy him special food.

However, when Oblomov was recovering but still sullen and withdrawn, she became pale, thin, and lost her usual energy, making mistakes in her household tasks. It was only when Oblomov regained his cheerful demeanor, his kind smiles, and began to interact with her again that her vitality returned. Her meticulous chores—grinding coffee, ironing, sifting—now gained a new, living meaning: Ilya Ilyich’s comfort and peace. What was once a duty had become her pleasure. She began to live a fuller, richer life through her devotion to him.

Agafya Matveevna never consciously acknowledged or understood this transformation as love. She simply yielded to this “sweet yoke” without resistance or passion. It was a simple, complete devotion, like a persistent fever. She cared for every detail of his life, from his shirts to his moods, as if it were her lifelong calling, without questioning the reason.

Oblomov, meanwhile, remained oblivious to the depth of her feelings. He saw her exceptional care merely as an inherent trait of her character, a manifestation of her excellent housekeeping. He perceived her actions as the embodiment of his childhood ideal of a life of boundless, undisturbed peace, where all his needs were anticipated and met without effort on his part, always delivered with a kind smile and clean hands, unlike Zakhar’s rough service.

The Closeness and Its Limitation

Oblomov grew closer to Agafya Matveevna, describing it as approaching a warm fire, from which one feels increasingly warm but cannot truly “love.” He enjoyed smoking his pipe in her room after dinner, watching her, and even playfully opening her door if she delayed. He appreciated her constant attention and the seamless provision of his needs. There was no anxiety, no sleepless nights, no emotional turmoil—just a quiet, comfortable existence.

One day, he held her by the elbows, stopping her work, and asked softly, “Tell me, what if I… fell in love with you?” She smiled. “And would you love me?” he asked again. She replied simply, “Why not love? God commanded us to love everyone.” He whispered, “And what if I kiss you?” She answered pragmatically, “It’s not Holy Week now.” He pressed, “Well, kiss me then!” She retorted, “Well, God willing, when we live to Easter, we’ll kiss.” He gently kissed her neck. Her concern remained practical: “Look, I’ll spill the cinnamon; you won’t have anything to put in the pastry.”

He praised her, then mused about living on his estate, listing its abundance. But she sighed, saying, “No, why? We were born here, lived our whole lives here, and must die here.”

Oblomov looked at her, experiencing a mild stirring, but his eyes didn’t sparkle, nor did his spirit soar. He simply wished to sit on the sofa and gaze at her busy elbows, content in the comfortable simplicity she provided.

II

Ivanov Day at the Pshenitsyna household was a grand affair. Ivan Matveevich spent the previous day busily collecting provisions around town, and Agafya Matveevna dedicated three days to preparations, living on coffee, ensuring a lavish feast. Only Ilya Ilyich’s meals were prepared with utmost care. Zakhar, Oblomov’s servant, viewed all the hustle with disdain, comparing it unfavorably to the grander, days-long feasts of his native Oblomovka. During the dinner, he served Oblomov first, refusing to serve other guests he deemed less worthy.

Later, on Ilya Day, Oblomov hosted his own, more refined celebration with just Ivan Gerasimovich and Alekseev. He aimed to outdo Ivan Matveevich’s earlier feast with delicate, airy pastries, oysters, truffle-stuffed chickens, fresh fruits, and flowers. Just as dinner began, a carriage arrived, and someone asked for Oblomov. He, flustered, tried to have Zakhar turn the visitor away. However, it was Stolz, who Oblomov joyfully embraced, delighted by his friend’s timely arrival. At Stolz’s appearance, Tarantyev and Ivan Matveevich quickly slipped away.

After dinner, Oblomov and Stolz were alone. Stolz gazed intently at Oblomov, then sternly asked, “So, ‘never’?” referring to their past conversation about “now or never.” Oblomov feigned ignorance, then claimed his affairs were in order, that he was working on his plan, reading, and generally not idle. Stolz pressed him about his failure to travel abroad, and Oblomov hesitated. Stolz then directly mentioned Olga, causing Oblomov to flush and eagerly ask about her. Stolz, without answering directly, continued to observe him, then revealed that Olga had gone abroad soon after realizing “her mistake,” and that he knew everything, even about the lilac branch. Oblomov, embarrassed, tried to defend himself, but Stolz gently accepted most of the blame for their failed romance.

Oblomov timidly asked about Olga. Stolz playfully tormented him by saying she was heartbroken and cursed him, which deeply distressed Oblomov, who offered to beg her forgiveness. Stolz then revealed the truth: Olga was happy and had wanted to write but was persuaded not to to spare Oblomov agitation. Oblomov was immensely relieved, almost in tears, and toasted her health. Stolz informed him that Olga was in Switzerland and would return to her village in the autumn. Stolz himself was in Petersburg to finalize Olga’s estate matters, as a baron she had rejected had left them unfinished. Stolz pressed Oblomov about his stagnant life, calling his current dwelling “the same Oblomovka, only worse,” and urged him to move to the village, especially with the house construction imminent.

Oblomov resisted, citing his poor health—shortness of breath, eye styes, swollen legs, and night tremors—and the supposed excellent management of his affairs by his attorney. He boasted about the money received from grain sales. Stolz, however, was appalled, exclaiming, “You’re being robbed blind!” and pointing out the meager sum from a large estate. Declaring Oblomov truly “dead, ruined,” Stolz almost forcibly took him to his own place. There, he had Oblomov sign a power of attorney, announcing he would lease Oblomovka until Oblomov himself came to the village, promising him three times his current income. He vowed to go to Oblomovka, dismiss the attorney, and make arrangements, insisting Oblomov join him or follow soon.

Oblomov sighed, lamenting that life “touches, there’s no peace! I’d lie down and fall asleep… forever…” Stolz sharply countered, urging him to embrace life as a constant burning, arguing that humans can shape their own nature and that Oblomov had merely “unfastened his wings” through idleness. Oblomov despondently claimed he knew nothing, but Stolz reminded him of his eloquent letter to Olga as proof of his hidden abilities, asserting that Oblomov had lost his skills in the comforts of childhood. Oblomov, with a sigh, felt it was irreversible. Stolz angrily disagreed, insisting it could be reversed if Oblomov would just listen and act.

Despite Stolz’s persistence, he left for the village alone, with Oblomov promising to join him by autumn. Before departing, Stolz asked what to tell Olga. Oblomov, filled with shame and sorrow, asked him not to mention him, or to say he was “ruined, dead, gone.” When Stolz said she would cry, Oblomov softened. Stolz then promised to lie, telling her that Oblomov lived by her memory and sought a “strict and serious purpose,” emphasizing that life and labor, not a woman, were the true purpose. They then bid each other farewell.

III

Tarantyev and Ivan Matveevich met again in the tavern the day after Ilya Day.

“Tea!” Ivan Matveevich ordered gloomily, and when the waiter brought tea and rum, he annoyedly pushed the bottle back. “That’s not rum, that’s nails!” he said, then took his own bottle from his coat pocket, uncorked it, and offered the waiter a sniff. “Don’t rush in with your own,” he remarked.

“Things are bad, kum, aren’t they!” he said after the waiter left.

“Yes, the devil brought him!” Tarantyev retorted furiously. “What a scoundrel, that German! He annulled the power of attorney and took the estate on lease! Have you ever heard of such a thing in our country? He’ll fleece the poor sheep clean.”

“If he knows his business, kum, I’m afraid something might come out. If he finds out the quitrent was collected, and we got it, he might start a case…”

“A case, indeed! You’ve grown timid, kum! Zaterty isn’t new to dipping his hand into landlord’s money; he knows how to cover his tracks. Does he give the peasants receipts, do you think? He probably takes it face to face. The German will get angry, shout, and that will be the end of it for him. But a case!”

“Really?” Mukhoiarov said, cheering up. “Well, let’s drink then.” He poured rum for himself and Tarantyev. “You look, and it seems impossible to live in this world, but drink, and you can live!” he comforted himself.

“And in the meantime, this is what you’ll do, kum,” Tarantyev continued, “you’ll draw up some accounts, whatever you want, for firewood, for cabbage, well, for whatever you want, thankfully Oblomov has now handed the household over to our kinswoman, and show the sum as an expense. And when Zaterty arrives, we’ll say he brought so much quitrent money and that it went into expenses.”

“But what if he takes the accounts and later shows them to the German, who will calculate them, and then perhaps…”

“Oh, come on! He’ll shove them somewhere, and the devil himself won’t find them. Who knows when the German will even arrive? By then, it’ll be forgotten…”

“Really? Let’s drink, kum,” Ivan Matveevich said, pouring into a glass, “it’s a shame to dilute good stuff with tea. Sniff this: three rubles. Shall we order some solyanka?”

“We can.”

“Hey!”

“No, what a scoundrel! ‘Give it to me on lease,’ he says,” Tarantyev began again with fury. “Why, it wouldn’t even occur to us, us Russians! This establishment smells of the German side. There, it’s all some kind of farms and leases. Just wait, he’ll drive him crazy with shares next.”

“What are these shares you keep talking about? I still don’t quite understand,” Ivan Matveevich asked.

“A German invention!” Tarantyev said maliciously. “It’s like, for example, some swindler invents fireproof houses and undertakes to build a city: he needs money, so he puts papers up for sale, let’s say, for five hundred rubles each, and a crowd of fools buys them, and then resells them to each other. If it’s rumored that the enterprise is going well, the papers go up in price; if badly, everything bursts. You’re left with papers, but no money. ‘Where’s the city?’ you ask: ‘Burned down,’ they say, ‘not finished,’ and the inventor ran off with your money. That’s what shares are! The German will drag him into it! It’s a wonder he hasn’t dragged him into it yet! I kept getting in the way, benefiting my countryman!”

“Yes, that chapter’s closed: the matter is decided and filed away; we prepared to receive the quitrent from Oblomovka…” Mukhoiarov said, a little tipsy.

“To hell with it, kum! You’ve got so much money you can’t shovel it all!” Tarantyev retorted, also a bit hazy. “There’s a sure source; just keep drawing from it, don’t get tired. Let’s drink!”

“What source, kum? Collecting a ruble here and three rubles there all your life…”

“But you’ve been collecting for twenty years, kum: don’t sin!”

“Twenty, indeed!” Ivan Matveevich replied, his tongue unsteady. “You forget, I’ve only been secretary for ten years. Before that, ten-kopeck and twenty-kopeck pieces rattled in my pocket, and sometimes, it’s shameful to say, I often had to collect in copper coins. What kind of life is that! Eh, kum! What happy people there are in this world, who for just one little word, like a whisper in another’s ear, or dictating a line, or simply writing their name on paper—and suddenly such a lump appears in their pocket, like a pillow, you could lie down and sleep on it. If only I could work like that,” he mused, getting more and more drunk, “the petitioners barely see your face and dare not approach. He gets into a carriage, shouts ‘To the club!’ and there, at the club, they shake his hand among the stars, he plays not for a nickel, but he dines, he dines—ah! He’d be ashamed to even mention solyanka: he’d wrinkle his nose and spit. They specifically prepare chickens for dinner in winter, serve strawberries in April! At home, his wife wears blondes, the children have a governess, the kids are combed and dressed up. Eh, kum! There’s paradise, but sins won’t let you in. Let’s drink! Here comes the solyanka!”

“Don’t complain, kum, don’t sin: you have capital, and good capital at that…” the tipsy Tarantyev said, his eyes bloodshot. “Thirty-five thousand in silver—that’s no joke!”

“Quiet, quiet, kum!” Ivan Matveevich interrupted. “What, only thirty-five! When will you reach fifty? And even with fifty, you won’t get into paradise. If you marry, you’ll have to live cautiously, count every ruble, forget even thinking about Jamaican rum—what kind of life is that!”

“But it’s peaceful, kum; a ruble here, two there—you look, and you’ve tucked away about seven rubles a day. No attachments, no nitpicking, no stains, no smoke. But if you sign your name on a big case sometimes, you’ll be scraping your sides for the rest of your life. No, brother, don’t sin, kum!”

Ivan Matveevich wasn’t listening and had been thinking about something for a long time. “Listen,” he suddenly began, his eyes bulging and delighted by something, so that the intoxication almost faded, “no, I’m afraid, I won’t tell, I won’t let such a bird out of my head. Such a treasure has flown in… Let’s drink, kum, let’s drink faster.”

“I won’t until you tell me,” Tarantyev said, pushing his glass away.

“It’s an important matter, kum,” Mukhoiarov whispered, glancing at the door.

“Well?..” Tarantyev asked impatiently.

“I stumbled upon a find. Well, you know what, kum, it’s just like signing your name on a big case, by God it is!”

“Well, will you tell me?”

“And what about the treat? The treat?”

“Well?” Tarantyev urged.

“Wait, let me think a bit more. Yes, there’s nothing to destroy here, it’s legal. So be it, kum, I’ll tell you, and only because I need you; it’s awkward without you. Otherwise, God knows, I wouldn’t have told; it’s not a matter for another soul to know.”

“Am I another soul to you, kum? Haven’t I served you more than once, been a witness, and made copies… remember? You pig!”

“Kum, kum! Hold your tongue. Look at you, you just fire away like a cannon!”

“What the devil will hear here? Am I not myself, do you think?” Tarantyev said annoyedly. “Why are you tormenting me? Well, speak.”

“Listen then: Ilya Ilyich is cowardly, he knows no procedures: then he lost his head over the contract, they sent him the power of attorney, and he didn’t know what to do, he doesn’t even remember how much quitrent he receives, he himself says: ‘I don’t know anything’…”

“Well?” Tarantyev asked impatiently.

“Well, he’s taken to visiting his sister very often. The other day he stayed until past one o’clock, bumped into me in the hallway, and acted as if he didn’t see me. So, let’s see what happens, and then… You, on the side, talk to him, that bringing dishonor into the house is bad; that she’s a widow: tell him that people have already found out about it; that now she won’t be able to marry; that a groom, a wealthy merchant, was courting her, but now he’s heard, they say, that Oblomov sits with her in the evenings, and he doesn’t want her anymore.”

“Well, he’ll get scared, collapse onto his bed, and just toss and turn like a boar, and sigh—that’s all,” Tarantyev said. “What’s the benefit? Where’s the treat?”

“Oh, you! But you tell him I want to complain, that he was supposedly spied on, that there are witnesses…”

“Well, if he gets very scared, you tell him that he can make peace, sacrifice a small capital.”

“Where does he have money?” Tarantyev asked. “He’ll promise ten thousand out of fear…”

“You just wink at me then, and I’ll prepare a promissory note… in my sister’s name: ‘I, Oblomov, borrowed, they say, ten thousand from such-and-such a widow, for a term, etc.'”

“What’s the point, kum? I don’t understand: the money will go to the sister and her children. Where’s the treat?”

“And the sister will give me a promissory note for the same amount; I’ll get her to sign it.”

“What if she doesn’t sign? Resists?”

“The sister!”

And Ivan Matveevich burst into a thin laugh.

“She’ll sign, kum, she’ll sign, she’ll sign her own death sentence and won’t ask what, she’ll just smile, scribble ‘Agafya Pshenitsyna’ to the side, crookedly, and will never know what she signed. You see: you and I will be out of it: the sister will have a claim against Collegiate Secretary Oblomov, and I will have a claim against Collegiate Secretary Pshenitsyna. Let the German fume—it’s a legal matter!” he said, raising his trembling hands. “Let’s drink, kum!”

“A legal matter!” Tarantyev said enthusiastically. “Let’s drink.”

“And if it goes well, we can repeat it in about two years; a legal matter!”

“A legal matter!” Tarantyev proclaimed, nodding approvingly. “We’ll repeat it too!”

“We’ll repeat it!”

And they drank.

“What if your countryman resists and writes to the German beforehand,” Mukhoiarov cautiously remarked, “then, brother, it’s bad! No case can be started; she’s a widow, not a maiden!”

“He’ll write! How could he not write! He’ll write in two years,” Tarantyev said. “And if he resists, I’ll curse him…”

“No, no, God forbid! You’ll spoil everything, kum: he’ll say he was coerced… he might even mention assault, a criminal case. No, that won’t do! But here’s what we can do: first, have a snack and a drink with him; he loves currant liqueur. When his head starts buzzing, you wink at me: I’ll come in with the little letter. He won’t even look at the sum, he’ll sign, just like the contract then, and afterwards, go try to question it once it’s witnessed by a broker! It would be shameful for such a gentleman to admit he signed while intoxicated; a legal matter!”

“A legal matter!” Tarantyev repeated.

“Then let Oblomovka go to the heirs.”

“Let it go! Let’s drink, kum.”

“To the health of fools!” Ivan Matveevich said.

They drank.

IV

We must now go back a little, before Stolz’s arrival at Oblomov’s name-day party, and to another place, far from the Vyborg Side. There, faces familiar to the reader will meet, about whom Stolz did not tell Oblomov everything he knew, for some special considerations or, perhaps, because Oblomov did not ask him everything about them, probably also for special considerations.

One day in Paris, Stolz was walking along the boulevard, his eyes idly flitting over passers-by, over shop signs, without lingering on anything. He had not received letters from Russia for a long time—neither from Kyiv, nor from Odessa, nor from St. Petersburg. He was bored, and he had just dropped off three more letters at the post office and was returning home.

Suddenly his eyes fixed on something motionless, with astonishment, but then again took on their usual expression. Two ladies turned off the boulevard and entered a shop.

“No, it can’t be,” he thought, “what an idea! I would have known! It’s not them.”

However, he approached the window of that shop and peered through the glass at the ladies: “You can’t make anything out, they’re standing with their backs to the windows.”

Stolz entered the shop and began to bargain for something. One of the ladies turned towards the light, and he recognized Olga Ilyinskaya—and didn’t recognize her! He wanted to rush to her but stopped, began to peer intently.

My God! What a change! She was and was not herself. Her features were there, but she was pale, her eyes seemed a little sunken, and there was no childish smile on her lips, no naiveté, no carelessness. Over her brows hovered either an important or a sorrowful thought; her eyes spoke of much that they had not known, had not spoken of before. She did not look as before, openly, brightly, and calmly; a cloud of either sadness or mist lay over her whole face.

He approached her. Her brows knit slightly; she looked at him with bewilderment for a minute, then recognized him: her brows parted and lay symmetrically, her eyes sparkled with the light of quiet, not impetuous, but deep joy. Any brother would have been happy if his beloved sister had greeted him with such joy.

“My God! Is it really you?” she said in a joyous voice that penetrated to the soul, to ecstasy.

Her aunt quickly turned around, and all three began to speak at once. He reproached them for not writing to him; they justified themselves. They had arrived only two days ago and had been looking for him everywhere. At one apartment, they were told he had gone to Lyon, and they didn’t know what to do.

“But how did you think of it? And not a word to me!” he reproached.

“We got ready so quickly that we didn’t want to write to you,” her aunt said. “Olga wanted to surprise you.”

He glanced at Olga: her face did not confirm her aunt’s words. He looked at her even more intently, but she was impenetrable, inaccessible to his observation.

“What’s wrong with her?” Stolz thought. “I used to guess her at once, but now… what a change!”

“How you’ve developed, Olga Sergeevna, grown, matured,” he said aloud, “I don’t recognize you! And we haven’t seen each other for only about a year. What have you been doing, what has happened to you? Tell me, tell me!”

“Oh… nothing special,” she said, examining some fabric.

“How’s your singing?” Stolz asked, continuing to study the new Olga and trying to read the unfamiliar play on her face; but this play, like lightning, would flash out and hide again.

“Haven’t sung in two months,” she said carelessly.

“And Oblomov, how is he?” he suddenly threw out the question. “Is he alive? Doesn’t he write?”

Here, perhaps, Olga would have involuntarily given away her secret, if her aunt had not come to her rescue.

“Imagine,” she said, leaving the shop, “he used to visit us every day, then suddenly disappeared. We were going abroad; I sent to him—they said he was ill, not receiving visitors: so we didn’t see him.”

“And you don’t know?” Stolz asked Olga anxiously.

Olga intently raised her lorgnette to a passing carriage. “He really did fall ill,” she said, feigning attention to the passing carriage. “Look, ma tante, I think those were our traveling companions.”

“No, you give me an account of my Ilya,” Stolz insisted, “what have you done with him? Why didn’t you bring him with you?”

“Mais ma tante vient de dire!” she said.

“He’s terribly lazy,” her aunt remarked, “and such a savage that as soon as three or four people gather at our place, he immediately leaves. Imagine, he subscribed to the opera and didn’t listen to half of the subscription.”

“He didn’t hear Rubini,” Olga added.

Stolz shook his head and sighed.

“How did you decide to come? For how long? What suddenly made you think of it?” Stolz asked.

“For her, on the doctor’s advice,” her aunt said, pointing to Olga. “St. Petersburg noticeably began to affect her, so we left for the winter, but we still haven’t decided where to spend it: in Nice or Switzerland.”

“Yes, you have changed a lot,” Stolz said thoughtfully, fixing his eyes on Olga, studying every vein, looking into her eyes.

The Ilyinskys lived in Paris for six months: Stolz was their daily and only interlocutor and guide.

Olga noticeably began to recover; from pensiveness, she moved to calmness and indifference, at least outwardly. What was happening inside her—God knows, but little by little she became Stolz’s former friend, although she no longer laughed with her former loud, childish, silver laugh, but only smiled a restrained smile when Stolz amused her. Sometimes she even seemed annoyed that she couldn’t help but laugh.

He immediately saw that she could no longer be amused: often with a glance and asymmetrical brows, one above the other, with a crease on her forehead, she would listen to a funny remark and not smile, continuing to look at him silently, as if reproaching him for frivolity or with impatience, or suddenly, instead of answering a joke, she would ask a profound question and accompany it with such an insistent gaze that he would feel ashamed of his careless, empty conversation.

Sometimes such an internal weariness from the daily human empty fuss and chatter was expressed in her that Stolz had to suddenly switch to another sphere, into which he rarely and reluctantly ventured with women. How much thought, how much ingenuity was spent solely on making Olga’s deep, questioning gaze clear and calm, not yearning, not searching questioningly for something further, somewhere beyond him!

How he worried when, at a careless explanation, her gaze became dry, severe, her brows contracted, and a shadow of silent but deep displeasure spread over her face. And he had to spend two, three days of the finest play of mind, even cunning, fire, and all his skill in dealing with women, to elicit, and even then with difficulty, little by little, from Olga’s heart the dawn of clarity on her face, the meekness of reconciliation in her gaze and smile.

He would sometimes come home at the end of the day exhausted by this struggle and was happy when he emerged victorious.

“How she has matured, my God! How this girl has developed! Who was her teacher? Where did she take lessons in life? From the Baron? It’s smooth there, you won’t glean anything from his elegant phrases! Not from Ilya, surely!..”

And he could not understand Olga, and he ran to her again the next day, and already cautiously, with fear, he read her face, often finding it difficult and overcoming the questions, doubts, demands—everything that surfaced in Olga’s features—only with the help of all his intellect and knowledge of life.

With the fire of experience in his hands, he plunged into the labyrinth of her mind, her character, and every day discovered and studied new features and facts, and still saw no bottom, only with surprise and anxiety watched how her mind demanded daily bread, how her soul never ceased, always asking for experience and life.

To all of Stolz’s activity, to all his life, another’s activity and life grew day by day: having surrounded Olga with flowers, having covered her with books, notes, and albums, Stolz calmed down, believing that he had filled his friend’s leisure for a long time, and went to work or went to inspect some mines, some exemplary estate, went into a circle of people, to get acquainted, to meet new or remarkable persons; then he returned to her tired, to sit near her piano and rest under the sounds of her voice. And suddenly, on her face, he would find ready questions, in her gaze an insistent demand for an account. And imperceptibly, involuntarily, little by little, he would lay out before her what he had seen, and why.

Sometimes she expressed a desire to see and learn for herself what he had seen and learned. And he repeated his work: he went with her to see a building, a place, a machine, to read an old event on walls, on stones. Little by little, imperceptibly, he got used to thinking aloud, feeling in her presence, and suddenly one day, strictly checking himself, he realized that he had begun to live not alone, but as two, and that he had been living this life since Olga’s arrival.

Almost unconsciously, as if to himself, he evaluated the treasure he had acquired aloud in her presence and was surprised by himself and her; then he carefully checked if there was still a question in her gaze, if the dawn of a satisfied thought lay on her face, and if her gaze followed him as a victor.

If this was confirmed, he went home with pride, with a trembling excitement, and for a long time at night secretly prepared himself for the next day. The most boring, necessary occupations did not seem dry to him, but only necessary: they entered deeper into the foundation, into the fabric of life; thoughts, observations, phenomena did not silently and carelessly accumulate in the archive of memory, but gave a bright color to each day.

What a fiery dawn enveloped Olga’s pale face when he, without waiting for a questioning and yearning gaze, hastened to throw before her, with fire and energy, a new supply, new material!

And how completely happy he himself was when her mind, with the same care and with sweet obedience, hurried to catch in his gaze, in every word, and both looked intently: he at her, to see if there was still a question in her eyes, she at him, to see if anything remained unsaid, if he had forgotten something, and, above all, God forbid! if he had not neglected to reveal to her some obscure, inaccessible corner, to develop his thought?

The more important, the more complex the question, the more attentively he confided it to her, the longer and more intently her grateful gaze lingered on it, the warmer, deeper, more heartfelt that gaze was.

“This child, Olga!” he thought in amazement. “She’s outgrowing me!”

He pondered Olga as he had never pondered anything before.

In the spring, they all went to Switzerland. Stolz had decided in Paris that from now on, he could not live without Olga. Having settled this question, he began to solve the question of whether Olga could live without him. But this question did not come to him so easily.

He approached it slowly, cautiously, gingerly, sometimes groping, sometimes boldly, and thought—he was almost at his goal, he would catch some unmistakable sign, a glance, a word, boredom or joy; just a small touch, a barely perceptible movement of Olga’s eyebrows, her sigh, and tomorrow the secret would fall: he was loved!

On her face, he read a childish trust in him; she sometimes looked at him as she looked at no one else, and perhaps would only look at her mother that way, if she had a mother.

His arrival, his leisure, whole days of pleasing her, she did not consider an obligation, a flattering offering of love, a kindness of heart, but simply a duty, as if he were her brother, father, even husband: and that is much, that is everything. And she herself, in every word, in every step with him, was so free and sincere, as if he had undeniable weight and authority over her.

He knew that he had this authority; she confirmed it every minute, saying that she trusted him alone and could blindly rely on him and no one else in the whole world.

He was, of course, proud of this, but any elderly, intelligent and experienced uncle, even the Baron, if he were a man with a clear head and character, could also be proud of this.

But was this the authority of love—that was the question? Did it include any of her charming deception, that flattering blindness in which a woman is ready to make a cruel mistake and be happy with the mistake?..

No, she consciously submits to him. True, her eyes light up when he develops an idea or bares his soul to her; she bathes him in the rays of her gaze, but it is always clear why; sometimes she herself states the reason. But in love, merit is acquired so blindly, unconsciously, and in this very blindness and unconsciousness lies happiness. If she is offended—it is immediately clear why she is offended.

He never caught a sudden flush, or joy to the point of fright, or a languid or trembling gaze of fire, and if there was anything similar to this, it seemed to him that her face was distorted with pain when he said that he would leave for Italy in a few days, only for his heart to stop and be drenched in blood from these precious and rare moments, when suddenly everything seemed to be covered with a veil again; she would naively and openly add: “What a pity I can’t go there with you, I would terribly like to! But you will tell me everything and convey it so that it will be as if I myself was there.”

And the enchantment was destroyed by this obvious, undisguised desire and this vulgar, formal praise of his storytelling art. He would just gather all the smallest details, just manage to weave the finest lace, it remained to finish some loop—just now, just now…

And suddenly she became calm, even, simple, sometimes even cold again. She would sit, work, and listen to him silently, sometimes raising her head, casting such curious, questioning, straightforward glances at him that he often threw down his book in annoyance or interrupted some explanation, jumped up and left. He would turn around—she would follow him with a surprised look: he would feel ashamed, he would return and invent something in his justification.

She would listen so simply and believe him. She did not even have doubt, or a sly smile.

“Does she love me or not?” two questions played in his head.

If she loves him, why is she so cautious, so secretive? If she doesn’t love him, why is she so considerate, so obedient? He left Paris for London for a week and came to tell her about it on the day of his departure, without warning her in advance.

If she had suddenly been frightened, if her face had changed—that would have been it, the secret caught, he would have been happy! But she firmly shook his hand, saddened: he was in despair.

“I’ll be terribly bored,” she said, “I’m ready to cry, I’m like an orphan now. Ma tante! Look, Andrey Ivanych is leaving!” she added tearfully.

She cut him short.

“She even turned to her aunt!” he thought, “that’s all I needed! I see that she’s sorry, that she loves, perhaps… but this love can be bought, like goods on the stock exchange, for so much time, for so much attention, obligingness… I won’t come back,” he thought gloomily. “Please, Olga, girl! You used to walk on a thread. What’s wrong with her?”

And he plunged into deep thought.

What was wrong with her? He didn’t know a trifle: that she had loved once, that she had already endured, as far as she was capable, the maidenly period of inability to control herself, of sudden blushes, of poorly concealed pain in her heart, of the feverish signs of love, of its first fever.

Had he known this, he would have known, if not the secret of whether she loved him or not, then at least why it had become so difficult to decipher what was happening to her.

In Switzerland, they visited everywhere travelers go. But more often and with great affection, they stopped in little-visited quiet places. Their “own business,” or at least Stolz’s, so occupied them that they grew tired of traveling, which for them receded into the background.

He walked behind her in the mountains, looked at cliffs, at waterfalls, and in every frame, she was in the foreground. He walks behind her on some narrow path, while her aunt sits in the carriage below; he secretly watches intently as she stops, having climbed the mountain, catches her breath, and what gaze she fixes on him, necessarily and first of all on him: he had already acquired this conviction.

It would be good: it would become warm and bright in his heart, but suddenly she would then sweep her gaze over the landscape and become numb, lost in contemplative slumber—and he would no longer be before her.

As soon as he stirred, reminded her of himself, said a word—she would be frightened, sometimes cry out: it was clear that she had forgotten whether he was there or far away, simply—whether he existed at all.

But afterwards, at home, by the window, on the balcony, she would speak to him alone, speak for a long time, carefully choosing impressions from her soul until she had expressed everything, and she spoke warmly, with enthusiasm, sometimes stopping, picking a word, and catching on the fly an expression he suggested, and a ray of gratitude for his help would flash in her eyes. Or she would sit, pale with fatigue, in a large armchair, only her eager, tireless eyes telling him that she wanted to listen to him.

She listened motionless, but did not utter a word, did not miss a single detail. He would fall silent, she would still listen, her eyes still asking, and he, at this silent challenge, would continue to express himself with new force, with new enthusiasm.

It would be good: bright, warm, his heart beating; it meant she lived there, she needed nothing else: here was her light, fire, and reason. But suddenly she would get up tired, and the same, now questioning, eyes would ask him to leave, or she would want to eat, and she would eat with such an appetite…

All this would be wonderful: he was not a dreamer; he did not want impetuous passion, just as Oblomov did not want it, only for different reasons. But he would have liked, however, for the feeling to flow along an even track, having first boiled hotly at the source, to draw from it and drink his fill, and then to know all his life where this spring of happiness flowed from.

“Does she love me or not?” he said with agonizing excitement, almost to a bloody sweat, almost to tears.

This question grew more and more intense in him, enveloped him like a flame, shackled his intentions: it was already one main question not of love, but of life. There was no longer room for anything else in his soul.

It seemed that in these six months all the torments and tortures of love, from which he had so skillfully guarded himself in encounters with women, had gathered and played out over him.

He felt that even his healthy organism would not withstand it if these months of mental, volitional, and nervous tension continued. He understood—this had been alien to him until now—how strength is spent in these hidden struggles of the soul with passion, how incurable wounds without blood are inflicted on the heart, but give rise to groans, how life itself drains away.

A little of his arrogant self-confidence had fallen away; he no longer joked carelessly, listening to stories of how some lose their minds, waste away from various causes, among others… from love.

He began to be afraid.

“No, I will put an end to this,” he said, “I will look into her soul, as before, and tomorrow—either I will be happy, or I will leave!”

“No strength!” he continued, looking in the mirror. “I don’t look like myself… Enough!..”

He went straight to his goal, that is, to Olga.

And what about Olga? Did she not notice his condition or was she insensitive to it?

She could not fail to notice it: even women less subtle than she are able to distinguish friendly devotion and attentions from the tender manifestation of another feeling. Coquetry cannot be attributed to her due to her true, sincere, uninfluenced morality. She was above this vulgar weakness.

There remains only one assumption: that she liked, without any practical considerations, this continuous, intelligent, and passionate adoration of a man like Stolz. Of course, she liked it: this adoration restored her wounded self-esteem and little by little again placed her on the pedestal from which she had fallen; little by little her pride was reborn.

But what did she think: how should this adoration resolve itself? It cannot always be expressed in this eternal struggle of Stolz’s inquisitiveness with her stubborn silence. At least, did she foresee that all this struggle of his was not in vain, that he would win the case into which he had put so much will and character? Was he wasting this flame, this brilliance for nothing? Would the image of Oblomov and that love drown in the rays of this brilliance?..

She understood none of this, did not clearly realize it, and struggled desperately with these questions, with herself, and did not know how to get out of the chaos.

What was she to do? Remaining in an indecisive position was impossible: someday, from this silent game and struggle of feelings locked in her breast, it would come to words—what would she answer about the past! How would she name it and how would she name what she felt for Stolz?

If she loved Stolz, what then was that other love? — coquetry, frivolity, or worse? She was thrown into a fever and blush of shame at this thought. She would not bring such an accusation against herself.

If, however, that was her first, pure love, what were her relations with Stolz? — Again a game, deception, a subtle calculation to lure him into marriage and thus cover up the frivolity of her conduct?.. She was thrown into a chill, and she paled at the mere thought.

And if it was not a game, not deception, not calculation—then… love again?

At this assumption, she was lost: a second love—seven, eight months after the first! Who would believe her? How could she even hint at it without causing astonishment, perhaps… contempt! She dared not even think of it, had no right!

She rummaged through her experience: no information about a second love was found there. She recalled the authorities of her aunts, old maids, various clever women, and finally writers, “thinkers on love”—from all sides she heard the inexorable verdict: “A woman truly loves only once.” And Oblomov had pronounced his verdict thus. She remembered Sonechka, how she would have reacted to a second love, but from visitors from Russia, she had heard that her friend had moved on to a third…

No, she had no love for Stolz, she decided, and could not have! She had loved Oblomov, and that love had died, the flower of life had withered forever! She only had friendship for Stolz, based on his brilliant qualities, then on his friendship for her, on his attention, on his trust.

Thus she pushed away the thought, even the possibility, of love for her old friend.

This was the reason why Stolz could not catch any sign on her face or in her words, neither positive indifference nor a fleeting flash, not even a spark of feeling that would exceed the bounds of warm, heartfelt, but ordinary friendship by a hair’s breadth.

To end all this at once, she had only one option: noticing the signs of nascent love in Stolz, not to feed it and give it free rein, and to leave as quickly as possible. But she had already lost time: this had happened long ago, and besides, she should have foreseen that his feeling would turn into passion: and this was not Oblomov: you couldn’t get away from him.

Let’s say it would have been physically possible, but it was morally impossible for her to leave: at first, she only used her former rights of friendship and found in Stolz, as she had long ago, sometimes a playful, witty, mocking interlocutor, sometimes a faithful and profound observer of life’s phenomena—everything that happened to them or passed them by, that interested them.

But the more often they saw each other, the more morally close they became, the more lively his role became: from an observer, he imperceptibly transitioned into the role of interpreter of phenomena, her guide. He invisibly became her mind and conscience, and new rights, new secret ties appeared, entangling Olga’s entire life, everything except one cherished corner that she carefully hid from his observation and judgment.

She accepted this moral guardianship over her mind and heart and saw that she herself had gained influence over him. They exchanged rights; she somehow imperceptibly, silently allowed the exchange.

How could she suddenly take everything away now?.. And besides, there was so much… so much occupation… pleasure, variety… life… What would she suddenly do if this were gone? And when the thought of fleeing came to her—it was already too late, she was powerless.

Every day not spent with him, every thought not confided to him and not shared with him—all this lost its color and meaning for her.

“My God! If only she could be his sister!” she thought. “What happiness to have eternal rights to such a man, not only to his mind, but also to his heart, to enjoy his presence lawfully, openly, without paying for it with any heavy sacrifices, sorrows, or the trust of a miserable past. And now what am I? If he leaves—I not only have no right to keep him, I should not wish for separation; and if I do keep him—what will I tell him, by what right do I want to see him, hear him every minute?.. Because I’m bored, because I yearn, because he teaches me, amuses me, because he is useful and pleasant to me. Of course, that’s a reason, but not a right. And what do I offer him in return? The right to admire me disinterestedly and not dare to think of reciprocity, when so many other women would consider themselves happy…”

She tormented herself and pondered how she would get out of this situation, and saw no goal, no end. Ahead was only the fear of his disappointment and eternal separation. Sometimes it occurred to her to reveal everything to him, to end her struggle and his at once, but her breath caught just at the thought of it. She felt ashamed, pained.

The strangest thing was that she ceased to respect her past, even began to be ashamed of it since she became inseparable from Stolz, since he took possession of her life. If the Baron, for example, or someone else, were to find out, she would, of course, be embarrassed, she would feel awkward, but she would not be tormented as she was now at the thought that Stolz would find out about it.

She imagined with horror what would be expressed on his face, how he would look at her, what he would say, what he would think afterwards? She would suddenly seem so insignificant, weak, petty to him. No, no, never!

She began to observe herself and discovered with horror that she was not only ashamed of her past romance, but also of its hero… Here, remorse for her ingratitude for the deep devotion of her former friend burned her.

Perhaps she would have gotten used to her shame, would have endured it: what doesn’t a person get used to! if her friendship with Stolz had been free from any mercenary thoughts and desires. But even if she suppressed every sly and flattering whisper of her heart, she could not cope with the dreams of her imagination: often before her eyes, against her will, the image of this other love appeared and shone; the dream of luxurious happiness grew more and more seductive, not with Oblomov, not in lazy slumber, but on the wide arena of a comprehensive life, with all its depth, with all its charms and sorrows—happiness with Stolz…

It was then that she bathed her past in tears and could not wash it away. She sobered up from the dream and even more carefully hid behind a wall of impenetrability, silence, and that friendly indifference that tormented Stolz. Then, forgetting herself, she was again carried away disinterestedly by her friend’s presence, was charming, kind, trusting, until again the illegitimate dream of happiness, to which she had lost her rights, reminded her that the future was lost for her, that rosy dreams were already behind her, that the flower of life had faded.

Probably, with years, she would have managed to reconcile herself to her situation and would have grown unaccustomed to hopes for the future, as all old maids do, and would have plunged into cold apathy or would have engaged in good deeds; but suddenly her illegitimate dream took on a more formidable form when from a few words that escaped Stolz, she clearly saw that she had lost a friend in him and gained a passionate admirer. Friendship had drowned in love.

She was pale that morning when she discovered this, did not leave the house all day, was agitated, struggled with herself, thought about what she should do now, what duty lay upon her—and could think of nothing. She only cursed herself for not overcoming her shame at first and not revealing the past to Stolz earlier, and now she had to overcome horror as well.

There were fits of determination, when her chest ached, when tears boiled there, when she wanted to rush to him and not with words, but with sobs, convulsions, fainting spells, tell him about her love, so that he would see her redemption.

She had heard how others acted in similar cases. Sonechka, for example, told her fiancé about the cornet, that she had fooled him, that he was a boy, that she had deliberately made him wait in the cold until she came out to get into the carriage, and so on.

Sonechka would not have hesitated to say about Oblomov that she had joked with him, for entertainment, that he was so funny, that one could not love “such a sack,” that no one would believe it. But such a course of conduct could only be justified by Sonechka’s husband and many others, but not by Stolz.

Olga could have presented the matter more plausibly, saying that she only wanted to pull Oblomov out of the abyss and for that purpose resorted, so to speak, to friendly coquetry… to revive a dying man and then leave him. But that would have been too sophisticated, forced, and in any case false… No, there was no salvation!

“God, in what a quagmire I am!” Olga tormented herself. “To reveal it!.. Oh, no! Let him never, never know about it! And not to reveal it—is like stealing. It’s like deceit, like fawning. God, help me!..” But there was no help.

However much she enjoyed Stolz’s presence, at times she would rather not have met him again, to pass through his life as a barely noticeable shadow, not to darken his clear and rational existence with an illegitimate passion.

She would have grieved for her failed love, mourned the past, buried its memory in her soul, then… then, perhaps, she would have found a “suitable match,” of which there are many, and would have been a good, intelligent, caring wife and mother, and would have considered the past a maidenly dream and would not have lived, but endured life. After all, everyone does that!

But here it was not just about her; another was involved, and this other rested his best and ultimate hopes for life on her.

“Why… did I love?” she tormented herself in anguish and remembered the morning in the park when Oblomov wanted to flee, and she thought that the book of her life would close forever if he fled. She had so boldly and easily resolved the question of love, of life, everything seemed so clear to her—and everything got tangled into an insoluble knot.

She had been clever, thought that one only had to look simply, go straight—and life would obediently, like a tablecloth, spread out under her feet, and behold!.. There was no one even to blame: she alone was guilty!

Olga, not suspecting why Stolz had come, carelessly rose from the sofa, put down her book, and went to meet him.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked, sitting by the window in her room, facing the lake. “Were you reading?”

“No, I’ve stopped reading: it’s getting dark. I was waiting for you!” she said softly, friendly, trustingly.

“All the better: I need to talk to you,” he remarked seriously, pulling another armchair for her to the window.

She shuddered and became speechless on the spot. Then she mechanically sank into the armchair and, bowing her head, without raising her eyes, sat in a tormenting position. She wished she were a hundred versts away from that place at that moment.

At that moment, like lightning, the past flashed in her memory. “Judgment has come! You can’t play with life like dolls!” she heard some extraneous voice. “Don’t joke with it—you’ll pay!”

They were silent for several minutes. He was obviously collecting his thoughts. Olga fearfully peered into his emaciated face, into his furrowed brows, into his compressed lips with an expression of determination.

“Nemesis!..” she thought, trembling inwardly. Both seemed to be preparing for a duel.

“You, of course, guess, Olga Sergeevna, what I want to talk about?” he said, looking at her questioningly.

He sat in the pier-glass, which hid his face, while the light from the window fell directly on her, and he could read what was on her mind.

“How can I know?” she answered quietly.

Before this dangerous opponent, she no longer had the same willpower and character, nor the penetration, nor the ability to control herself, with which she constantly appeared to Oblomov.

She understood that if she had been able to hide from Stolz’s keen gaze until now and successfully wage war, she owed this not to her own strength, as in the struggle with Oblomov, but only to Stolz’s stubborn silence, his hidden behavior. But in the open field, the advantage was not on her side, and therefore with the question: “How can I know?”—she only wanted to gain an inch of space and a minute of time, so that the enemy would reveal his intention more clearly.

“You don’t know?” he said simply. “Good, I’ll tell you…”

“Oh, no!” she suddenly burst out.

She grabbed his hand and looked at him as if begging for mercy.

“You see, I guessed that you know!” he said. “Why ‘no’?” he then added sadly.

She was silent.

“If you foresaw that I would ever speak out, then you knew, of course, what to answer me?” he asked.

“I foresaw it and suffered!” she said, leaning back in the armchair and turning away from the light, mentally willing the twilight to come quickly to her aid so he wouldn’t read the struggle of confusion and anguish on her face.

“Suffered! That’s a terrible word,” he said almost in a whisper, “it’s Dante’s: ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ I have nothing more to say: it’s all here! But I’m grateful for even that,” he added with a deep sigh, “I’ve emerged from chaos, from darkness, and I know, at least, what I must do. The only salvation is to flee quickly!”

He stood up.

“No, for God’s sake, no!” she cried, rushing to him, grabbing his hand again, speaking with fright and pleading. “Have pity on me: what will become of me?”

He sat down, and she did too.

“But I love you, Olga Sergeyevna!” he said almost sternly. “You’ve seen what’s become of me these past six months! What do you want: complete triumph? For me to wither away or go mad? My humble thanks!”

Her face changed.

“Go away!” she said with the dignity of suppressed offense and deep sorrow, which she couldn’t hide.

“Forgive me, my fault!” he apologized. “Here we are, seeing nothing, and we’ve already quarreled. I know you can’t want this, but you also can’t put yourself in my position, and that’s why my urge to flee seems strange to you. A person sometimes unconsciously becomes an egoist.”

She shifted in the armchair as if she were uncomfortable sitting, but said nothing.

“Well, suppose I stayed: what would come of it?” he continued. “You’d, of course, offer me friendship; but I already have that. I’ll leave, and in a year, in two, it will still be mine. Friendship is a good thing, Olga Sergeyevna, when it’s love between a young man and woman, or a memory of love between old people. But God forbid if it’s friendship on one side and love on the other. I know you’re not bored with me; but how am I with you?”

“Yes, if that’s the case, go, God be with you!” she whispered almost inaudaudibly.

“Stay!” he mused aloud. “Walking on a knife-edge – that’s some friendship!”

“And is it any easier for me?” she unexpectedly retorted.

“Why for you?” he asked eagerly. “You… you don’t love…”

“I don’t know, I swear to God, I don’t know! But if you… if my present life somehow changes, what will become of me?” she added dismally, almost to herself.

“How am I to understand this? Enlighten me, for God’s sake!” he said, pulling his armchair closer to her, puzzled by her words and the deep, unfeigned tone in which they were spoken.

He tried to discern her features. She remained silent. A burning desire to soothe him, to retract the word “suffered” or to interpret it differently from how he understood it, consumed her. But how to interpret it, she herself didn’t know; she only vaguely felt that both were under the yoke of fatal misunderstanding, in a false position, that it was hard for both, and that only he, or she with his help, could bring clarity and order to both the past and the present. But to do this, she needed to cross an abyss, to reveal what had transpired with her: how she had desired and how she had feared—his judgment!

“I understand nothing myself; I am more in chaos, in darkness, than you!” she said.

“Listen, do you believe me?” he asked, taking her hand.

“Boundlessly, like a mother—you know that,” she replied weakly.

“Then tell me what has happened to you since we last met. You are impenetrable to me now, but before, I could read your thoughts on your face: it seems that’s the only way for us to understand each other. Do you agree?”

“Oh yes, it’s necessary… it must end somehow…” she murmured with anguish at the inevitable confession. “Nemesis! Nemesis!” she thought, bowing her head to her chest.

She looked down and was silent. And a dread swept over his soul from those simple words, and even more from her silence.

“She’s tormenting herself! God! What happened to her?” he thought, his brow chilling, and he felt his hands and feet trembling. Something very terrible came to his mind. She remained silent, seemingly struggling with herself.

“So… Olga Sergeyevna…” he urged. She was silent, only making another nervous movement that couldn’t be seen in the darkness, but her silk dress was heard rustling.

“I’m gathering my courage,” she said at last. “How difficult it is, if you only knew!” she added then, turning away, trying to overcome the struggle.

She wished Stolz would learn everything not from her lips, but by some miracle. Fortunately, it grew darker, and her face was already in shadow: only her voice could betray her, and words wouldn’t leave her tongue, as if she was struggling with which note to begin.

“My God! How guilty I must be if I feel such shame, such pain!” she tormented herself internally.

And hadn’t she, so recently, with such confidence, managed her own and others’ fates, been so clever, so strong! And now it was her turn to tremble like a little girl! Shame for the past, the torture of wounded pride for the present, a false position tormented her… It was unbearable!

“I’ll help you… you… loved?..” Stolz barely managed to utter, so painful did his own word become to him.

She confirmed with silence. And horror again breathed upon him.

“Whom? Is it not a secret?” he asked, trying to speak firmly, but he himself felt his lips tremble.

And she felt even more tormented. She wished she could say another name, invent another story. She hesitated for a moment, but there was nothing to be done: like a person who, in a moment of extreme danger, throws herself from a steep bank or plunges into flames, she suddenly uttered: “Oblomov!”

He stood petrified. Silence lasted for about two minutes.

“Oblomov!” he repeated in astonishment. “That’s not true!” he added positively, lowering his voice.

“It is true!” she said calmly.

“Oblomov!” he repeated again. “It can’t be!” he added affirmly once more. “There’s something wrong here: you haven’t understood yourself, Oblomov, or, finally, love.”

She remained silent.

“That’s not love, that’s something else, I tell you!” he insisted persistently.

“Yes, I flirted with him, led him on, made him unhappy… then, in your opinion, I take on you!” she said in a restrained voice, and tears of resentment welled up in her voice again.

“Dear Olga Sergeyevna! Don’t be angry, don’t speak like that: it’s not your tone. You know I don’t think any of that. But it doesn’t fit into my head, I don’t understand how Oblomov…”

“He is worthy, however, of your friendship; you don’t know how to appreciate him: why then is he not worthy of love?” she defended him.

“I know that love is less demanding than friendship,” he said, “it is even often blind, one doesn’t love for merits — that’s all true. But for love, something is needed, sometimes trifles, that can neither be defined nor named, and which are not in my incomparable, but clumsy Ilya. That’s why I am surprised. Listen,” he continued animatedly, “we will never reach the end this way, we won’t understand each other. Don’t be ashamed of details, don’t spare yourself for half an hour, tell me everything, and I will tell you what it was, and perhaps even what will be… It still seems to me that it’s… not that… Oh, if only it were true!” he added with animation. “If it were Oblomov, and not another! Oblomov! Why, that means you belong neither to the past nor to love, that you are free… Tell me, tell me quickly!” he concluded in a calm, almost cheerful voice.

“Yes, for God’s sake!” she replied trustingly, relieved that part of her chains had been removed. “I’m going crazy by myself. If only you knew how miserable I am! I don’t know if I’m guilty or not, whether to be ashamed of the past, to regret it, to hope for the future, or to despair… You spoke of your torments, but you didn’t suspect mine. Listen to the end, but not with your mind: I’m afraid of your mind; with your heart, it’s better: perhaps it will judge that I have no mother, that I was as if in a forest…” she added quietly, in a fallen voice. “No,” she hastily corrected herself then, “don’t spare me. If it was love, then… go away.” She paused for a moment. “And come back later, when only friendship speaks again. If it was capriciousness, flirtation, then punish me, run further, and forget me. Listen.”

In response, he firmly squeezed both her hands.

Olga’s confession began, long and detailed. She clearly, word for word, transferred from her mind to his everything that had gnawed at her for so long, what made her blush, what she had once been moved by and happy about, and then suddenly plunged into a whirlpool of grief and doubt.

She spoke of their walks, the park, her hopes, Oblomov’s enlightenment and downfall, the lilac branch, even the kiss. Only the suffocating evening in the garden was passed over in silence—probably because she still hadn’t decided what kind of fit had overcome her then.

At first, only her confused whisper was heard, but as she spoke, her voice became clearer and freer; from a whisper, it transitioned to a halftone, then rose to full, resonant notes. She finished calmly, as if recounting someone else’s story.

Before her very eyes, the veil was lifted, the past unfolded, into which, until this moment, she had been afraid to gaze intently. Her eyes were opened to many things, and she would have boldly looked at her interlocutor had it not been dark.

She finished and awaited judgment. But the answer was a deathly silence.

What about him? Not a word, not a movement, not even a breath could be heard, as if no one were with her.

This silence again cast doubt upon her. The silence continued. What did this silence mean? What judgment was being prepared for her by the most discerning, lenient judge in the whole world? All others would mercilessly condemn her; only he alone could be her advocate if she chose… he would understand everything, weigh it, and decide in her favor better than she herself could! And he was silent: was her case already lost?..

She became frightened again…

The doors opened, and two candles, brought in by the maid, illuminated their corner.

She cast a timid but eager, questioning glance at him. He folded his hands across his chest and looked at her with such gentle, open eyes, reveling in her confusion.

Her heart softened, warmed. She sighed reassuringly and almost cried. Instantly, self-compassion returned to her, and trust in him. She was happy, like a child who has been forgiven, comforted, and caressed.

“Is that all?” he asked softly.

“All!” she said.

“And his letter?”

She took the letter from her portfolio and handed it to him. He went to the candle, read it, and placed it on the table. And his eyes returned to her with the same expression she hadn’t seen in him for a long time.

Before her stood her former friend, self-assured, a little mocking, and boundlessly kind, spoiling her. There was no trace of suffering or doubt on his face. He took her hands, kissed each one, then became deeply thoughtful. She, in turn, quieted down, and, without blinking, watched the movement of his thoughts on his face.

Suddenly, he stood up.

“My God, if only I had known it was about Oblomov, would I have suffered so much!” he said, looking at her so affectionately, with such trust, as if she had no terrible past. Her heart felt so light, so festive. She felt at ease. It became clear to her that she was ashamed of him alone, but he wasn’t punishing her, wasn’t running away! What did she care about the judgment of the whole world!

He was already in control of himself again, cheerful; but that was not enough for her. She saw that she was justified; but, like a defendant, she wanted to know the verdict. And he took his hat.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“You’re upset, rest!” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow…”

“You want me to stay up all night?” she interrupted, holding him by the hand and seating him in a chair. “You want to leave without saying what this… was, what I am now, what I… will be. Have pity, Andrey Ivanych: who will tell me? Who will punish me if I deserve it, or… who will forgive me?..” she added and looked at him with such tender friendship that he threw down his hat and almost fell to his knees before her himself.

“Angel—allow me to say—my own!” he said. “Don’t torment yourself needlessly: you need neither punishment nor mercy. I don’t even need to add anything to your story. What doubts could you have? You want to know what it was, to name it? You’ve known for a long time. Where is Oblomov’s letter?” He picked up the letter from the table.

“Listen then!” and he read: “‘Your present love is not true love, but future love. It is only an unconscious need to love, which, for lack of true nourishment, sometimes manifests itself in women in caresses towards a child, another woman, or simply in tears or hysterical fits: You were mistaken (Stolz read, emphasizing the word): before you is not the one you waited for, the one you dreamed of. Wait – he will come, and then you will awaken, you will be annoyed and ashamed of your mistake…’ See how true that is!” he said. “You were both ashamed and annoyed by… the mistake. There’s nothing to add to that. He was right, and you didn’t believe him, and that’s your whole fault. You should have parted ways then; but his beauty overcame you… and his dove-like tenderness touched you!” he added, with a hint of mockery.

“I didn’t believe him, I thought the heart doesn’t make mistakes.”

“No, it does make mistakes: and sometimes how disastrously! But it didn’t even reach your heart,” he added, “imagination and vanity on one side, weakness—on the other… And you feared that there would be no other celebration in life, that this pale ray would illuminate life and then there would be eternal night.”

“And the tears?” she said. “Were they not from the heart when I cried? I wasn’t lying, I was sincere…”

“My God! What won’t women weep over! You yourself say that you were sorry for the lilac bouquet, your favorite bench. Add to that wounded pride, the failed role of a savior, a little habit… How many reasons for tears!”

“And our meetings, our walks, were those also a mistake? You remember that I… was at his place…” she finished, embarrassed, and she herself, it seemed, wanted to suppress her words. She tried to accuse herself only so that he would defend her more passionately, so that she would be more and more in the right in his eyes.

“From your story, it’s clear that in your last meetings, you had nothing to talk about. Your so-called ‘love’ lacked substance; it couldn’t go further. You had already drifted apart before the separation and were faithful not to love, but to its phantom, which you yourself invented—that’s the whole secret.”

“And the kiss?” she whispered so softly that he didn’t hear, but guessed.

“Oh, that’s important,” he said with comic severity, “for that, you should have been deprived of… one dish at dinner.” He looked at her with increasing tenderness, with greater love.

“A joke is no justification for such a ‘mistake’!” she retorted strictly, offended by his indifference and careless tone. “It would be easier for me if you punished me with some harsh word, called my transgression by its true name.”

“I wouldn’t joke if it wasn’t about Ilya, but someone else,” he defended himself, “there, a mistake could have ended in… disaster, but I know Oblomov…”

“Another, never!” she interrupted, flushing. “I knew him better than you did…”

“There, you see!” he confirmed.

“But if he… changed, came alive, listened to me and… would I not have loved him then? Would it still have been a lie, a mistake?” she said, trying to examine the matter from all sides, so that no slightest blemish, no riddle, would remain…

“That is, if there had been another person in his place,” Stolz interrupted, “there’s no doubt your relationship would have blossomed into love, solidified, and then… But that’s another novel and another hero, which doesn’t concern us.”

She sighed as if the last burden had been lifted from her soul. Both were silent.

“Oh, what happiness… to recover,” she slowly uttered, as if blooming, and turned to him with a look of such deep gratitude, such warm, unprecedented friendship, that in this look, he sensed the spark he had vainly pursued for almost a year. A joyful shiver ran through him.

“No, I’m recovering!” he said and fell into thought. “Oh, if only I had known that the hero of this novel was Ilya! How much time was wasted, how much blood was spoiled! For what? Why!” he repeated, almost annoyed.

But suddenly, he seemed to sober up from this annoyance, awoke from his heavy contemplation. His brow smoothed, his eyes brightened.

“But, evidently, it was inevitable: but how serene I am now and… how happy!” he added with rapture.

“Like a dream, as if nothing had happened!” she said thoughtfully, barely audibly, marveling at her sudden rebirth. “You have removed not only shame, repentance, but also bitterness, pain—everything… How did you do that?” she asked quietly. “And will all this pass, this mistake?”

“Yes, I think it has already passed!” he said, looking at her for the first time with eyes of passion and not concealing it, “that is, everything that was.”

“And what… will be… not a mistake… the truth?..” she asked, leaving the thought unfinished.

“It’s written right here,” he decided, taking the letter again, “‘Before you is not the one you waited for, the one you dreamed of: he will come, and you will awaken…’ And you will love, I will add, you will love so much that not a year, but a whole life will be too little for that love, only I don’t know… whom?” he finished, gazing intently at her.

She lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together, but through her eyelids, rays struggled to break free, and her lips tried to suppress a smile, but failed. She looked at him and laughed so heartily that tears even came to her eyes.

“I told you what happened to you and even what will happen, Olga Sergeevna,” he concluded. “But you won’t tell me anything in response to my question, which you didn’t let me finish.”

“But what can I say?” she said in confusion. “Would I have the right, if I could say what you so need and what… you are so worthy of?” she added in a whisper and looked at him shyly.

In her gaze, he again sensed sparks of unprecedented friendship; again, he trembled with happiness.

“Don’t rush,” he added, “tell me what I’m worthy of when your heart’s mourning, the mourning of decorum, ends. This past year has also told me a few things. And now, just decide: should I go or… stay?”

“Listen: you’re flirting with me!” she suddenly said cheerfully.

“Oh no!” he remarked with importance. “That’s not the same question as before; now it has a different meaning: if I stay, then… on what terms?”

She suddenly became flustered.

“You see, I’m not flirting!” he laughed, pleased to have caught her. “After our conversation today, we need to be different with each other: we are both no longer who we were yesterday.”

“I don’t know…” she whispered, even more flustered.

“Will you allow me to give you some advice?”

“Speak… I will blindly obey!” she added, almost with passionate submission.

“Marry me, while you wait for him to come!”

“I still don’t dare…” she whispered, covering her face with her hands, agitated, but happy.

“Why don’t you dare?” he whispered back, gently pulling her head towards him.

“And this past?” she whispered again, resting her head on his chest, like a child on her mother’s.

He gently removed her hands from her face, kissed her head, and long admired her confusion, delighting in the tears that had welled up in her eyes and then were reabsorbed.

“It will fade, like your lilac!” he concluded. “You’ve had your lesson: now it’s time to use it. Life is beginning: give me your future and don’t think about anything—I guarantee everything. Let’s go to your aunt’s.”

Stolz left late for his own place.

“Found what’s mine,” he thought, gazing with loving eyes at the trees, the sky, the lake, even the mist rising from the water. “I waited! So many years of thirst for feeling, patience, economy of soul’s strength! How long I waited—everything is rewarded: here it is, the last happiness of man!”

Everything was now obscured by happiness in his eyes: the office, his father’s cart, suede gloves, greasy accounts—his entire business life. Only his mother’s fragrant room, Hertz’s variations, the princely gallery, blue eyes, chestnut hair powdered—all of it came alive in his memory, and a tender voice of Olga’s covered it all: he heard her singing in his mind.

“Olga—my wife!” he whispered, trembling passionately. “Everything is found, nothing to seek, nowhere else to go!”

And in the thoughtful haze of happiness, he walked home, oblivious to the road, the streets…

Olga watched him for a long time, then opened the window, breathing in the night coolness for several minutes; the agitation gradually subsided, her chest rising and falling evenly.

She fixed her gaze on the lake, on the distance, and fell into such quiet, deep thought, as if she had fallen asleep. She tried to grasp what she was thinking, what she was feeling, and she couldn’t. Thoughts flowed as smoothly as waves, blood coursed as evenly through her veins. She experienced happiness and couldn’t define its boundaries, what it truly was. She wondered why she felt so quiet, peaceful, undisturbed, why she was so calm, meanwhile…

“I am his fiancée…” she whispered.

“I am a fiancée!” a girl thinks with proud trembling, having waited for this moment that illuminates her entire life, and she rises high, and from that height, she looks down on the dark path where she walked yesterday, alone and unnoticed.

Why doesn’t Olga tremble? She, too, walked alone, on an unnoticed path; likewise, he met her at a crossroads, offered his hand, and led her not into the brilliance of dazzling rays, but as if to the expanse of a wide river, to vast fields and gently smiling hills. Her gaze did not squint from the brilliance, her heart did not freeze, her imagination did not flare.

With quiet joy, she rested her gaze on the expanse of life, on its wide fields and green hills. No tremor ran down her shoulders, no pride burned in her gaze: only when she transferred that gaze from the fields and hills to the one who had offered her his hand did she feel a tear slowly tracing its way down her cheek…

She still sat there, as if sleeping—so quiet was the dream of her happiness: she didn’t stir, hardly breathed. Lost in oblivion, she directed her mental gaze into a quiet, blue night, with a gentle radiance, with warmth and fragrance. The dream of happiness spread its wide wings and floated slowly, like a cloud in the sky, above her head…

She did not see herself in this dream wrapped in gauze and blond lace for two hours, and then in everyday rags for the rest of her life. She did not dream of a festive feast, nor lights, nor joyful shouts; she dreamed of happiness, but such a simple, unadorned happiness that she whispered once more, without a tremor of pride, and only with deep tenderness: “I am his fiancée!”

V

My God! How grim and dull everything looked in Oblomov’s apartment about a year and a half after the name-day celebration, when Stolz unexpectedly arrived to dine with him. Ilya Ilyich himself had grown flabby, and boredom had eaten into his eyes, looking out like some infirmity.

He would pace around the room, then lie down and stare at the ceiling; he would take a book from the shelf, skim a few lines, yawn, and begin drumming his fingers on the table.

Zakhar had become even clumsier, more untidy; patches appeared on his elbows; he looked so poor, so hungry, as if he ate little, slept little, and worked for three.

Oblomov’s dressing gown was worn out, and no matter how carefully the holes were mended, it kept unraveling everywhere and at the seams: a new one was long overdue. The blanket on the bed was also worn, patched in places; the curtains on the windows had long faded, and although washed, they resembled rags.

Zakhar brought an old tablecloth, spread it on half of the table next to Oblomov, then carefully, biting his tongue, brought a setting with a decanter of vodka, placed bread, and left.

The door from the mistress’s side opened, and Agafya Matveevna entered, deftly carrying a sizzling pan of scrambled eggs.

She, too, had changed terribly, not for the better. She had lost weight. There were no round, white, unblushing, and unpaling cheeks; her sparse eyebrows no longer gleamed; her eyes were sunken.

She was dressed in an old calico dress; her hands were either tanned or coarsened from work, from fire or water, or from both.

Akulina was no longer in the house. Anisya was in the kitchen, in the garden, tending to the birds, scrubbing floors, and doing laundry; she couldn’t manage alone, and Agafya Matveevna, willy-nilly, worked in the kitchen herself: she pounded, sifted, and grated little because little coffee, cinnamon, and almonds were left, and she had forgotten all about lace. Now she more often had to chop onions, grate horseradish, and similar spices. A deep despondency lay on her face.

But she wasn’t sighing for herself, nor for her coffee; she wasn’t grieving because she had no opportunity to bustle about, to manage on a grand scale, to pound cinnamon, to put vanilla in sauce, or to cook thick cream, but because Ilya Ilyich hadn’t eaten any of this for two years, because his coffee wasn’t bought in poods from the best shop, but in kopecks from a small store; the cream wasn’t brought by a Finnish woman, but supplied by the same small store, because instead of a succulent cutlet, she brought him scrambled eggs for breakfast, seasoned with tough, stale ham from the same store.

What did this mean? It meant that for two years, the income from Oblomovka, dutifully sent by Stolz, had been going to satisfy the claims on the promissory note given by Oblomov to the landlady.

Her brother’s “legal business” succeeded beyond all expectations. At Tarantyev’s first hint of a scandalous affair, Ilya Ilyich flushed and was embarrassed; then they settled out of court, then all three drank, and Oblomov signed the promissory note, due in four years; and a month later, Agafya Matveevna signed an identical letter in her brother’s name, unaware of what or why she was signing. Her brother said it was a necessary house paper and told her to write: “To this promissory note, such-and-such (rank, name, and surname) affixed her hand.”

She only found it difficult that she had to write so much, and asked her brother to make Vanyusha do it instead, saying “he’s become a brisk writer,” and she might mess something up. But her brother insisted, and she signed crookedly, askew, and in large letters. There was never any more talk of it.

Oblomov, in signing, was partly comforted by the thought that the money would go to orphans, and then, the next day, when his head was clear, he remembered the affair with shame and tried to forget it, avoiding meetings with his brother, and if Tarantyev brought it up, he threatened to move out immediately and go to the countryside.

Then, when he received money from the village, her brother came to him and announced that it would be easier for Ilya Ilyich to start paying immediately from the income; that in about three years the claim would be covered, whereas by the due date, when the document would be presented for collection, the village would have to go to public auction, since Oblomov had no ready cash and none was foreseen.

Oblomov understood the vise he was caught in when everything Stolz sent began to go toward paying the debt, leaving him only a small amount of money for living expenses.

Her brother hurried to conclude this voluntary transaction with his debtor in two years, so that nothing would interfere with the business, and that’s why Oblomov suddenly found himself in a difficult situation.

At first, it wasn’t very noticeable due to his habit of not knowing how much money he had in his pocket; but Ivan Matveevich decided to court a shopkeeper’s daughter, rented a separate apartment, and moved there.

Agafya Matveevna’s domestic extravagance suddenly ceased: sturgeon, snow-white veal, turkeys began to appear in another kitchen, in Mukhojarov’s new apartment.

There, in the evenings, lights burned, her brother’s future relatives, colleagues, and Tarantyev gathered; everyone found themselves there. Agafya Matveevna and Anisya were suddenly left with gaping mouths and idly hanging hands, over empty pots and pans.

Agafya Matveevna for the first time learned that she only had a house, a garden, and chickens, and that neither cinnamon nor vanilla grew in her garden; she saw that in the markets, shopkeepers gradually stopped bowing low to her with a smile and that these bows and smiles now went to her brother’s new, plump, well-dressed cook.

Oblomov gave the landlady all the money his brother had left him for living expenses, and for three or four months she, as before, pounded poods of coffee, crushed cinnamon, fried veal and turkeys, and did so until the last day, when she spent the last seven grivens and came to him to say that she had no money.

He turned over three times on the sofa at this news, then looked into his own drawer: he had nothing either. He started trying to remember where he had put them, and remembered nothing: he felt around the table with his hand for copper coins, asked Zakhar, who hadn’t seen any even in his sleep. She went to her brother and naively said there was no money in the house.

“And where did you and your grandee squander the thousand rubles I gave him for living expenses?” he asked. “Where am I supposed to get money? You know, I’m getting legally married: I can’t support two families, and you and the master should stretch your legs according to your clothes.”

“Why, brother, are you reproaching me for the master?” she said. “What does he do to you? He bothers no one, lives his own life. I didn’t lure him to the apartment: you and Mikhei Andreich did.”

He gave her ten rubles and said there was no more. But then, after discussing the matter with his godfather at the establishment, he decided that abandoning his sister and Oblomov like this was impossible, that perhaps the matter would reach Stolz, who would swoop down, investigate, and, God forbid, somehow change things before he could even collect the debt, even though it was a “legal matter”: a German, therefore, cunning!

He began to give fifty rubles a month more, intending to recover this money from Oblomov’s income in the third year, but at the same time, he explained and even swore to his sister that he would not put another penny, and calculated what kind of table they should keep, how to reduce expenses, even appointed which dishes to cook when, calculated how much she could get for chickens, for cabbage, and decided that with all this, they could live happily.

For the first time in her life, Agafya Matveevna pondered not about housekeeping, but about something else; for the first time she wept, not from vexation at Akulina for broken dishes, nor from her brother’s scolding for undercooked fish; for the first time, grim need appeared before her, but grim not for her, but for Ilya Ilyich.

“How suddenly will this gentleman,” she reasoned, “eat turnips with butter instead of asparagus, mutton instead of grouse, salted pike-perch instead of Gatchina trout, amber sturgeon, perhaps jelly from a small shop…”

Horror! She didn’t think to the end, but hastily dressed, hired a cab, and went to her husband’s relatives, not for Easter or Christmas, for a family dinner, but early in the morning, with worry, with an unusual speech and the question of what to do, and to get money from them.

They had a lot: they would give it immediately when they knew it was for Ilya Ilyich. If it were for her coffee, for tea, for children’s dresses, for shoes, or for other such whims, she wouldn’t have even hinted, but this was for extreme need, for a desperate need: to buy asparagus for Ilya Ilyich, grouse for roasting, he likes French peas…

But there they were surprised, they didn’t give her money, but said that if Ilya Ilyich had any things, gold or perhaps silver, even fur, it could be pawned and that there were such benefactors who would give a third of the requested sum until he received money from the village again.

This practical lesson, at another time, would have flown over the ingenious housekeeper’s head without touching it, and no amount of persuasion would have drilled it into her, but here, with the wisdom of her heart, she understood, grasped everything, and weighed… her own pearls, received as a dowry.

Ilya Ilyich, suspecting nothing, drank currant vodka the next day, snacked on excellent salmon, ate his favorite giblets and fresh white grouse. Agafya Matveevna and the children ate common cabbage soup and porridge and only drank two cups of coffee with Ilya Ilyich for company.

Soon after the pearls, she took a fermoir from her treasured chest, then the silver went, then the salop… The time came for money to arrive from the village: Oblomov gave her everything. She redeemed the pearls and paid the interest for the fermoir, silver, and fur, and again prepared asparagus and grouse for him, and only pretended to drink coffee with him. The pearls returned to their place.

From week to week, day by day, she exhausted herself, tormented herself, struggled, sold her shawl, sent her best dress to be sold, and remained in her everyday calico attire, with bare elbows, and on Sundays she covered her neck with an old, worn-out scarf.

That’s why she had lost weight, why her eyes were sunken, and why she herself brought breakfast to Ilya Ilyich.

She even managed to put on a cheerful face when Oblomov announced that Tarantyev, Alexeyev, or Ivan Gerasimovich would be coming for dinner the next day. The dinner would be delicious and cleanly served. She did not disgrace her host. But how much anxiety, running around, begging in small shops, then sleepless nights, even tears, these worries cost her!

How suddenly she plunged deeply into the turmoil of life and how she came to know its happy and unhappy days! But she loved this life: despite all the bitterness of her tears and worries, she would not have exchanged it for her former, quiet existence, when she did not know Oblomov, when she reigned with dignity amidst filled, crackling, and sizzling pots, pans, and vessels, commanding Akulina and the doorman.

She would even shudder in horror when the thought of death suddenly appeared to her, though death would at once put an end to her never-drying tears, her daily running around, and her nightly sleeplessness.

Ilya Ilyich had breakfast, listened to Masha read French, sat in Agafya Matveevna’s room, watched her mend Vanechka’s jacket, turning it ten times first one way then the other, and at the same time constantly ran to the kitchen to see how the mutton for dinner was roasting, and if it was time to brew the fish soup.

“Why are you fussing so much, really?” Oblomov said, “Leave it!”

“Who will fuss if not I?” she said. “I’ll just put two patches here, and then we’ll start cooking the fish soup. What a naughty boy this Vanya is! I mended his jacket anew last week—and he tore it again! Why are you laughing?” she turned to Vanya, who was sitting at the table in trousers and a shirt with one suspender. “If I don’t mend it by morning, you won’t be able to run outside. The boys must have torn it: you were fighting—confess?”

“No, Mamma, it tore by itself,” said Vanya.

“That’s right, by itself! You should stay home and repeat your lessons, instead of running around the streets! If Ilya Ilyich says again that you’re learning French poorly—I’ll take off your boots: you’ll be forced to sit with a book!”

“I don’t like learning French.”

“Why?” asked Oblomov.

“Well, there are many bad words in French…”

Agafya Matveevna flushed. Oblomov burst out laughing. Surely, they had had a conversation about “bad words” before.

“Silence, you naughty boy,” she said. “Wipe your nose better, can’t you see?”

Vanyusha sniffled but didn’t wipe his nose.

“Just wait, when I get money from the village, I’ll sew him two pairs,” Oblomov interjected, “a blue jacket, and next year a uniform: he’ll enter the gymnasium.”

“Well, he can still wear the old one,” said Agafya Matveevna, “and the money will be needed for the household. We’ll stock up on salted meat, I’ll make you jam… I’ll go see if Anisya brought sour cream…” She stood up.

“And what’s for dinner today?” asked Oblomov.

“Fish soup from ruff, roasted lamb, and vareniki.”

Oblomov was silent.

Suddenly, a carriage pulled up, there was a knock at the gate, and the dog began jumping on its chain and barking.

Oblomov went to his room, thinking that someone had come to the landlady: a butcher, a greengrocer, or some other such person. Such a visit was usually accompanied by requests for money, the landlady’s refusal, then threats from the seller, then requests from the landlady to wait, then cursing, slamming of doors and the gate, and the frantic jumping and barking of the dog—in general, an unpleasant scene. But a carriage had arrived—what could that mean? Butchers and greengrocers don’t travel in carriages.

Suddenly, the landlady, startled, ran into his room.

“You have a guest!” she said.

“Who: Tarantyev or Alexeyev?”

“No, no, the one who dined on Ilya’s name-day.”

“Stolz?” Oblomov said anxiously, looking around for a place to hide. “God! What will he say when he sees… Tell him I’ve gone away!” he added hastily and went into the landlady’s room.

Anisya arrived just in time to meet the guest. Agafya Matveevna had managed to give her the order. Stolz believed it, only wondering why Oblomov wasn’t home.

“Well, tell him I’ll be back in two hours, I’ll have dinner!” he said and went to a nearby public garden.

“He’ll have dinner!” Anisya reported, alarmed.

“He’ll have dinner!” Agafya Matveevna repeated in terror to Oblomov.

“We’ll have to prepare another dinner,” he decided after a moment of silence.

She looked at him with horror. She had only fifty kopecks left, and it was still ten days until the first of the month, when her brother would give her money. No one would lend her any.

“We won’t make it, Ilya Ilyich,” she timidly remarked, “let him eat what there is…”

“He doesn’t eat that, Agafya Matveevna: he can’t stand fish soup, doesn’t even eat sturgeon soup; he won’t touch lamb either.”

“We can get tongue at the sausage shop!” she suddenly said, as if inspired, “it’s close by.”

“That’s good, that’s possible: but tell them to get some greens, fresh beans…”

“Beans are eight grivens a pound!” the words caught in her throat, but didn’t come out.

“Fine, I’ll do it…” she said, deciding to substitute cabbage for beans.

“Order a pound of Swiss cheese!” he commanded, unaware of Agafya Matveevna’s means, “and nothing else! I’ll apologize, say we weren’t expecting him… And if some kind of broth could be made.”

She was about to leave.

“And wine?” he suddenly remembered.

She answered with a new look of horror.

“We need to send for Lafite,” he concluded coolly.

VI

Two hours later, Stolz arrived.

“What’s wrong with you? How you’ve changed, you’re bloated and pale! Are you well?” Stolz asked.

“My health is poor, Andrey,” Oblomov said, embracing him, “my left leg keeps going numb.”

“How awful it is here!” Stolz said, looking around. “Why don’t you get rid of this dressing gown? Look, it’s all in patches!”

“Habit, Andrey; it’s a pity to part with it.”

“And the blanket, and the curtains…” Stolz began, “also habit? Is it a pity to change these rags? Good heavens, can you really sleep on this bed? What’s wrong with you?”

Stolz looked intently at Oblomov, then again at the curtains, at the bed.

“Nothing,” Oblomov said, embarrassed, “you know, I’ve never been very diligent about my room… Let’s have dinner instead. Hey, Zakhar! Set the table quickly… Well, how long are you staying? Where from?”

“Guess what I am and where I’m from?” Stolz asked. “No news from the living world reaches you here, does it?”

Oblomov looked at him with curiosity, waiting for him to speak.

“What about Olga?” he asked.

“Ah, you haven’t forgotten! I thought you would,” Stolz said.

“No, Andrey, how could one forget her? That would mean forgetting that I once lived, was in paradise… And now here I am!..” He sighed. “But where is she?”

“At her village, managing the household.”

“With her aunt?” Oblomov asked.

“And with her husband.”

“She’s married?” Oblomov suddenly exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Why are you so scared? Is it a memory, perhaps?..” Stolz added quietly, almost tenderly.

“Oh no, God forbid!” Oblomov protested, recovering. “I’m not scared, but surprised; I don’t know why it struck me so. How long ago? Is she happy? Tell me, for God’s sake. I feel you’ve lifted a great weight from me! Although you assured me she forgave, but, you know… I wasn’t at peace! Something was gnawing at me… My dear Andrey, how grateful I am to you!”

He rejoiced so sincerely, bounced so much on his sofa, stirred so, that Stolz admired him and was even touched.

“How kind you are, Ilya!” he said. “Your heart was worthy of her! I’ll tell her everything…”

“No, no, don’t tell her!” Oblomov interrupted. “She’ll think I’m heartless, that I heard about her marriage with joy.”

“And isn’t joy a feeling, and a selfless one at that? You’re only happy for her happiness…”

“True, true!” Oblomov interrupted. “God knows what I’m rambling about… So who is he, who is this lucky man? – I won’t even ask.”

“Who?” Stolz repeated. “How slow-witted you are, Ilya!”

Oblomov suddenly fixed an unmoving gaze on his friend: his features stiffened for a minute, and the blush drained from his face.

“Isn’t it… you?” he suddenly asked.

“Scared again. Of what?” Stolz said, laughing.

“Don’t joke, Andrey, tell me the truth!” Oblomov said, agitated.

“By God, I’m not joking. I’ve been married to Olga for a year now.”

Little by little, the fright faded from Oblomov’s face, giving way to peaceful contemplation; he still hadn’t raised his eyes, but his contemplation a minute later was already filled with quiet and deep joy, and when he slowly looked at Stolz, his gaze was already full of tenderness and tears.

“Dear Andrey!” Oblomov exclaimed, embracing him. “Dear Olga… Sergeyevna!” he added then, suppressing his rapture. “God himself has blessed you! My God! How happy I am! Tell her, then…”

“I’ll tell her I don’t know another Oblomov!” Stolz, deeply moved, interrupted him.

“No, tell her, remind her that I met her in order to lead her on the path, and that I bless that meeting, I bless her on her new path! What if it had been someone else…” he added with horror, “but now,” he concluded cheerfully, “I don’t blush for my role, I don’t regret; a weight has fallen from my soul; it’s clear there, and I’m happy. God! Thank you!”

He almost jumped on the sofa again from excitement: now he would tear up, now he would laugh.

“Zakhar, champagne for dinner!” he shouted, forgetting that he didn’t have a penny.

“I’ll tell Olga everything, everything!” Stolz said. “It’s no wonder she can’t forget you. No, you were worthy of her: your heart is like a well, deep!”

Zakhar’s head appeared from the anteroom.

“Come here!” he said, winking at his master.

“What’s there?” he asked impatiently. “Get out!”

“Money, please!” Zakhar whispered.

Oblomov suddenly fell silent.

“Well, no need!” he whispered to the door. “Say I forgot, didn’t have time! Go!.. No, come here!” he said loudly. “Do you know the news, Zakhar? Congratulate him: Andrey Ivanovich is married!”

“Ah, master! God has granted me to live to see such joy! Congratulations, master, Andrey Ivanych; may God grant you countless years to live, to have children. Oh, Lord, what joy!”

Zakhar bowed, smiled, wheezed, croaked. Stolz took out a banknote and handed it to him.

“Here, take this, and buy yourself a frock coat,” he said, “look, you’re exactly like a beggar.”

“To whom, master?” Zakhar asked, clutching Stolz’s hands.

“To Olga Sergeyevna — remember?” Oblomov said.

“To the Ilyinskaya young lady! My God! What a wonderful young lady! It served them right for scolding me then, Ilya Ilyich, an old dog! I’m a sinner, I’m guilty: I blamed it all on you. I even told the Ilyin people then, not Nikita! It really turned out to be slander. Oh, Lord, oh, my God!..” he repeated, going into the anteroom.

“Olga invites you to visit her in the village: your love has cooled, it’s not dangerous: you won’t be jealous. Let’s go.”

Oblomov sighed.

“No, Andrey,” he said, “it’s not love or jealousy I fear, but still I won’t go to you.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of envy: your happiness will be a mirror for me, where I will always see my bitter and ruined life; and I won’t live differently, I can’t.”

“Enough, dear Ilya! Unwillingly, you’ll live as those around you live. You’ll count, manage, read, listen to music. How her voice has developed now! Do you remember ‘Casta Diva’?”

Oblomov waved his hand, telling him not to remind him.

“Let’s go then!” Stolz insisted. “It’s her will; she won’t give up. I’ll get tired, but she won’t. She’s such a fire, such life, that sometimes it even gets to me. The past will stir in your soul again. You’ll remember the park, the lilac, and you’ll begin to move…”

“No, Andrey, no, don’t mention it, don’t stir it, for God’s sake!” Oblomov interrupted him seriously. “It hurts me, it doesn’t bring joy. Memories are either the greatest poetry when they are memories of living happiness, or a burning pain when they touch dried wounds… Let’s talk about something else. Yes, I haven’t thanked you for your troubles with my affairs, with the village. My friend! I cannot, I am not able; seek gratitude in your own heart, in your happiness – in Olga… Sergeyevna, and I… I… cannot! Forgive me that I myself haven’t relieved you of the trouble until now. But spring is coming soon, I will definitely go to Oblomovka…”

“And do you know what’s happening in Oblomovka? You won’t recognize it!” Stolz said. “I didn’t write to you because you don’t answer letters. The bridge is built, the house was raised to the roof last summer. Only you yourself should bother with the interior decoration, to your taste – I won’t undertake that. A new manager, my man, is in charge. You saw the expenses in the report…”

Oblomov was silent.

“You didn’t read them?” Stolz asked, looking at him. “Where are they?”

“Wait, I’ll find them after dinner; I need to ask Zakhar.”

“Ah, Ilya, Ilya! One doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

“We’ll find them after dinner. Let’s eat!”

Stolz grimaced, sitting down at the table. He remembered St. Elijah’s Day: oysters, pineapples, snipes; and now he saw a thick tablecloth, cruets for vinegar and oil without corks, stopped up with paper; on the plates lay a large black slice of bread, forks with broken handles. Oblomov was served fish soup, and he was given soup with groats and boiled chicken, then followed tough tongue, after that lamb. Red wine appeared. Stolz poured half a glass, tasted it, put the glass on the table and did not try it again. Ilya Ilyich drank two glasses of currant vodka, one after another, and eagerly began to eat the lamb.

“The wine is no good!” Stolz said.

“Excuse me, in a hurry we didn’t have time to go to the other side,” Oblomov said. “Here, don’t you want some currant vodka? It’s excellent, Andrey, try it!” He poured another glass and drank it.

Stolz looked at him in amazement, but remained silent.

“Agafya Matveyevna herself insists on it: a wonderful woman!” Oblomov said, somewhat tipsy. “I confess, I don’t know how I’ll live in the village without her: you won’t find such a hostess.”

Stolz listened to him, frowning slightly.

“Who do you think prepares all this? Anisya? No!” Oblomov continued. “Anisya looks after the chickens, and weeds the cabbage in the garden, and washes the floors; but Agafya Matveyevna does all this.”

Stolz ate neither the lamb nor the dumplings, put down his fork and watched with what appetite Oblomov ate all this.

“Now you won’t see me in a shirt turned inside out,” Oblomov continued, sucking a bone with appetite, “she inspects everything, sees everything, there’s not a single un-darned stocking – and all by herself. And how she brews coffee! I’ll treat you after dinner.”

Stolz listened silently, with a worried face.

“Now her brother has moved out, he decided to get married, so the household, you know, isn’t as big as before. But she used to have everything boiling in her hands! From morning till evening she would just fly around: to the market and to Gostiny Dvor… You know, I’ll tell you,” Oblomov concluded, slurring his words a little, “give me two or three thousand, and I wouldn’t treat you to tongue and lamb; I would serve a whole sturgeon, trout, fillet of the first quality. And Agafya Matveyevna would work wonders without a cook – yes!”

He drank another glass of vodka.

“Come on, drink, Andrey, really drink: it’s excellent vodka! Olga Sergeyevna won’t make you one like this!” he said unsteadily. “She’ll sing ‘Casta Diva’, but she can’t make vodka like this! And she won’t make such a pie with chickens and mushrooms! They only used to bake like that in Oblomovka and here! And what’s also good is that she’s not a cook; a cook uses God knows what kind of hands to season the pie; but Agafya Matveyevna is neatness itself!”

Stolz listened attentively, pricking up his ears.

“And her hands were white,” Oblomov continued, significantly clouded by wine, “it’s no sin to kiss them! Now they’ve become rough, because she does everything herself! She starches my shirts herself!” Oblomov uttered with feeling, almost with tears. “By God, it’s true, I saw it myself. Another man’s wife doesn’t look after him like that – by God! Agafya Matveyevna is a wonderful woman! Eh, Andrey! Move here with Olga Sergeyevna, rent a dacha here: then we’d live! We’d drink tea in the grove, on St. Elijah’s Friday we’d go to the Gunpowder Factories, a cart with provisions and a samovar would follow us. There, on the grass, we’d lie on a carpet! Agafya Matveyevna would teach Olga Sergeyevna how to manage a household too, she really would. Now it’s just gone bad: her brother moved out; but if we were given three or four thousand, I would set up such turkeys for you here…”

“You get five from me!” Stolz suddenly said. “Where do you put them?”

“And the debt?” Oblomov suddenly blurted out.

Stolz jumped up.

“Debt?” he repeated. “What debt?”

And he, like a stern teacher, looked at the hiding child.

Oblomov suddenly fell silent. Stolz moved to sit on the sofa next to him.

“Who do you owe?” he asked.

Oblomov sobered up a little and came to his senses.

“No one, I lied,” he said.

“No, you’re lying now, and badly. What’s wrong with you? What’s going on, Ilya? Ah! So this is what the lamb and sour wine mean! You have no money! Where do you put it?”

“I do owe… a little, to the landlady for provisions…” Oblomov said.

“For the lamb and the tongue! Ilya, tell me what’s happening to you? What’s this story: brother moved out, household went bad… Something’s not right here. How much do you owe?”

“Ten thousand, on a promissory note…” Oblomov whispered.

Stolz jumped up and sat down again.

“Ten thousand? To the landlady? For provisions?” he repeated with horror.

“Yes, they took a lot; I lived very lavishly… Remember, pineapples and peaches… that’s how I got into debt…” Oblomov mumbled. “But why talk about it?”

Stolz did not answer him. He was calculating: “Her brother moved out, the household went bad – and it’s true: everything looks bare, poor, dirty! What kind of woman is the landlady? Oblomov praises her! she looks after him; he talks about her with enthusiasm…”

Suddenly Stolz’s face changed as he caught the truth. A chill ran down his spine.

“Ilya!” he asked. “This woman… what is she to you?..” But Oblomov laid his head on the table and dozed off.

“She’s robbing him, taking everything from him… it’s an everyday story, and I never guessed until now!” he thought.

Stolz got up and quickly opened the door to the landlady, so that she, seeing him, dropped the spoon she was stirring coffee with in fright.

“I need to speak with you,” he said politely.

“Please come into the living room, I’ll be right there,” she replied timidly.

And, throwing a scarf around her neck, she followed him into the living room and sat on the edge of the sofa. She no longer had her shawl on, and she tried to hide her hands under her scarf.

“Did Ilya Ilyich give you a promissory note?” he asked.

“No,” she replied with a dull look of surprise, “they didn’t give me any note.”

“How no note?”

“I haven’t seen any note!” she repeated with the same dull surprise…

“A promissory note!” Stolz repeated.

She thought for a moment.

“You should talk to my brother,” she said, “I haven’t seen any note.”

“Is she stupid or cunning?” Stolz thought.

“But he owes you?” he asked.

She looked at him dully, then suddenly her face became meaningful, even showing anxiety. She remembered the pawned pearls, silver, and the fur cloak, and imagined that Stolz was hinting at that debt; only she couldn’t understand how they found out about it; she hadn’t breathed a word not only to Oblomov about this secret, but not even to Anisya, to whom she accounted for every kopeck.

“How much does he owe you?” Stolz asked anxiously.

“They don’t owe anything! Not a single kopeck!”

“She’s hiding it from me, she’s ashamed, the greedy creature, the usurer! – he thought. – But I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“And ten thousand?” he said.

“What ten thousand?” she asked in anxious surprise.

“Does Ilya Ilyich owe you ten thousand on a promissory note? – yes or no?” he asked.

“They don’t owe anything. They owed the butcher twelve and a half kopecks during Lent, but they paid it back in the third week; they also paid the milkmaid for the cream – they don’t owe anything.”

“Don’t you have a document from him?”

She looked at him dully.

“You should talk to my brother,” she replied, “they live across the street, in Zamykalov’s house, right here, there’s even a cellar in the house.”

“No, allow me to speak with you,” he said decisively. “Ilya Ilyich believes he owes you, not your brother…”

“They don’t owe me,” she replied, “and as for the silver, pearls, and fur that I pawned, I pawned them for myself. I bought shoes for Masha and myself, shirts for Vanyusha and gave money to the vegetable shops. Not a single kopeck went to Ilya Ilyich.”

He looked at her, listened and absorbed the meaning of her words. He alone, it seemed, was close to unraveling the secret of Agafya Matveyevna, and the look of disregard, almost contempt, which he cast upon her while speaking with her, involuntarily changed to a look of curiosity, even sympathy.

In the pawning of pearls and silver, he vaguely half-read the secret of sacrifices and only couldn’t decide whether they were offered out of pure devotion or in the hope of some future benefits.

He didn’t know whether to be sad or happy for Ilya. It became clear that he didn’t owe her, that this debt was some fraudulent trick by her brother, but then much else became clear… What did these pawning of silver and pearls mean?

“So you have no claims on Ilya Ilyich?” he asked.

“Please talk to my brother,” she replied monotonously, “they should be home now.”

“Ilya Ilyich doesn’t owe you, you say?”

“Not a single kopeck, by God, it’s true!” she swore, looking at the icon and crossing herself.

“Will you confirm this in front of witnesses?”

“In front of everyone, even at confession!” “And that I pawned the pearls and silver, that was for my own expenses…”

“Very well!” Stolz interrupted her. “Tomorrow I will visit you with two of my acquaintances, and you will not refuse to say the same thing in front of them?”

“You’d better go to my brother tomorrow,” she repeated, “because I’m not dressed properly… always in the kitchen, it’s not good if strangers see: they’ll judge.”

“It’s nothing, nothing; and I’ll see your brother tomorrow, after you sign the paper…”

“I’m completely out of practice with writing.”

“But you only need to write a little, just two lines.”

“No, please excuse me; let Vanyusha write it instead: he writes neatly…”

“No, don’t refuse,” he insisted. “If you don’t sign the paper, it means that Ilya Ilyich owes you ten thousand.”

“No, they don’t owe anything, not a single kopeck,” she repeated, “by God!”

“In that case, you must sign the paper. Goodbye, until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow you’d better go to my brother’s…” she said, seeing him off, “over there, on the corner, across the street.”

“No, and I ask you not to say anything to your brother about me, otherwise it will be very unpleasant for Ilya Ilyich…”

“Then I won’t tell them anything!” she said obediently.

VII

The next day, Agafya Matveyevna gave Stolz a certificate stating that she had no financial claims against Oblomov. With this certificate, Stolz suddenly appeared before her brother.

This was a true thunderbolt for Ivan Matveyevich. He took out the document and, with a trembling middle finger of his right hand, nail down, pointed to Oblomov’s signature and the broker’s certification.

“It’s the law, sir,” he said. “My hands are tied; I’m only protecting my sister’s interests, and I don’t know what money Ilya Ilyich took.”

“Your business won’t end here,” Stolz threatened him as he left.

“It’s a lawful matter, sir, and I’m out of it!” Ivan Matveyevich justified himself, hiding his hands in his sleeves.

The next day, as soon as he arrived at the office, a courier appeared from the general, who immediately demanded to see him.

“To the general!” the entire office repeated in horror. “Why? What is it? Is he asking for some kind of case? Which one exactly? Quickly, quickly! File the cases, make inventories! What is it?”

In the evening, Ivan Matveyevich came to the establishment beside himself. Tarantyev had been waiting for him there for a long time.

“What is it, kum?” he asked impatiently.

“What!” Ivan Matveyevich monotonously uttered. “And what do you think it is!”

“Did they scold you, or what?”

“Scolded!” Ivan Matveyevich mimicked him. “I’d rather they had beaten me! And you’re a fine one!” he reproached. “You didn’t tell me what kind of German he was!”

“But I told you he was a sharp one!”

“What’s ‘sharp’! We’ve seen sharp ones! Why didn’t you tell me he was influential? He and the general say ‘thou’ to each other, just like you and I. I wouldn’t have gotten involved with such people if I had known!”

“But it’s a lawful matter!” Tarantyev objected.

“A ‘lawful matter’!” Mukhoiyarov mimicked him again. “Go and tell them there: your tongue will cleave to your palate. Do you know what the general asked me?”

“What?” Tarantyev asked curiously.

“‘Is it true that you, with some scoundrel, got the landowner Oblomov drunk and forced him to sign a promissory note in your sister’s name?'”

“Did he really say: ‘with a scoundrel’?” Tarantyev asked.

“Yes, he said just that…”

“Who is this scoundrel, then?” Tarantyev asked again.

Kum looked at him.

“I bet you don’t know?” he said acrimoniously. “Isn’t it you?”

“How did they implicate me?”

“Thank the German and your countryman. The German sniffed everything out, found out everything…”

“You, kum, should have pointed the finger at someone else, and said about me that I wasn’t there!”

“Look at you! What a saint you are!” said kum.

“What did you answer when the general asked: ‘Is it true that you were there, with some scoundrel’?… That’s where you should have avoided him.”

“Avoid him? Go ahead and avoid him! He has some kind of green eyes! I tried and tried, wanted to say: ‘It’s not true, it’s slander, Your Excellency, I don’t know any Oblomov: it’s all Tarantyev!…’ – but the words wouldn’t come out; I just fell at his feet.”

“So, do they want to start a case or something?” Tarantyev asked dully. “I’m out of it; it’s you, kum…”

“‘Out of it’!” Are you out of it? No, kum, if anyone’s going to stick their neck in a noose, it’s you first: who persuaded Oblomov to drink? Who shamed him, threatened him?..”

“You taught me,” Tarantyev said.

“And are you a minor, or something? I know nothing, absolutely nothing.”

“That’s shameless, kum! How much fell to you through me, and I only got three hundred rubles…”

“So, I should take all the blame myself? How clever you are! No, I know nothing,” he said, “my sister, out of womanly ignorance of business, asked me to register the note with the broker – that’s all. You and Zatery were witnesses, and you’re responsible!”

“You should have given your sister a good talking to: how dare she go against her brother?” Tarantyev said.

“My sister is a fool; what can you do with her?”

“What about her?”

“What? She’s crying, but she’s sticking to her guns: ‘Ilya Ilyich doesn’t owe it, and that’s it, and she didn’t give him any money.'”

“But you have the note for her,” Tarantyev said, “you won’t lose your own…”

Mukhoiyarov took the promissory note for his sister out of his pocket, tore it into pieces, and handed it to Tarantyev.

“Here, I’ll give it to you, don’t you want it?” he added. “What can I get from her? A house, maybe, with a little garden? They wouldn’t even give a thousand: it’s falling apart. And what am I, some kind of heathen? To send her begging with her children?”

“So, the investigation will begin?” Tarantyev asked timidly. “That’s where, kum, we should get off cheap: you, brother, help me out!”

“What investigation? There will be no investigation! The general threatened to banish me from the city, but the German intervened, he doesn’t want to shame Oblomov.”

“What are you saying, kum! What a weight off my shoulders! Let’s drink!” Tarantyev said.

“Drink? From what income? From yours, perhaps?”

“What about yours? Today, I bet you took seven tsels out!”

“What?! Farewell to income: what the general said, I didn’t finish.”

“And what?” Tarantyev asked, suddenly scared again.

“He ordered me to resign.”

“What are you saying, kum!” Tarantyev said, bulging his eyes at him. “Well,” he concluded furiously, “now I’ll curse that countryman for all he’s worth!”

“All you do is curse!”

“No, I’ll curse him, no matter what you want!” Tarantyev said. “But anyway, it’s true, I’d better wait; this is what I thought of; listen, kum!”

“What else?” Ivan Matveyevich repeated thoughtfully.

“A good thing could be done here. It’s just a pity that you moved out of the apartment…”

“And what?”

“What!” he said, looking at Ivan Matveyevich. “Spy on Oblomov and your sister, what pies they bake there, and also… witnesses! Then even the German won’t be able to do anything. And now you’re a free Cossack: you start an investigation – a lawful matter! I bet even the German will chicken out and agree to a settlement.”

“And indeed, it’s possible!” Mukhoiyarov replied thoughtfully. “You’re not stupid when it comes to inventions, only you’re no good at business, and Zatery isn’t either. But I’ll find someone, wait!” he said, livening up. “I’ll give it to them! I’ll send my cook to my sister’s kitchen: she’ll become friends with Anisya, find out everything, and then… Let’s drink, kum!”

“Let’s drink!” Tarantyev repeated. “And then I’ll curse that countryman!”

Stolz tried to take Oblomov away, but Oblomov pleaded to be left for just a month, pleaded so earnestly that Stolz couldn’t help but feel pity. He needed this month, he said, to finish all accounts, vacate the apartment, and settle his affairs with Petersburg so he wouldn’t have to return there again. Then he needed to buy everything for furnishing the village house; finally, he wanted to find a good housekeeper, like Agafya Matveyevna, and even didn’t despair of persuading her to sell her house and move to the village, to a fitting career—that of a complex and extensive household.

“Speaking of the landlady,” Stolz interrupted him, “I wanted to ask you, Ilya, what your relations are with her…”

Oblomov suddenly blushed.

“What do you mean?” he asked hurriedly.

“You know very well,” Stolz remarked, “otherwise there would be no reason to blush. Listen, Ilya, if a warning can do anything here, then I, by all our friendship, beg you: be careful…”

“In what? Good heavens!” Oblomov defended himself, embarrassed.

“You spoke of her with such warmth that, truly, I’m beginning to think you…”

“Love her, do you mean to say! Good heavens!” Oblomov interrupted with forced laughter.

“Then it’s even worse if there’s no moral spark here, if it’s only…”

“Andrey! Have you ever known me to be an immoral man?”

“Why did you blush, then?”

“Because you could entertain such a thought.”

Stolz shook his head doubtfully.

“Be careful, Ilya, don’t fall into a pit. A simple woman; a dirty way of life, a stifling sphere of dullness, coarseness—ugh!”

Oblomov was silent.

“Well, goodbye,” Stolz concluded. “So I’ll tell Olga that we’ll see you in the summer, if not at our place, then in Oblomovka. Remember: she won’t give up!”

“Certainly, certainly,” Oblomov confidently replied, “even add that if she allows, I’ll spend the winter with you.”

“That would truly make her happy!”

Stolz left that same day, and in the evening, Tarantyev appeared at Oblomov’s. He couldn’t resist giving him a good scolding on behalf of his kum. He failed to consider one thing: that Oblomov, in the company of the Ilyinskys, had grown unaccustomed to such phenomena and that apathy and condescension towards rudeness and insolence had been replaced by aversion. This would have manifested long ago and had even partially appeared when Oblomov still lived at the dacha, but since then Tarantyev had visited him less often and, moreover, was usually in the presence of others, and there had been no clashes between them.

“Hello, countryman!” Tarantyev said maliciously, not extending his hand.

“Hello!” Oblomov replied coldly, looking out the window.

“So, you saw off your benefactor?”

“I did. So what?”

“A fine benefactor!” Tarantyev continued venomously.

“And what, you don’t like him?”

“I’d hang him!” Tarantyev rasped with hatred.

“Is that so!”

“And you on the same aspen!”

“Why so?”

“Do your business honestly: if you owe, pay, don’t evade. What have you done now?”

“Listen, Mikhey Andreich, spare me your tales; for a long time, out of laziness, out of carelessness, I listened to you: I thought you had at least a drop of conscience, but you don’t. You, with that scoundrel, tried to deceive me: who of you is worse—I don’t know, but both of you are repulsive to me. A friend rescued me from this foolish affair…”

“A fine friend!” Tarantyev said. “I heard he even hooked your fiancée; a benefactor, nothing to say! Well, brother, you’re a fool, countryman…”

“Please, stop with these endearments!” Oblomov stopped him.

“No, I won’t stop! You didn’t want to know me, you ungrateful wretch! I settled you here, found you a treasure of a woman. Peace, every comfort—I provided everything for you, benefited you all around, and you turned up your nose. Found a benefactor: a German! Took an estate on lease; just wait: he’ll fleece you, give you even more shares. He’ll send you begging, mark my words! Fool, I tell you, and not just a fool—a beast too, an ungrateful one!”

“Tarantyev!” Oblomov roared menacingly.

“Why are you shouting? I’ll shout to the whole world that you’re a fool, a brute!” Tarantyev yelled. “Ivan Matveyich and I looked after you, cared for you, served you like serfs, walked on tiptoes, looked into your eyes, and you slandered him to the authorities: now he’s jobless and without a crust of bread! This is low, vile! You must now give him half your fortune; give him a promissory note in his name: you’re not drunk now, you’re in your right mind, give it, I tell you, I won’t leave without it…”

“What are you shouting about so loudly, Mikhey Andreich?” said the landlady and Anisya, looking out from behind the doors. “Two passersby have stopped, listening to what the shouting is about…”

“I will shout!” Tarantyev howled, “let this blockhead be shamed! Let that German swindler trick you, especially since he’s now in league with your mistress…”

A loud slap echoed in the room. Struck on the cheek by Oblomov, Tarantyev instantly fell silent, slumped into a chair, and rolled his dazed eyes around in astonishment.

“What is this? What is this – huh? What is this!” he said, pale and gasping, holding his cheek. “Dishonor? You’ll pay me for this! Right now, a petition to the governor-general: did you see it?”

“We didn’t see anything!” both women said in unison.

“Ah! There’s a conspiracy here, a den of thieves! A gang of swindlers! They’re robbing, killing…”

“Get out, scoundrel!” Oblomov shouted, pale and trembling with rage. “This instant, let your foot not be here, or I’ll kill you like a dog!”

He searched for a stick with his eyes.

“Good heavens! Robbery! Help!” Tarantyev cried.

“Zakhar! Throw this scoundrel out, and don’t let him dare show his face here!” Oblomov shouted.

“Please, here’s God, and here are the doors!” Zakhar said, pointing to the icon and the door.

“I didn’t come to you, I came to my kum’s wife,” Tarantyev howled.

“God be with you! I don’t need you, Mikhey Andreich,” Agafya Matveyevna said, “you went to my brother, not to me! You’re worse than bitter radish to me. You drink, you eat, and you still curse.”

“Ah! So that’s how it is, kuma! Good, your brother will let you know! And you’ll pay me for the dishonor! Where’s my hat? To hell with you all! Robbers, murderers!” he shouted, walking across the yard. “You’ll pay me for the dishonor!”

The dog leaped on its chain and barked furiously.

After this, Tarantyev and Oblomov never saw each other again.

VIII

Stolz didn’t visit Petersburg for several years. He only once briefly looked in on Olga’s estate and Oblomovka. Ilya Ilyich received a letter from him in which Andrey urged him to go to the village himself and take over the estate, which had been put in order, while he himself, with Olga Sergeyevna, was leaving for the southern coast of Crimea for two purposes: for his affairs in Odessa and for his wife’s health, which had been affected after childbirth.

They settled in a quiet corner on the seashore. Their house was modest and small. Its interior design also had its own style, just as the exterior architecture and all the furnishings bore the imprint of the owners’ thought and personal taste. They brought many of their own belongings with them, and many bales, suitcases, and carts arrived from Russia and abroad.

A lover of comfort might have shrugged, looking at the outward jumble of furniture, dilapidated paintings, statues with broken arms and legs, sometimes poor but cherished engravings, and trifles. Perhaps a connoisseur’s eyes would have lit up more than once with a greedy gleam at the sight of one painting or another, some time-yellowed book, old porcelain, or stones and coins.

But amidst this varied furniture, pictures, amidst trifles of no meaning to anyone else, but marked for both of them by a happy hour, a memorable minute, in an ocean of books and sheet music, there breathed a warm life, something stimulating to the mind and aesthetic feeling: everywhere there was either an unslumbering thought, or the beauty of human endeavor shone, just as the eternal beauty of nature shone all around.

Here, too, was a high desk, like his father Andrey’s, and chamois gloves; a waxed cloak hung in the corner near a cabinet with minerals, shells, stuffed birds, with samples of various clays, goods, and so on. Among everything, in a place of honor, an Erard grand piano shone, in gold with inlay.

A network of grapes, ivies, and myrtles covered the cottage from top to bottom. From the gallery, the sea was visible; from the other side, the road to the town.

There Olga would watch for Andrey when he left home on business, and, seeing him, she would descend, run through the magnificent flower garden, the long poplar alley, and throw herself into her husband’s arms, always with cheeks flushed with joy, with sparkling eyes, always with the same fervor of impatient happiness, despite the fact that it was not her first or second year of marriage.

Stolz viewed love and marriage, perhaps originally, exaggeratedly, but in any case, independently. And here he followed a free and, as it seemed to him, simple path; but what a difficult school of observation, patience, and labor he endured until he learned to take these “simple steps”!

From his father, he learned to look at everything in life, even trifles, seriously; perhaps he would have also inherited from him the pedantic strictness with which Germans approach every aspect of life, including marriage.

Like a tablet on a stone slab, the life of old Stolz was openly inscribed for everyone to see, and there was nothing more to infer beneath it. But his mother, with her songs and tender whispers, then the prince’s diverse household, further the university, books, and society—all this led Andrey away from the straight path laid out by his father; Russian life drew its invisible patterns and transformed a colorless table into a bright, broad picture.

Andrey did not impose pedantic shackles on feelings and even gave legitimate freedom, trying only not to “lose his footing,” to thoughtful dreams, although, sobering up from them, whether by his German nature or something else, he could not refrain from drawing a conclusion and taking away some vital observation.

He was vigorous in body because he was vigorous in mind. He was lively and mischievous in adolescence, and when he wasn’t playing tricks, he was diligently working under his father’s supervision. He had no time to wallow in dreams. His imagination was not corrupted, his heart was not spoiled: his mother carefully guarded the purity and virginity of both.

As a youth, he instinctively preserved the freshness of his strength, then began to discover early on that this freshness gives rise to vigor and cheerfulness, forming that masculinity in which the soul must be tempered so as not to pale before life, whatever it may be, to look upon it not as a heavy yoke, a cross, but only as a duty and to worthily endure the battle with it.

He dedicated much thoughtful care to the heart and its intricate laws. Observing, consciously and unconsciously, the reflection of beauty on the imagination, then the transition of impression into feeling, its symptoms, play, outcome, and looking around him, moving through life, he developed the conviction that love, with the power of Archimedes’ lever, moves the world; that in it lies as much universal, irrefutable truth and good, as there is falsehood and ugliness in its misunderstanding and abuse. Where is good? Where is evil? Where is the boundary between them?

At the question: where is the lie? — in his imagination, the colorful masks of present and past times stretched out. With a smile, sometimes blushing, sometimes frowning, he looked at the endless procession of heroes and heroines of love: Don Quixotes in steel gloves, their ladies of thought, with fifty years of mutual fidelity in separation; shepherds with rosy faces and innocent bulging eyes and their Chloes with lambs.

Before him appeared powdered marquises, in lace, with eyes glimmering with wit and a depraved smile; then suicidal, hanged, and strangled Werthers; further, withered maidens, with eternal tears of love, with a monastery, and the mustachioed faces of recent heroes, with a wild fire in their eyes, naive and conscious Don Juans, and clever men, trembling with suspicion in love and secretly adoring their housekeepers… all, all!

When asked, “Where is the truth?” — he searched far and wide, in his imagination and with his eyes, for examples of a simple, honest, yet deep and unbreakable bond with a woman, but found none; if he seemed to, it was only a fleeting illusion, followed by disappointment, and he would fall into sad contemplation and even despair.

“Evidently, this blessing in its fullness is not granted,” he thought, “or those hearts that are illuminated by the light of such love are shy: they falter and hide, not trying to dispute clever people; perhaps they pity them, forgive them in the name of their happiness, that they trample the flower in the mud, for lack of soil where it could take deep root and grow into a tree that would overshadow all life.”

He looked at marriages, at husbands and their relationships with wives, and always saw a sphinx with its riddle, everything seemed to be something incomprehensible, unsaid; and yet these husbands do not ponder complex questions, they walk the marital path with such an even, conscious step, as if there is nothing for them to resolve or seek.

“Are they not right? Perhaps, in fact, nothing more is needed,” he thought with self-doubt, watching how some quickly pass through love as the alphabet of marriage or as a form of politeness, as if bowing upon entering society, and — quickly to business!

They impatiently shake off the spring of life; many even look askance at their wives for the rest of their lives, as if annoyed that they once had the folly to love them.

Others are not abandoned by love for a long time, sometimes until old age, but the smile of the satyr never leaves them…

Finally, the majority marries as one acquires an estate, enjoying its substantial benefits: the wife brings better order to the house – she is the mistress, mother, and instructor of the children; and love is regarded as a practical owner regards the location of an estate, that is, one quickly gets used to it and then never notices it.

“What is this: an innate incapacity due to the laws of nature,” he said, “or a lack of preparation, of education?… Where is this sympathy, never losing its natural charm, not dressing up in foolish attire, changing but not extinguishing? What is the natural color and hues of this blessing, this juice of life, diffused everywhere and filling everything?”

He looked prophetically into the distance, and there, as if in a fog, an image of feeling appeared to him, and with it, a woman, clothed in its light and radiant with its colors, an image so simple, yet bright and pure.

“A dream! A dream!” he said, sobering up with a smile from the idle irritation of thought. But the outline of this dream lived in his memory against his will.

At first, he dreamt of the future of women in general in this image; but when he later saw in the grown and matured Olga not only the luxury of blossoming beauty, but also strength, ready for life and thirsting for understanding and struggle with life, all the makings of his dream, the long-standing, almost forgotten image of love arose within him, and Olga began to appear in this image, and it seemed to him far ahead that in their sympathy, truth was possible – without foolish adornment and without abuses.

Without trivializing the question of love and marriage, without entangling it with any other calculations, money, connections, or positions, Stolz nevertheless pondered how his external, hitherto tireless activity would reconcile with his internal, family life, how he would transform from a tourist and merchant into a settled family man. If he were to cease this external rushing about, what would fill his life within the domestic sphere? The upbringing and education of children, guiding their lives, were certainly not easy or empty tasks, but they were still far off, and until then, what would he do?

These questions had long and often troubled him, and he did not feel burdened by his bachelor life; it never occurred to him, as soon as his heart fluttered, sensing the proximity of beauty, to put on the chains of marriage. That is why he seemed to even neglect Olga as a maiden, admiring her only as a sweet child, full of promise; jokingly, in passing, he would throw a new, bold thought, a keen observation about life into her eager and receptive mind, and continued, without thinking or guessing, a living understanding of phenomena, a true perspective in her soul, and then would forget both Olga and his careless lessons.

And at times, seeing that not entirely ordinary traits of mind and views flashed in her, that there was no falsehood in her, that she did not seek general adoration, that feelings came and went simply and freely in her, that there was nothing foreign, but all her own, and this own was so bold, fresh and firm – he was perplexed as to how she had acquired this, not recognizing his fleeting lessons and notes.

Had he paid attention to her then, he would have realized that she walked her path almost alone, guarded from extremes by her aunt’s superficial supervision, but that she was not burdened by the numerous guardianship of seven nannies, grandmothers, aunts, with family traditions, surnames, social classes, outdated morals, customs, and maxims; that she was not forcibly led along a beaten path, but that she walked a new path, along which she had to forge her own way with her own mind, outlook, and feelings.

And nature had not wronged her in any of this; her aunt did not despotically control her will and mind, and Olga guessed and understood many things herself, carefully looking into life, listening… incidentally, also to the words and advice of her friend…

He did not realize any of this and only expected much from her in the future, but far in the future, never considering her as a companion for himself.

And she, out of a self-conscious shyness, for a long time did not allow herself to be guessed, and only after a painful struggle abroad did he, to his astonishment, see into what an image of simplicity, strength, and naturalness this promising and forgotten child had grown. There, little by little, the deep abyss of her soul opened before him, which he had to fill and could never completely fill.

At first, he had to struggle for a long time with the liveliness of her nature, to interrupt the fever of youth, to fit her impulses into definite bounds, to give life a smooth flow, and that only for a time: as soon as he trustingly closed his eyes, anxiety would rise again, life would bubble, a new question from a restless mind, a troubled heart, would be heard; there it was necessary to calm an irritated imagination, to appease or arouse self-esteem. She would ponder a phenomenon – he would rush to give her the key to it.

Belief in coincidences, the fog of hallucination, disappeared from life. Bright and free, the distance opened before her, and she, as in clear water, saw every pebble, every rut, and then a clean bottom.

“I am happy!” she whispered, casting a grateful glance at her past life, and, questioning the future, recalled her maidenly dream of happiness that she had once dreamed in Switzerland, that thoughtful, blue night, and saw that this dream, like a shadow, hovered in life.

“Why has this fallen to my lot?” she humbly thought. She pondered, sometimes even feared that this happiness might end.

Years passed, and they never tired of living. Silence came, and the impulses subsided; life’s crookedness became understandable, endured patiently and cheerfully, and yet life never quieted for them.

Olga had matured to a strict understanding of life; their two existences, hers and Andrey’s, merged into one channel; wild passions could not run rampant: everything in them was harmony and tranquility.

One might think they would fall asleep in this deserved peace and bliss, as the inhabitants of quiet places do, meeting three times a day, yawning through usual conversations, falling into dull slumber, languishing from morning till evening, having thought, spoken, and done everything, with nothing left to say or do, and that “such is life in the world.”

Outwardly, everything was done as by others. They rose, though not with the dawn, but early; they liked to sit long over tea, sometimes even seemed lazily silent, then went their separate ways or worked together, dined, went to the fields, played music… just like everyone else, as Oblomov had dreamed…

Only there was no drowsiness or despondency in them; they spent their days without boredom or apathy; there was no sluggish gaze or word; their conversation never ended, often being lively.

Their clear voices echoed through the rooms, reaching the garden, or they would quietly convey, as if painting for each other the pattern of their dream, the first movement elusive to language, the growth of an emerging thought, the faint whisper of the soul…

And their silence was—sometimes a thoughtful happiness, of which Oblomov used to dream alone, or individual mental work on the endless material they gave each other…

They often immersed themselves in silent wonder before the eternally new and dazzling beauty of nature. Their sensitive souls could not grow accustomed to this beauty: earth, sky, sea—everything awakened their feelings, and they sat silently side by side, looking with one pair of eyes and one soul at this creative splendor, and understood each other without words.

They did not meet the morning indifferently; they could not dully immerse themselves in the twilight of a warm, starry, southern night. They were awakened by the eternal movement of thought, the eternal irritation of the soul, and the need to think together, to feel, to speak!

But what was the subject of these heated arguments, quiet conversations, readings, long walks?

Everything. Even abroad, Stolz had gotten out of the habit of reading and working alone: here, face to face with Olga, he thought together. He could barely keep up with the agonizing haste of her thought and will.

The question of what he would do in family life had already settled, resolved itself. He had to even dedicate her to his industrious, business life, because she suffocated in a life without movement, as if without air.

Any construction, affairs concerning his own or Oblomov’s estate, company operations – nothing was done without her knowledge or participation. Not a single letter was sent without her reading it, no thought, and even less so its execution, passed her by; she knew everything, and everything interested her, because it interested him.

At first, he did this because it was impossible to hide from her: a letter was written, a conversation was held with a lawyer, with some contractors – in her presence, before her eyes; then he continued this out of habit, and finally it became a necessity for him too.

Her remark, advice, approval, or disapproval became an indispensable verification for him: he saw that she understood exactly as he did, reasoned and deliberated no worse than he did… Zakhar was offended by such an ability in his wife, and many are offended, – but Stolz was happy!

And reading, and learning – the eternal nourishment of thought, its endless development! Olga was jealous of every book, every journal article not shown to her, genuinely angered or offended when he didn’t deem it appropriate to show her something, in his opinion, too serious, boring, incomprehensible to her, calling it pedantry, banality, backwardness, scolding him as an “old German wig.” Lively, irritating scenes occurred between them on this account.

She was angry, and he laughed; she got even angrier and only made up when he stopped joking and shared his thought, knowledge, or reading with her. It ended with everything he needed and wanted to know and read also becoming necessary for her.

He did not force scholarly techniques upon her, so that he could later boast of a “learned wife” with the most foolish of prides. If a single word, even a hint of this claim, escaped her lips, he would blush more deeply than if she had responded with a dull look of ignorance to a question common in the realm of knowledge but still inaccessible to modern female education. He only wanted, and she doubly so, that nothing should be inaccessible — not to her knowledge, but to her understanding.

He did not draw charts and numbers for her, but spoke about everything, read much, not pedantically avoiding any economic theory, social or philosophical questions; he spoke with enthusiasm, with passion: it was as if he was painting an endless, living picture of knowledge for her. Afterward, the details would disappear from her memory, but the drawing in her receptive mind would never fade, the colors would not disappear, and the fire with which he illuminated the cosmos he was creating for her would not extinguish.

He would tremble with pride and happiness when he noticed how a spark of that fire later shone in her eyes, how an echo of the thought conveyed to her resounded in her speech, how that thought had entered her consciousness and understanding, was processed in her mind, and looked out from her words, not dry and harsh, but with the brilliance of feminine grace, and especially if some fruitful drop from all that was spoken, read, drawn, fell like a pearl onto the bright bottom of her life.

As a thinker and an artist, he wove for her a reasonable existence, and never before in his life had he been so deeply absorbed, neither during his studies nor in those difficult days when he struggled with life, extricated himself from its complexities and grew stronger, tempering himself in experiments of masculinity, as he was now, nurturing this unceasing, volcanic work of his companion’s spirit!

“How happy I am!” Stolz said to himself and dreamed in his own way, looking ahead to when the honeymoon years of marriage would pass.

In the distance, a new image smiled at him again, not that of a selfish Olga, nor a passionately loving wife, nor a nanny-mother, fading away in a colorless, useless life, but something else, elevated, almost unprecedented…

He dreamt of a mother-creator and participant in the moral and social life of an entire happy generation.

He wondered with trepidation if she would have enough will and strength… and hastily helped her to conquer life more quickly, to build up a store of courage for the battle with life – now, precisely, while they were both young and strong, while life spared them or its blows did not seem heavy, while grief drowned in love.

Their days were darkened, but not for long. Failures in business, the loss of a significant sum of money—all this barely touched them. It cost them extra trouble and travel, then was soon forgotten.

The aunt’s death brought bitter, sincere tears from Olga and cast a shadow over her life for about six months.

The most vivid apprehension and constant worry were caused by the children’s illnesses; but as soon as the apprehension passed, happiness returned.

Most of all, he was concerned about Olga’s health: she was slow to recover after childbirth, and although she did recover, he never stopped worrying about it. He knew no grief greater than this.

“How happy I am!” Olga also repeated quietly, admiring her life, and in such a moment of awareness, sometimes fell into contemplation… especially for some time now, after three or four years of marriage.

Strange is man! The fuller her happiness, the more thoughtful she became, and even… more fearful. She began to observe herself strictly and realized that this quietness of life, its stagnation in moments of happiness, disturbed her. She forcibly shook off this contemplation from her soul and hastened her life’s steps, feverishly seeking noise, movement, worries, asking her husband to go to the city, trying to look into society, among people, but not for long.

The vanity of the world touched her lightly, and she hurried back to her corner to shake off some heavy, unaccustomed impression, and again retreated either into the small cares of domestic life, not leaving the nursery for whole days, carrying out the duties of a mother-nurse, or immersed herself with Andrey in reading, in discussions about “serious and boring,” or they read poets, talked about a trip to Italy.

She was afraid of falling into something similar to Oblomov’s apathy. But no matter how hard she tried to shake off these moments of periodic numbness, of the soul’s sleep, a dream of happiness would creep up on her, a blue night would surround her and enchain her with slumber, then again a thoughtful atmosphere would ensue, as if life’s rest, and then… confusion, fear, languor, a kind of dull sadness, some vague, hazy questions would arise in her restless head.

Olga listened attentively, questioned herself, but elicited nothing, could not ascertain what her soul occasionally desired, what it sought, but only desired and sought something, even, it seemed—terrible to say—yearned, as if her happy life was not enough, as if she was tired of it and demanded new, unprecedented phenomena, looked further ahead…

“What is this?” she thought with horror. “Do I still need and can I desire anything? Where to go? Nowhere! There’s no further road… Is there nothing, have I completed the circle of life? Is this all… all…” her soul spoke, and left something unsaid… and Olga looked around anxiously, lest anyone recognize, lest anyone overhear this whisper of her soul… She questioned the sky, the sea, the forest with her eyes… nowhere was there an answer: there was distance, depth, and darkness.

Nature spoke the same thing; in it she saw a continuous but monotonous flow of life, without beginning, without end.

She knew whom to ask about these anxieties, and she would have found an answer, but what kind? What if it was the murmuring of a fruitless mind or, even worse, the craving of a heart not made for sympathy, an unwomanly heart! God! She, his idol, – without a heart, with a hardened, never-satisfied mind! What would become of her? What if she turned into a blue stocking! How would she fall when these new, unprecedented, but, of course, known to him sufferings were revealed to him!

She hid from him or feigned illness when her eyes, against her will, lost their velvety softness, looked somewhat dry and heated, when a heavy cloud lay on her face, and she, despite all her efforts, could not force herself to smile, to speak, listened indifferently to the most fervent news of the political world, the most curious explanations of a new step in science, a new creation in art.

Meanwhile, she didn’t want to cry, there was no sudden tremor, as at the time when her nerves were playing up, and her girlish strengths awoke and expressed themselves. No, this was not it!

“What is this?” she asked in despair, when she suddenly became bored, indifferent to everything, on a beautiful thoughtful evening or by the cradle, even amidst her husband’s caresses and words…

She would suddenly, as if, turn to stone and fall silent, then bustle with feigned liveliness to hide her strange ailment, or claim a migraine and go to bed.

But it was not easy for her to hide from Stolz’s keen eye: she knew this and internally prepared for the conversation, when it came, with the same anxiety as she once prepared for a confession of the past. The conversation came.

They were walking one evening in the poplar alley. She almost hung on his shoulder and was deeply silent. She was tormented by her unknown attack, and whatever he talked about, she answered briefly.

“The nanny says Olenka coughed last night. Should I send for the doctor tomorrow?” he asked.

“I gave her something warm and won’t let her go for a walk tomorrow, and then we’ll see!” she replied monotonously.

They walked to the end of the alley in silence.

“Why haven’t you answered your friend Sonya’s letter?” he asked. “And I waited and waited, almost missed the mail. This is her third letter unanswered.”

“Yes, I want to forget her quickly…” she said and fell silent.

“I gave Bichurin your regards,” Andrey began again, “after all, he’s in love with you, so perhaps he’ll find some comfort in this, that his wheat won’t ripen on time.”

She smiled dryly.

“Yes, you mentioned that,” she replied indifferently.

“What’s wrong, are you sleepy?” he asked.

Her heart pounded, and not for the first time, as soon as questions close to the truth began.

“Not yet,” she said with artificial cheerfulness, “why?”

“Are you unwell?” he asked again.

“No. Why do you think so?”

“Well, then you’re bored!”

She tightly squeezed his shoulder with both hands.

“No, no!” she denied with a falsely nonchalant voice, in which, however, a genuine boredom seemed to resonate.

He led her out of the alley and turned her face to the moonlight.

“Look at me!” he said and stared intently into her eyes.

“One might think that you… are unhappy! Your eyes are so strange today, and not just today… What’s wrong, Olga?”

He led her by the waist back into the alley.

“You know what: I… I’m hungry!” she said, trying to laugh.

“Don’t lie, don’t lie! I don’t like that!” he added with feigned sternness.

“Unhappy!” she repeated reproachfully, stopping him in the alley. “Yes, unhappy only in that… I’m too happy!” she finished with such a tender, soft note in her voice that he kissed her.

She became bolder. The suggestion, however slight, however joking, that she might be unhappy, unexpectedly drew her into frankness.

“I’m not bored and cannot be bored: you know this yourself, and of course, you don’t believe your own words; I’m not ill, but… I’m sad… sometimes… you’re an unbearable person if I can’t hide from you! Yes, I’m sad, and I don’t know why!”

She laid her head on his shoulder.

“Now what! Why?” he asked her softly, bending down to her.

“I don’t know,” she repeated.

“However, there must be a reason, if not in me, not around you, then in yourself. Sometimes such sadness is nothing more than the germ of an illness… Are you well?”

“Yes, perhaps,” she said seriously, “it’s something like that, although I feel nothing. You see how I eat, walk, sleep, work. Suddenly, something comes over me, a kind of melancholy… life seems to me… as if not everything is in it… No, don’t listen: it’s all nonsense.”

“Speak, speak!” he insisted eagerly. “Well, not everything is in life: what else?”

“Sometimes I’m as if afraid,” she continued, “that it won’t change, won’t end… I don’t know myself! Or I’m tormented by a foolish thought: what else will happen?… What is this happiness… all life…” she spoke softer and softer, ashamed of these questions, “all these joys, sorrows… nature—” she whispered, “—it all pulls me somewhere else; I become dissatisfied with everything… My God! I’m even ashamed of these foolish things… it’s daydreaming… Don’t notice, don’t look…” she added in an imploring voice, caressing him. “This sadness passes quickly, and I become bright and cheerful again, just as I am now!”

She clung to him so timidly and tenderly, genuinely ashamed and as if asking forgiveness for her “foolishness.”

For a long time, her husband questioned her, and for a long time, she relayed, like a patient to a doctor, the symptoms of her sadness, voiced all the unspoken questions, painted for him the confusion of her soul, and then—how this mirage disappeared—everything, everything she could recall, notice.

Stolz silently walked down the alley again, his head bowed to his chest, his thoughts entirely absorbed, with anxiety and perplexity, in his wife’s vague confession.

She gazed into his eyes but saw nothing; and when, for the third time, they reached the end of the alley, she did not let him turn around and, in turn, led him into the moonlight and looked at him questioningly.

“What are you doing?” she asked shyly. “Laughing at my foolishness—yes? It’s very silly, this sadness—isn’t it?”

He was silent.

“Why are you silent?” she asked impatiently.

“You were silent for a long time, although, of course, you knew that I had noticed you for a long time; let me be silent and think. You have given me a difficult task.”

“Now you’ll start thinking, and I’ll be tormented by what you’ll imagine to yourself. I spoke in vain!” she added. “It’s better to say something…”

“What should I tell you?” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s still a nervous disorder speaking in you: then a doctor, not I, will decide what’s wrong with you. I must send for one tomorrow… If not that…” he began and fell silent.

“What ‘if not that,’ tell me!” she insisted impatiently.

He walked, still thinking.

“Come on, tell me!” she said, shaking his arm.

“Perhaps it’s an excess of imagination: you’re too lively… or perhaps you’ve matured to that point…” he finished almost to himself, in a low voice.

“Speak out loud, please, Andrey! I can’t stand it when you mumble to yourself!” she complained. “I told him silly things, and he hung his head and whispered something under his breath! I’m even scared with you, here, in the dark…”

“What to say—I don’t know… ‘sadness comes, some questions trouble you’: what can you understand from that? We’ll talk about it again and see: it seems we need to swim in the sea again…”

“You said to yourself: ‘If… maybe… matured’: what was your thought?” she asked.

“I thought…” he said slowly, expressing himself thoughtfully and not trusting his own thought, as if also ashamed of his speech, “you see… there are moments… that is, I mean, if it’s not a sign of some disorder, if you are completely healthy, then, perhaps, you have matured, reached that point when the growth of life has stopped… when there are no more riddles, it has revealed itself entirely…”

“You seem to be implying that I’ve grown old?” she interrupted vividly. “Don’t you dare!” She even threatened him. “I’m still young, strong…” she added, straightening up.

He laughed.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “you seem to have no intention of ever growing old! No, that’s not it… in old age, strength wanes and stops fighting with life. No, your sadness, languor—if that’s all it is, what I think—is rather a sign of strength… The searches of a lively, agitated mind sometimes rush beyond worldly boundaries, find no answers, of course, and sadness appears… a temporary dissatisfaction with life… This is the sadness of a soul questioning life about its mystery… Perhaps it’s the same with you… If so—it’s not foolishness.”

She sighed, but, it seemed, more from joy that her fears were over and she was not falling in her husband’s eyes, but on the contrary…

“But I am happy; my mind is not idle; I do not dream; my life is diverse – what else is there? Why these questions?” she said. “It’s an illness, an oppression!”

Yes, perhaps, an oppression for a dark, weak mind, unprepared for it. This sadness and these questions, perhaps, have driven many mad; to some, they appear as monstrous visions, as the ravings of a mind…

“Happiness overflows, I want to live so much… and then suddenly some bitterness mixes in…”

“Ah! That is the price for the Promethean fire! Not only must you endure, but you must also love this sadness and respect doubts and questions: they are an overflowing abundance, a luxury of life, and appear mostly at the heights of happiness, when there are no crude desires; they are not born amidst everyday life: there, where there is sorrow and need, there is no time for them; crowds go on and do not know this fog of doubts, this yearning of questions… But for those who encounter them in due time, they are not a hammer, but welcome guests.”

“But you can’t cope with them: they bring anguish and indifference… to almost everything…” she added hesitantly.

“And for how long?” he said. “Then they refresh life. They lead to an abyss from which you can ask nothing, and with greater love they force you to look at life again… They challenge already tested strengths to fight against themselves, as if so as not to let them fall asleep…”

“To be tormented by some fog, by phantoms!” she complained. “Everything is bright, and then suddenly some ominous shadow falls upon life! Is there no remedy?”

“Of course there is: support in life! And if there is none, then it is sickening to live even without questions!”

“What then? Yield and pine away?”

“Nothing,” he said, “arm yourself with firmness and patiently, persistently go your own way. We are not Titans, you and I,” he continued, embracing her, “we will not, like Manfreds and Fausts, engage in a daring struggle with rebellious questions, we will not accept their challenge, we will bow our heads and humbly endure the difficult moment, and then life, happiness, and… will smile again.”

“And if… they never leave: if sadness worries more and more?..” she asked.

“What then? We will accept it as a new element of life… No, that doesn’t happen, it cannot happen to us! This is not your sadness; this is a common ailment of humanity. A single drop has splashed onto you… All this is terrible when a person breaks away from life… when there is no support. But with us… God grant that your sadness is what I think it is, and not a sign of some illness… that would be worse. That is the grief before which I would fall defenseless, powerless… But that, would fog, sadness, some doubts, questions deprive us of our good, our…”

He did not finish, and she, like a madwoman, threw herself into his arms and, like a bacchante, in passionate oblivion, froze for a moment, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Neither fog, nor sadness, nor illness, nor… even death!” she whispered rapturously, happy, calm, and cheerful again. Never, it seemed to her, had she loved him so passionately as at that moment.

“Beware, lest fate overhear your murmur,” he concluded with a superstitious remark, inspired by tender foresight, “and deem it ingratitude! It does not like it when its gifts are not valued. Until now, you have only known life, but you will have to experience it… Just wait until it plays out, when sorrow and hardship come… and they will come – then… you won’t be asking these questions… Preserve your strength!” Stolz added softly, almost to himself, in response to her passionate impulse. His words carried a hint of sadness, as if he already saw “sorrow and hardship” in the distance.

She was silent, instantly struck by the sad sound of his voice. She believed him implicitly, and she believed his voice. She became infected with his thoughtfulness, became introverted, withdrew into herself.

Leaning on him, she walked mechanically and slowly along the alley, immersed in stubborn silence. Apprehensively, following her husband, she looked into the distance of life, to where, according to his words, a time of “trials” would come, where “sorrow and toil” awaited.

She began to dream another dream, not the blue night; another edge of life opened, not transparent and festive, in a lull, amidst boundless abundance, alone with him…

No, there she saw a chain of losses, deprivations, washed with tears, inevitable sacrifices, a life of fasting and involuntary renunciation of whims born of idleness, cries and groans from new, now unknown feelings; she dreamed of illnesses, disorder in affairs, loss of her husband…

She shuddered, grew weak, but with courageous curiosity, she looked at this new way of life, surveyed it with horror, and measured her strength… Only love did not betray her even in this dream; it stood as a faithful guardian of her new life; but even it was not the same!

There is no hot breath, no bright rays and blue night; through the years, everything seemed like childhood games compared to that distant love, which a deep and formidable life had absorbed. There were no kisses or laughter to be heard, no tremulously thoughtful conversations in the grove, among the flowers, at the festival of nature and life… Everything “faded and departed.”

That unfading and imperishable love lay powerfully, like the force of life, on their faces — in the year of shared sorrow, it shone in the slow and silently exchanged gaze of collective suffering, it was heard in the endless mutual patience against life’s torture, in restrained tears and stifled sobs…

Into the misty sadness and questions that visited Olga, other, though distant, but clear, definite, and formidable dreams quietly settled…

Under her husband’s soothing and firm words, in boundless trust in him, Olga rested both from her enigmatic, not universally known sadness and from the prophetic and formidable dreams of the future, moving steadily forward.

After the “fog” came a bright morning, with the worries of a mother and a hostess: the flower garden and the field beckoned, as did her husband’s study. Only she did not play with life with carefree self-enjoyment, but lived with a hidden and vigorous thought, preparing, waiting…

She grew ever higher, higher… Andrey saw that his former ideal of a woman and wife was unattainable, but he was happy even with its pale reflection in Olga: he had never expected even this.

Meanwhile, he still faced a considerable concern for a long time, almost his whole life, to maintain his dignity as a man in the eyes of the self-loving, proud Olga, not out of vulgar jealousy, but so that this crystal life would not be clouded; and this could happen if her faith in him wavered even slightly.

Many women do not need any of this: once married, they obediently accept both the good and bad qualities of their husband, unconditionally reconcile themselves with the position and sphere prepared for them, or just as obediently yield to the first chance infatuation, immediately recognizing it as impossible or finding no need to resist it: “Fate, they say, passions, woman is a weak creature,” and so on.

Even if a husband surpasses the crowd in intellect—that obligatory strength in a man—such women pride themselves on this advantage of their husband, as if it were some expensive necklace, and then only if this intellect remains blind to their miserable, feminine antics. But if he dares to see through the petty comedy of their cunning, insignificant, sometimes vicious existence, they find this intellect heavy and confining.

Olga did not know this logic of submission to blind fate and did not understand feminine passions and infatuations. Having once recognized in her chosen man dignity and rights over her, she believed in him and therefore loved, and ceased to believe—ceased to love, as happened with Oblomov.

But there her steps were still hesitant, her will wavering; she was just looking and thinking into life, just bringing the elements of her mind and character into consciousness and gathering materials; the work of creation had not yet begun, the paths of life had not been guessed.

But now she believed in Andrey not blindly, but with consciousness, and in him her ideal of male perfection was embodied. The more, the more consciously she believed in him, the harder it was for him to maintain himself at the same height, to be a hero not only of her mind and heart, but also of her imagination. And she believed in him so much that she recognized no other intermediary, no other authority between him and herself, except God.

Therefore, she would not tolerate even the slightest degradation of the merits she recognized; any false note in his character or mind would produce a shocking dissonance. A destroyed edifice of happiness would bury her under its ruins, or, if her strength still survived, she would – seek…

No, such women don’t make the same mistake twice. After the decline of such faith, such love, rebirth is impossible.

Stolz was deeply happy with his full, vibrant life, in which an unfading spring blossomed, and he jealously, actively, and keenly cultivated, guarded, and cherished it. Horror rose from the depths of his soul only when he remembered that Olga was a hair’s breadth from ruin, that this guessed path—their two existences, merged into one, could have diverged; that ignorance of life’s ways could have led to a disastrous mistake, that Oblomov…

He shuddered. How! Olga in the life Oblomov had prepared for her! She — amidst crawling from day to day, a country lady, a nanny to her children, a hostess — and nothing more!

All the questions, doubts, all the fever of life would be spent on household chores, on waiting for holidays, guests, family gatherings, on births, baptisms, into apathy and the husband’s sleep!

Marriage would be merely a form, not content, a means, not an end; it would serve as a broad and unchanging framework for visits, receiving guests, dinners and evenings, empty chatter?

How would she bear this life? At first, she struggles, searching and guessing the mystery of life, cries, suffers, then gets used to it, grows stout, eats, sleeps, grows dull…

No, it wouldn’t be like that for her: she would cry, suffer, languish, and die in the arms of a loving, kind, and powerless husband… Poor Olga!

And if the fire does not die out, if life does not perish, if her strength endures and demands freedom, if she spreads her wings like a strong and keen eagle, momentarily captivated by weak hands, and rushes to that high rock where she sees an eagle even stronger and keener than herself?… Poor Ilya!

“Poor Ilya!” Andrey once said aloud, remembering the past.

At this name, Olga suddenly dropped her embroidery into her lap, threw her head back, and fell into deep thought. The exclamation brought back a memory.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked later. “Is it really impossible to find out?”

Andrey shrugged.

“You’d think,” he said, “that we’re living in a time when there were no post offices, when people, having dispersed in different directions, considered each other lost and indeed vanished without a trace.”

“You should write again to some of your friends: at least they’d find out…”

“They wouldn’t find out anything except what we already know: alive, well, in the same apartment – I know that even without friends. But what’s wrong with him, how he endures his life, whether he has died morally or if a spark of life still smolders – a stranger won’t find that out…”

“Oh, don’t talk like that, Andrey: it frightens and pains me to listen! I both want to and am afraid to know…”

She was ready to cry.

“We’ll be in Petersburg in the spring – we’ll find out ourselves.”

“It’s not enough to find out, we have to do everything…”

“And haven’t I done so? Haven’t I persuaded him enough, troubled myself for him, arranged his affairs – and he didn’t even respond to it! When we meet, he’s ready for anything, but as soon as he’s out of sight – goodbye: he’s asleep again. You fuss over him like a drunkard!”

“Why out of sight?” Olga impatiently retorted. “With him, one must act decisively: take him with you in a carriage and drive him away. Now we are moving to the estate; he will be close to us… we will take him with us.”

“What a burden we’ve taken on, you and I!” Andrey reasoned, pacing back and forth across the room. “And there’s no end to it!”

“Are you burdened by it?” Olga said. “That’s news! This is the first time I’ve heard you complain about this concern.”

“I’m not complaining,” Andrey replied, “but reasoning.”

“And where did this reasoning come from? You admitted to yourself that it’s boring, unsettling—yes?”

She looked at him searchingly. He shook his head negatively:

“No, not unsettling, but useless: that’s what I sometimes think.”

“Don’t speak, don’t speak!” she stopped him. “I’ll again, like last week, think about it all day and be sad. If your friendship for him has died out, then out of love for humanity you must bear this burden. If you tire, I will go alone and not leave without him: he will be moved by my pleas; I feel that I will weep bitterly if I see him slain, dead! Perhaps tears…”

“Will resurrect him, you think?” Andrey interrupted.

“No, they won’t resurrect him to activity, at least they will make him look around and change his life for something better. He will not be in the dirt, but near equals, with us. I only appeared then – and he instantly woke up and was ashamed…”

“Do you still love him as before?” Andrey asked jokingly.

“No!” Olga said, not joking, thoughtfully, as if looking into the past. “I don’t love him as before, but there is something that I love in him, to which I, it seems, have remained faithful and will not change, unlike others…”

“Who are ‘others’? Tell me, you poisonous snake, wound me, sting me: is it me? You’re mistaken. But if you want to know the truth, I taught you to love him and almost brought you to good. Without me, you would have passed him by, unnoticed. I made you understand that he has no less intelligence than others, only it’s buried, crushed by all sorts of rubbish, and asleep in idleness. Do you want me to tell you why he is dear to you, why you still love him?”

She nodded her head in agreement.

“Because in him is something more precious than any intellect: an honest, loyal heart! This is his natural gold; he carried it through life unharmed. He fell from bumps, grew cold, finally fell asleep, defeated, disillusioned, having lost the will to live, but he did not lose his honesty and loyalty. Not a single false note did his heart utter, no dirt clung to him. No fancy lie will seduce him, and nothing will lead him astray; let a whole ocean of rubbish, evil, churn around him, let the whole world be poisoned and turn upside down – Oblomov will never bow to the idol of lies, in his soul it will always be pure, bright, honest… This is a crystal, transparent soul; such people are few; they are rare; they are pearls in the crowd! His heart cannot be bribed by anything; he can be relied on everywhere and always. This is what you have remained faithful to, and why caring for him will never be a burden to me. I have known many people with high qualities, but I have never met a heart purer, brighter, and simpler; I have loved many, but no one as firmly and warmly as Oblomov. Once known, he cannot be unloved. Is that right? Did I guess?”

Olga was silent, her eyes cast down at her work. Andrey fell into thought.

“Is that all there is? What else? Ah!..” he woke up, adding cheerfully. “I completely forgot the ‘dove-like tenderness’…”

Olga laughed, quickly put down her embroidery, ran to Andrey, wrapped her arms around his neck, looked into his eyes for several minutes with radiant eyes, then fell into thought, resting her head on her husband’s shoulder. In her memory, Oblomov’s gentle, thoughtful face, his tender gaze, his submissiveness, then his pathetic shy smile, with which he responded to her reproach upon parting, resurfaced… and she felt such pain, such pity for him…

“You won’t leave him, won’t abandon him?” she said, not taking her arms from her husband’s neck.

“Never! Unless some abyss unexpectedly opens between us, a wall rises…”

She kissed her husband.

“In Petersburg, will you take me to him?”

He was hesitantly silent.

“Yes? Yes?” she demanded an answer insistently.

“Listen, Olga,” he said, trying to free his neck from the circle of her arms, “first, we need to…”

“No, say yes, promise, I won’t give up!”

“Alright,” he replied, “but not the first time, only the second: I know what will happen to you if he…”

“Don’t say it, don’t say it!..” she interrupted. “Yes, you will take me: together we will do everything. You alone won’t be able to, won’t want to!”

“So be it; but you’ll get upset and perhaps for a long time,” he said, not entirely pleased that Olga had forced his consent.

“Remember, then,” she concluded, sitting down in her place, “that you will only give up when ‘an abyss opens or a wall rises between him and you.’ I won’t forget those words.”

IX

Peace and quiet lay over the Vyborg side, over its unpaved streets, wooden sidewalks, over meager gardens, over ditches overgrown with nettles, where under a fence some goat, with a broken rope around its neck, diligently nibbled grass or dozed dully; and at noon, the smart, high heels of a passing clerk would clatter on the sidewalk, a muslin curtain would stir in the window, and from behind a geranium, an official’s wife would peek out, or suddenly over the fence, in the garden, a fresh face of a girl would instantly pop out and immediately hide, then another such face would pop out and also disappear, then the first would reappear and be replaced by the second; the squeal and laughter of girls swinging on a swing would resound.

Everything was quiet in Pshenitsyna’s house. One would enter the courtyard and be enveloped in a living idyll: chickens and roosters would bustle about and run to hide in the corners; the dog would start jumping on its chain, barking furiously; Akulina would stop milking the cow, and the yardman would stop chopping wood, and both would look at the visitor with curiosity.

“Whom do you wish to see?” he would ask, and upon hearing the name of Ilya Ilyich or the lady of the house, he would silently point to the porch and resume chopping wood, while the visitor would walk along the clean, sand-strewn path to the porch, on the steps of which a simple, clean rug was laid. He would pull the brightly polished brass doorbell handle, and the door would be opened by Anisya, the children, sometimes the mistress herself, or Zakhar—Zakhar always last.

Everything in Pshenitsyna’s house breathed such an abundance and completeness of household management, as had never existed even before, when Agafya Matveevna lived in the same house with her brother.

The kitchen, storerooms, and pantry were all stocked with cupboards full of dishes, large and small, round and oval platters, sauceboats, cups, piles of plates, cast-iron, copper, and clay pots.

In the cabinets were laid out both her own silver, long ago redeemed and never now pawned, and Oblomov’s silver.

Whole rows of enormous, pot-bellied and miniature teapots and several rows of porcelain cups, plain, painted, gilded, with mottos, with flaming hearts, with Chinese figures. Large glass jars with coffee, cinnamon, vanilla, crystal tea caddies, cruets with oil, with vinegar.

Then whole shelves were cluttered with packets, vials, little boxes of homemade medicines, herbs, poultices, plasters, spirits, camphor, powders, incense; there was also soap, concoctions for cleaning lace, removing stains, and so on and so forth—everything you’d find in any provincial household, with any thrifty housewife.

When Agafya Matveevna suddenly opened the door of the cupboard, full of all these accessories, she herself could not resist the bouquet of all the narcotic smells and for a moment, at first, turned her face away.

In the pantry, hams were hung from the ceiling to keep mice away, as were cheeses, sugarloaves, cured fish, bags of dried mushrooms, and nuts bought from the Finn.

On the floor stood tubs of butter, large covered crocks of sour cream, baskets of eggs—and what wasn’t there! One would need the pen of another Homer to enumerate with completeness and detail all that was accumulated in every corner, on every shelf of this small ark of domestic life.

The kitchen was the true palladium of the great mistress’s activity and her worthy assistant, Anisya. Everything was in the house and everything at hand, in its place, everything in order and clean, one might say, if not for one corner in the entire house that was never penetrated by a ray of light, a breath of fresh air, the mistress’s eye, or Anisya’s quick, all-sweeping hand. This was Zakhar’s corner or nest.

His little room had no window, and the perpetual darkness contributed to transforming human dwelling into a dark burrow. If Zakhar sometimes found the mistress there with some plans for improvements and cleaning, he firmly declared that it was not a woman’s business to sort out where and how brushes, shoe polish, and boots should lie, that no one cared why his clothes lay in a heap on the floor, and his bed in the corner behind the stove, in the dust, that he wore clothes and slept on this bed, not she. And as for the broom, boards, two bricks, a barrel bottom, and two logs that he kept in his room, he could not do without them in his household, but why, he did not explain; furthermore, that dust and spiders did not bother him and, in short, that he did not poke his nose into their kitchen, therefore he did not wish to be bothered either.

Anisya, whom he once found there, he drenched with such contempt, he threatened her so seriously with his elbow to her chest, that she was afraid to look in on him. When the matter was brought to a higher authority, for Ilya Ilyich’s approval, the master went to inspect and dispose of things properly, more strictly, but, poking his head into Zakhar’s door and looking for a minute at everything that was there, he only spat and said not a word.

“Well, did you take it?” Zakhar muttered to Agafya Matveevna and Anisya, who had come with Ilya Ilyich, hoping that his involvement would lead to some change. Then he smiled in his own way, with his whole face, so that his eyebrows and sideburns moved aside.

In the other rooms, everywhere was bright, clean, and fresh. The old, faded curtains had disappeared, and the windows and doors of the drawing-room and study were shaded by blue and green drapes and muslin curtains with red festoons—all the work of Agafya Matveevna’s hands.

The pillows were as white as snow, and piled up almost to the ceiling; the blankets were silk, quilted.

For weeks, the mistress’s room was cluttered with several unfolded and pushed-together card tables, on which these blankets and Ilya Ilyich’s dressing gown were spread out.

Agafya Matveevna personally cut, padded with cotton, and quilted them, leaning over her work with her strong chest, fixing her eyes on it, even her mouth when she needed to bite off a thread, and toiled with love, with tireless diligence, modestly rewarding herself with the thought that the dressing gown and blankets would clothe, warm, caress, and soothe the magnificent Ilya Ilyich.

He would lie on his sofa all day, admiring how her bare elbows moved back and forth, following the needle and thread. He often dozed off to the hiss of the thread being drawn through and the snap of it being bitten off, just as he used to in Oblomovka.

“Stop working, you’ll get tired!” he would restrain her.

“God loves labor!” she replied, not taking her eyes and hands from her work.

Coffee was served to him just as carefully, cleanly, and deliciously as when he first moved into this apartment several years ago. Giblet soup, macaroni with Parmesan, kulebyaka, botvinya, their own chickens—all these rotated in strict order, pleasantly diversifying the monotonous days of the small house.

From morning till evening, a joyful sunbeam struck the windows, half a day on one side, half a day on the other, unimpeded by anything thanks to the gardens on both sides.

Canaries chirped merrily; geraniums and sometimes hyacinths brought by the children from the count’s garden poured a strong scent into the small room, pleasantly mingling with the smoke of a pure Havana cigar and the cinnamon or vanilla that the hostess crushed, vigorously moving her elbows.

Ilya Ilyich lived as if in a golden frame of life, in which, as if in a diorama, only the usual phases of day and night and the seasons changed; other changes, especially major incidents that stir up all the sediment from the bottom of life, often bitter and cloudy, did not occur.

Ever since Stolz had rescued Oblomovka from his brother’s thieving debts, and as his brother and Tarantyev had completely withdrawn, all hostility also withdrew from Ilya Ilyich’s life. He was now surrounded by such simple, kind, loving faces, all of whom had agreed by their existence to prop up his life, to help him not notice it, not feel it.

Agafya Matveevna was in the zenith of her life; she lived and felt that she lived fully, as she had never lived before, but she could never express this, as before, or rather, it never occurred to her. She only prayed to God that He would prolong Ilya Ilyich’s life and deliver him from all “sorrow, wrath, and need,” and entrusted herself, her children, and the entire house to God’s will. But her face constantly expressed the same happiness, complete, satisfied, and without desires, consequently rare and impossible with any other nature.

She had grown fuller: her chest and shoulders shone with the same contentment and fullness, in her eyes gleamed meekness and only domestic solicitude. To her returned the dignity and calmness with which she had formerly presided over the house, amidst the obedient Anisya, Akulina, and the yardman. She still did not walk, but rather seemed to float from the cupboard to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the pantry, and calmly, unhurriedly gave orders with a full understanding of what she was doing.

Anisya became even livelier than before, because there was more work: she was always moving, bustling, running, working, all at the mistress’s word. Her eyes were even brighter, and her nose, that eloquent nose, protruded before her whole person, glowing with care, thoughts, intentions, speaking even when her tongue was silent.

Both of them were dressed according to the dignity of their rank and duties. The mistress acquired a large wardrobe with a row of silk dresses, mantillas, and pelisses; her caps were ordered from the other side, almost from Liteyny, her shoes not from Apraksin, but from Gostiny Dvor, and her hat—imagine, from Morskaya! And Anisya, when she finished cooking, especially on Sundays, wore a woolen dress.

Only Akulina still walked with her apron tucked into her belt, and the yardman, even during summer holidays, couldn’t part with his sheepskin coat.

There’s no need to talk about Zakhar: he made a jacket out of a gray tailcoat, and it’s impossible to tell what color his trousers are, or what his tie is made of. He cleans boots, then sleeps, sits at the gate, staring blankly at the rare passers-by, or, finally, sits in the nearby corner shop and does everything the same way he did before, first in Oblomovka, then in Gorokhovaya.

And Oblomov himself? Oblomov himself was a complete and natural reflection and expression of that peace, contentment, and serene tranquility. As he observed and pondered his way of life, and grew more and more accustomed to it, he finally decided that he had nowhere else to go, nothing else to seek, that his ideal of life had been realized, though without poetry, without those rays with which his imagination once painted for him a baronial, broad, and carefree flow of life in his native village, among peasants and servants.

He looked at his present life as a continuation of the same Oblomovian existence, only with a different local color and, in part, time. And here, as in Oblomovka, he managed to get off cheaply from life, to bargain with it and insure himself undisturbed peace.

He triumphed internally that he had escaped its troublesome, tormenting demands and threats, from beneath that horizon under which the lightning of great joys flashes and the sudden blows of great sorrows resound, where false hopes and magnificent phantoms of happiness play, where one’s own thought gnaws and consumes a person and passion kills, where the mind falls and triumphs, where a person fights in incessant battle and leaves the battlefield torn and still discontent and insatiable. He, not having experienced the pleasures obtained in struggle, mentally renounced them and felt peace in his soul only in a forgotten corner, alien to movement, struggle, and life.

And if his imagination should still boil, forgotten memories arise, unfulfilled dreams, if reproaches stir in his conscience for a life lived thus and not otherwise—he sleeps restlessly, wakes up, jumps out of bed, sometimes cries cold tears of hopelessness for the bright, forever extinguished ideal of life, as one cries for a dear deceased, with the bitter feeling of knowing that not enough was done for him during his lifetime.

Then he would look at his surroundings, taste temporary blessings, and calm down, thoughtfully watching how the evening sun quietly and peacefully drowned in the fiery glow of the dawn, finally deciding that his life had not only taken shape but had also been created, even destined to be so simple, so unpretentious, as to express the possibility of an ideally tranquil aspect of human existence.

Others, he thought, were destined to express its troubling aspects, to move creative and destructive forces: everyone has their own purpose!

This was the philosophy that Oblomov’s Plato had developed, and it lulled him among questions and the strict demands of duty and purpose! And he was born and raised not as a gladiator for the arena, but as a peaceful spectator of the fight; his timid and lazy soul could not bear the anxieties of happiness or the blows of life—consequently, he expressed one extreme of it, and there was no point in striving, changing anything in it, or repenting.

With the years, agitation and remorse appeared less frequently, and he quietly and gradually settled into the simple and broad coffin of his remaining existence, made by his own hands, like desert elders who, turning away from life, dig their own graves.

He had already stopped dreaming about arranging the estate and traveling there with the whole household. The manager appointed by Stolz regularly sent him a very decent income at Christmas, the peasants brought bread and livestock, and the house prospered with abundance and cheer.

Ilya Ilyich even acquired a pair of horses, but, out of his characteristic caution, they were such that they would only move from the porch after the third whip, and at the first and second blows, one horse would sway and step aside, then the second horse would sway and step aside, and then, finally, stretching their necks, backs, and tails taut, they would move together and run, nodding their heads. On them, Vanya was taken across the Neva to the gymnasium, and the mistress went for various purchases.

At Shrovetide and on holidays, the whole family and Ilya Ilyich himself went to the festivities to ride and to the booths; they occasionally took a box and, also as a whole household, visited the theater.

In summer, they would go out of town, on Ilya’s Friday – to the Gunpowder Mills, and life alternated with ordinary phenomena, without introducing destructive changes, one could say, if life’s blows did not reach small peaceful corners at all. But, unfortunately, a thunderous blow, shaking the foundations of mountains and vast air spaces, also resounds in a mouse’s hole, albeit weaker, duller, but perceptible for the hole.

Ilya Ilyich ate with appetite and a lot, as in Oblomovka, walked and worked lazily and little, also as in Oblomovka. Despite his advancing years, he carelessly drank wine, currant vodka, and even more carelessly and for long periods slept after dinner.

Suddenly, all this changed.

One day, after his afternoon rest and nap, he wanted to get up from the sofa—and couldn’t; he wanted to utter a word—and his tongue wouldn’t obey him. In fright, he merely waved his hand, calling for help.

If he had lived only with Zakhar, he could have telegraphed with his hand until morning and finally died, which would have been discovered the next day, but the mistress’s eye shone over him like the eye of providence: she did not need intellect, but only the intuition of her heart, that Ilya Ilyich was not himself.

And as soon as this intuition dawned on her, Anisya was already flying in a cab to fetch the doctor, while the mistress put ice on his head and immediately pulled out all the spirits and lotions from her treasured cabinet—everything that habit and hearsay suggested she use. Even Zakhar managed at that time to put on one boot and, thus, with one boot on, tended to his master together with the doctor, the mistress, and Anisya.

Ilya Ilyich was brought to his senses, bled, and then it was announced that he had suffered an apoplectic stroke and that he needed to lead a different lifestyle.

Vodka, beer, and wine, coffee, with few and rare exceptions, then all fatty, meaty, and spicy foods were forbidden to him, and instead, daily exercise and moderate sleep only at night were prescribed.

Without Agafya Matveevna’s watchful eye, none of this would have happened, but she managed to introduce this system by subjecting the whole house to it, and by either cunning or affection, distracting Oblomov from tempting attempts at wine, afternoon naps, and fatty kulebyakas.

As soon as he dozed off, a chair would fall in the room, seemingly by itself, or old, useless dishes would break with a crash in the next room, or the children would make noise—enough to make you run away! If that didn’t help, her gentle voice would be heard: she would call him and ask him something.

The garden path was extended into the vegetable patch, and Ilya Ilyich took a two-hour walk on it morning and evening. She would walk with him, and if she couldn’t, then Masha, or Vanya, or the old acquaintance, the unresponsive, obedient, agreeable Alekseev, would.

Ilya Ilyich walked slowly along the path, leaning on Vanya’s shoulder. Vanya was almost a young man now, in a gymnasium uniform, barely restraining his lively, hurried steps, adjusting to Ilya Ilyich’s gait. Oblomov didn’t move one leg entirely freely—the lingering effects of the stroke.

“Well, let’s go inside, Vanyusha!” he said.

They started towards the door. Agafya Matveevna appeared, meeting them.

“Where are you going so early?” she asked, not letting them in.

“What do you mean, early! We’ve walked back and forth twenty times, and it’s fifty sazhens from here to the fence—that’s two versts.”

“How many times did you walk?” she asked Vanyusha.

He hesitated.

“Don’t lie, mind you!” she threatened, looking him in the eye. “I’ll see in a minute. Remember Sunday, I won’t let you visit.”

“No, Mama, truly, we walked… twelve times.”

“Oh, you rascal!” Oblomov said. “You kept plucking the acacia, and I counted every time…”

“No, walk some more: my ear isn’t even ready yet!” the mistress decided and slammed the door in front of them.

And Oblomov, willy-nilly, counted eight more times, then finally came into the room.

There, on a large round table, steaming fish soup awaited. Oblomov sat in his usual place, alone on the sofa; next to him, on the right on a chair, sat Agafya Matveevna; to his left, on a small children’s chair with a latch, sat a child of about three. Beside him sat Masha, already a girl of about thirteen, then Vanya, and finally, on this day, Alekseev also sat opposite Oblomov.

“Just wait, let me give you another ruff: such a fatty one I got!” Agafya Matveevna said, adding a ruff to Oblomov’s plate.

“A pie would be good with this!” Oblomov said.

“I forgot, truly I forgot! And I wanted to yesterday evening, but my memory seems to have failed me!” Agafya Matveevna cunningly replied.

“And for you too, Ivan Alekseich, I forgot to prepare cabbage with the cutlets,” she added, turning to Alekseev. “Don’t be cross.”

And again, she was cunning.

“It’s nothing, ma’am: I can eat anything,” Alekseev said.

“What is this, really, why don’t they prepare ham with peas or a steak for him?” Oblomov asked. “He likes it…”

“I went myself, looked, Ilya Ilyich, there was no good beef! But I ordered cherry syrup jelly for you: I know you’re fond of it,” she added, addressing Alekseev.

The jelly was harmless to Ilya Ilyich, and therefore the agreeable Alekseev had to like and eat it.

After dinner, nothing could dissuade Oblomov from lying down. He usually lay down on his back on the sofa right there, but only for an hour. So that he wouldn’t sleep, the hostess poured coffee right there, on the sofa, and the children played on the carpet right there, and Ilya Ilyich had to participate, whether he wanted to or not.

“Stop teasing Andryusha: he’s going to cry!” he chided Vanechka when the latter teased the child.

“Mashenka, look, Andryusha will hurt himself on the chair!” he carefully warned when the child climbed under the chairs.

And Masha rushed to retrieve “her little brother,” as she called him.

Everyone fell silent for a moment; the hostess went to the kitchen to see if the coffee was ready. The children quieted down. Snoring was heard in the room, at first soft, as if muffled, then louder, and when Agafya Matveevna appeared with a steaming coffee pot, she was struck by the snoring, as if in a coachman’s hut.

She shook her head reproachfully at Alekseev.

“I tried to wake him, but they wouldn’t listen!” Alekseev said in his defense.

She quickly put the coffee pot on the table, grabbed Andryusha from the floor, and gently sat him on the sofa next to Ilya Ilyich. The child crawled over him, reached his face, and grabbed his nose.

“Ah! What? Who is it?” Ilya Ilyich said anxiously, waking up.

“You dozed off, and Andryusha climbed up and woke you,” the hostess said gently.

“When did I doze off?” Oblomov excused himself, embracing Andryusha. “Didn’t I hear him climbing towards me with his little hands? I hear everything! Oh, you little rascal: caught my nose! I’ll get you! Just wait, wait!” he said, fondling and caressing the child. Then he lowered him to the floor and sighed audibly across the room.

“Tell me something, Ivan Alekseich!” he said.

“We’ve discussed everything, Ilya Ilyich; there’s nothing to tell,” the latter replied.

“Well, what do you mean, nothing? You’re out among people: is there anything new? I suppose you read?”

“Yes, sir, sometimes I read, or others read, talk, and I listen. Yesterday, Aleksey Spiridonich’s son, a student, was reading aloud…”

“What was he reading?”

“About the English, that they brought rifles and gunpowder to someone. Aleksey Spiridonich said there would be a war.”

“To whom did they bring them?”

“To Spain or India—I don’t remember, only the envoy was very displeased.”

“Which envoy?” Oblomov asked.

“Oh, I forgot that!” Alekseev said, lifting his nose to the ceiling and trying to remember.

“Who is the war with?”

“With the Turkish pasha, it seems.”

“Well, what else is new in politics?” Ilya Ilyich asked after a pause.

“Well, they write that the earth is constantly cooling down: someday it will freeze entirely.”

“Hmph! Is that politics?” Oblomov said.

Alekseev was taken aback.

“Dmitry Alekseich first mentioned politics,” he justified himself, “and then they read everything in a row and didn’t say when it would end. I know that’s literature already.”

“What did he read about literature?” Oblomov asked.

“He read that the best writers are Dmitriev, Karamzin, Batyushkov, and Zhukovsky…”

“And Pushkin?”

“Pushkin’s not there. I myself also wondered why not! After all, he’s a genius,” Alekseev said, pronouncing g like h.

Silence followed. The hostess brought her work and began to ply her needle back and forth, glancing occasionally at Ilya Ilyich, at Alekseev, and listening with keen ears to see if there was any disorder, noise, if Zakhar and Anisya were quarreling in the kitchen, if Akulina was washing dishes, if the gate in the yard had squeaked, that is, if the yardman had gone off to the “establishment.”

Oblomov quietly sank into silence and thoughtfulness. This thoughtfulness was neither sleep nor wakefulness: he carelessly let his thoughts wander at will, concentrating on nothing, calmly listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart and occasionally blinking evenly, like a person whose eyes are not focused on anything. He fell into an indefinite, mysterious state, a kind of hallucination.

Sometimes rare and brief moments of contemplation descend upon a person, when it seems to him that he is reliving a moment once lived somewhere and sometime. Whether he saw the phenomenon unfolding before him in a dream, or had lived before and forgotten, he sees: the same faces sit around him as sat then, the same words were already spoken once: imagination is powerless to transport him there again, memory does not resurrect the past but evokes contemplation.

The same happened to Oblomov now. He was enveloped by a familiar silence that had been somewhere before, a familiar pendulum swung, the snap of a bitten thread was heard; familiar words and whispers were repeated: “I just can’t get the thread through the needle: here, Masha, your eyes are sharper!”

He lazily, mechanically, as if in a daze, gazed into the hostess’s face, and from the depths of his memories arose a familiar image he had seen somewhere. He struggled to recall when and where he had heard this…

And he saw before him a large, dark living room in his parents’ house, lit by a tallow candle, his deceased mother sitting at a round table with her guests: they were sewing silently; his father was walking silently. Past and present merged and mingled.

He dreamed that he had reached that promised land where rivers of milk and honey flow, where one eats unearned bread, walks in gold and silver…

He hears stories of dreams, omens, the clatter of plates and the clink of knives, he presses close to his nanny, listening to her old, shaky voice: “Militrisa Kirbityevna!” she says, pointing to the image of the hostess.

It seemed to him that the same small cloud floated in the blue sky, as then, the same breeze blew in the window and played with his hair, Oblomov’s Indian rooster walked and crowed beneath the window.

The dog barked: a guest must have arrived. Could it be Andrey who arrived with his father from Verkhlyov? That was a holiday for him. Indeed, it must be him: the footsteps are closer, closer, the door opens… “Andrey!” he says. Indeed, before him stands Andrey, but not a boy, but a mature man.

Oblomov awoke: before him, in reality, not in a hallucination, stood the true, actual Stolz.

The hostess quickly snatched up the child, cleared her work from the table, led the children away; Alekseev also disappeared. Stolz and Oblomov were left alone, silently and motionlessly looking at each other. Stolz simply pierced him with his eyes.

“Is that you, Andrey?” Oblomov asked barely audibly from emotion, as only a lover asks his beloved after a long separation.

“It is I,” Andrey said softly. “Are you alive, well?”

Oblomov embraced him, pressing tightly against him.

“Ah!” he uttered in response, prolonging the sound, pouring into that “ah” all the strength of the sadness and joy that had long been hidden in his soul and perhaps had never, since their separation, been poured out on anyone or anything.

They sat down and again looked intently at each other.

“Are you well?” Andrey asked.

“Yes, now, thank God.”

“And were you ill?”

“Yes, Andrey, I had a stroke…”

“Is it possible? My God!” Andrey said with fright and concern. “But without consequences?”

“Yes, only I don’t have free use of my left leg…” Oblomov replied.

“Ah, Ilya, Ilya! What’s wrong with you? You’ve completely let yourself go! What have you been doing all this time? It’s no joke, it’s the fifth year since we last saw each other!”

Oblomov sighed.

“Why didn’t you go to Oblomovka? Why didn’t you write?”

“What is there to tell you, Andrey? You know me, so don’t ask any more!” Oblomov said sadly.

“And still here, in this apartment?” Stolz said, looking around the room, “and you haven’t moved out?”

“Yes, still here… Now I won’t move out!”

“What, absolutely not?”

“Yes, Andrey… absolutely.”

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

“And Olga Sergeevna? Is she well? Where is she? Does she remember?..”

He didn’t finish.

“She’s well and remembers you as if you parted yesterday. I’ll tell you where she is in a moment.”

“And the children?”

“The children are also well… But tell me, Ilya: are you joking that you’ll stay here? I came for you, to take you there, to us, to the countryside…”

“No, no!” Oblomov began, lowering his voice and glancing at the door, clearly alarmed. “No, please, don’t even start, don’t say…”

“Why? What’s wrong with you?” Stolz began. “You know me: I set myself this task long ago and I won’t give up. Until now, various matters distracted me, but now I’m free. You must live with us, near us: Olga and I have decided so, and so it will be. Thank God I found you the same, not worse. I didn’t hope… Let’s go!.. I’m ready to take you by force!” You need to live differently, you understand how.

Oblomov listened to this tirade impatiently.

“Don’t shout, please, quieter!” he begged. “There…”

“What’s there?”

“They’ll hear… the hostess will think I really want to leave…”

“Well, so what? Let her think that!”

“Oh, how can you say that!” Oblomov interrupted. “Listen, Andrey!” he suddenly added in a decisive, unprecedented tone, “don’t make futile attempts, don’t persuade me: I’ll stay here.”

Stolz looked at his friend in astonishment. Oblomov looked at him calmly and decisively.

“You’re lost, Ilya!” he said. “This house, this woman… this whole way of life… It can’t be: let’s go, let’s go!”

He grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards the door.

“Why do you want to take me away? Where to?” Oblomov said, resisting.

“Out of this pit, out of this swamp, into the light, into the open space, where there is healthy, normal life!” Stolz insisted strictly, almost imperiously. “Where are you? What have you become? Come to your senses! Is this the life you prepared yourself for, to sleep like a mole in a burrow? Remember everything…”

“Don’t remind me, don’t disturb the past: you can’t bring it back!” Oblomov said with thought on his face, with full consciousness of reason and will. “What do you want to do with me? With the world you’re dragging me into, I’ve broken up forever; you won’t solder, won’t rejoin two torn halves. I’ve grown into this pit like a sick spot: try to tear me away—it will be death.”

“But look around, where and with whom are you?”

“I know, I feel… Ah, Andrey, I feel everything, I understand everything: I have long been ashamed to live in the world! But I cannot go your way with you, even if I wanted to… Perhaps it was still possible for the last time. Now… (he lowered his eyes and was silent for a moment) now it’s too late… Go and don’t stop for me. I am worthy of your friendship—God sees that, but I am not worth your trouble.”

“No, Ilya, you’re saying something, but not finishing it. And still I’ll take you away, precisely because I suspect… Listen,” he said, “put on something, and let’s go to my place, spend the evening with me. I’ll tell you so much: you don’t know what’s boiling up with us now, you haven’t heard?..”

Oblomov looked at him questioningly.

“You don’t see people, I forgot: come on, I’ll tell you everything… You know who’s here at the gate, in the carriage, waiting for me… I’ll call her here!”

“Olga!” Oblomov suddenly blurted out, frightened. His face even changed. “For God’s sake, don’t let her in here, leave. Goodbye, goodbye, for God’s sake!”

He almost pushed Stolz out; but the latter did not move.

“I cannot go to her without you: I gave my word, do you hear, Ilya? If not today, then tomorrow… you will only postpone it, but you will not drive me away… Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, we will still see each other!”

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

“When then? Olga will ask me.”

“Ah, Andrey,” he said in a tender, pleading voice, embracing him and laying his head on his shoulder. “Leave me be… forget me…”

“What, forever?” Stolz asked in astonishment, pulling away from his embrace and looking him in the face.

“Yes!” Oblomov whispered.

Stolz stepped back from him.

“Is that you, Ilya?” he reproached. “You’re pushing me away, and for her, for that woman!… My God!” he almost cried out, as if from sudden pain. “That child I just saw… Ilya, Ilya! Run from here, let’s go, let’s go quickly! How you have fallen! This woman… what is she to you…”

“My wife!” Oblomov uttered calmly.

Stolz was petrified.

“And that child is my son! His name is Andrey, in your memory!” Oblomov added at once and calmly exhaled, unburdened by his frankness.

Now Stolz’s face changed, and his astonished, almost senseless eyes darted around. Before him, suddenly, “an abyss opened,” a “stone wall” rose, and Oblomov seemed to have vanished, as if he had disappeared from his sight, fallen through, and he only felt the burning anguish that a person experiences when he rushes with excitement after a separation to see a friend and learns that he has long been gone, that he has died.

“Lost!” he said mechanically, in a whisper. “What will I tell Olga?”

Oblomov heard the last words, wanted to say something, but couldn’t. He extended both hands to Andrey, and they embraced silently, tightly, as people embrace before battle, before death. This embrace stifled their words, tears, feelings…

“Don’t forget my Andrey!” were Oblomov’s last words, spoken in a dying voice.

Andrey silently, slowly walked out, slowly, thoughtfully he walked through the yard and got into the carriage, and Oblomov sat on the sofa, leaned his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands.

“No, I will not forget your Andrey,” Stolz thought sadly, walking through the yard. “You are lost, Ilya: there is nothing to tell you that your Oblomovka is no longer in the wilderness, that its turn has come, that the sun’s rays have fallen upon it! I will not tell you that in about four years it will be a railway station, that your peasants will go to work on the embankment, and then your bread will roll along the railway to the pier… And there… schools, literacy, and further… No, you will be scared by the dawn of new happiness, it will be painful for unaccustomed eyes. But I will lead your Andrey where you could not go… and with him we will put our youthful dreams into practice.” “Farewell, old Oblomovka!” he said, glancing back for the last time at the windows of the small house. “You have lived out your age!”

“What’s there?” Olga asked with a strong heartbeat.

“Nothing!” Andrey answered dryly, abruptly.

“Is he alive, well?”

“Yes,” Andrey replied reluctantly.

“Why did you return so soon? Why didn’t you call me there and bring him? Let me go!”

“Impossible!”

“What’s going on there?” Olga asked in fright. “Did ‘the abyss open’? Will you tell me?”

He was silent.

“But what is happening there?”

“Oblomovism!” Andrey replied gloomily and maintained a sullen silence all the way home, despite Olga’s further inquiries.

X

Some five years passed. Much had changed on the Vyborg side: the empty street leading to Pshenitsyna’s house had become built up with dachas, among which rose a long, stone, government building that prevented the sun’s rays from cheerfully striking the windows of the peaceful haven of laziness and tranquility.

The little house itself had become a bit dilapidated, looking uncared for, unclean, like an unshaven and unwashed man. The paint had peeled, the rain gutters were broken in places: consequently, puddles of mud stood in the yard, across which, as before, a narrow plank had been laid. When someone entered the gate, the old watchdog no longer sprang briskly on its chain, but barked hoarsely and lazily, not coming out of its kennel.

And what changes inside the house! A strange woman now held sway there, and the children frolicking were not the same as before. From time to time, the red, dissipated face of the boisterous Tarantyev reappeared, and the gentle, uncomplaining Alekseev was no more. Neither Zakhar nor Anisya were to be seen: a new fat cook presided in the kitchen, grudgingly and rudely carrying out Agafya Matveevna’s quiet orders, and the same Akulina, with her skirt tucked into her belt, washed troughs and crocks; the same sleepy yardman, in the same sheepskin coat, idly lived out his days in the kennel. Past the latticed fence, at the appointed hours of early morning and lunchtime, the figure of “the brother” again flitted by, with a large package under his arm, in rubber galoshes winter and summer.

What became of Oblomov? Where is he? Where? — In the nearest cemetery, under a modest urn, his body rests, among the bushes, in a quiet spot. Lilac branches, planted by a friendly hand, slumber over the grave, and the serene scent of wormwood fills the air. It seems the very angel of silence guards his sleep.

No matter how vigilantly the loving eye of his wife guarded every moment of his life, but eternal peace, eternal silence, and the lazy crawling from day to day quietly stopped the machine of life. Ilya Ilyich passed away, apparently without pain, without torment, as if a clock had stopped that someone had forgotten to wind.

No one saw his last moments, no one heard his dying groan. The apoplectic stroke recurred once more, a year later, and again passed safely: only Ilya Ilyich became pale, weak, ate little, rarely went out into the small garden, and became increasingly silent and thoughtful, sometimes even crying. He sensed his impending death and feared it.

Several times he felt unwell and it passed. One morning, Agafya Matveevna, as usual, brought him coffee and—found him resting as gently on his deathbed as on his bed of sleep, only his head had shifted slightly from the pillow, and his hand was convulsively pressed to his heart, where, apparently, the blood had concentrated and stopped.

Agafya Matveevna had been a widow for three years: during this time, everything returned to its former ways. Her brother engaged in contracts, but was ruined and, through various tricks and bows, returned somehow to his former position as secretary in the office “where peasants are registered,” and again walked to work and brought in quarters, fifty-kopeck pieces, and twenty-kopeck pieces, filling a well-hidden chest with them. The household became as coarse, simple, but rich and abundant, as it had been before Oblomov.

The predominant role in the house was played by her brother’s wife, Irina Panteleevna, which meant she allowed herself to wake up late, drink coffee three times a day, change her dress three times a day, and observe only one thing in the household: that her skirts were starched as stiffly as possible. Beyond that, she did not interfere in anything, and Agafya Matveevna continued to be a living pendulum in the house: she looked after the kitchen and the table, supplied the whole house with tea and coffee, sewed for everyone, looked after the laundry, the children, Akulina, and the yardman.

But why was this so? After all, she was Madame Oblomov, a landowner; she could have lived separately, independently, needing no one and nothing? What could have forced her to take on the burden of another’s household, the troubles of other people’s children, all those trifles to which a woman dedicates herself either out of love, out of the sacred duty of family ties, or for a piece of daily bread? Where were Zakhar, Anisya, her rightful servants? Where, finally, was the living pledge left to her by her husband, little Andryusha? Where were her children from her previous husband?

Her children settled down, that is, Vanyusha finished his studies and took up service; Mashenka married the superintendent of some government house, and Andryusha was taken by Stolz and his wife to be raised, and they considered him a member of their family. Agafya Matveevna never equated or mixed Andryusha’s fate with that of her first children, although in her heart, perhaps unconsciously, she gave them all equal place. But she separated Andryusha’s upbringing, way of life, and future life by a whole abyss from Vanyusha’s and Mashenka’s lives.

“What about them? They’re as clumsy as I am,” she said carelessly, “they were born into the common lot, but this one,” she added, almost with respect for Andryusha and with a certain, if not timidity, then caution, caressing him, “this one is a little gentleman! See how fair he is, perfectly plump; what small hands and feet, and hair like silk. Just like the deceased!”

Therefore, she agreed without question, even with some joy, to Stolz’s proposal to take him for upbringing, believing that his proper place was there, not here, “in the common lot,” with her dirty nephews, her brother’s children.

For about half a year after Oblomov’s death, she lived in the house with Anisya and Zakhar, consumed by grief. She wore a path to her husband’s grave and cried her eyes out, eating and drinking almost nothing, subsisting only on tea, and often at night she did not close her eyes and was completely exhausted. She never complained to anyone, and it seemed that the more time separated her from the moment of parting, the more she retreated into herself, into her sorrow, and shut herself off from everyone, even Anisya. No one knew what was in her soul.

“And your mistress still cries for her husband,” the shopkeeper at the market, from whom they bought provisions for the house, said to the cook.

“She’s still grieving for her husband,” the elder said, pointing her out to the prosphora baker in the cemetery church, where the inconsolable widow came every week to pray and weep.

“She’s still lamenting!” they said in her brother’s house.

One day, suddenly, an unexpected invasion of her brother’s entire family appeared, with children, and even Tarantyev, under the pretext of compassion. Trite consolations flowed, advice “not to ruin herself, to save herself for the children”—all that had been told to her fifteen years ago, on the occasion of the death of her first husband, and which then produced the desired effect, but now, for some reason, caused her anguish and aversion.

She felt much better when they started talking about something else and announced that now they could live together again, that it would be easier for her “to endure grief among her own,” and it would be good for them, because no one knew how to keep a house in order as she did.

She asked for time to think, then grieved for another two months, and finally agreed to live together. During this time, Stolz took Andryusha, and she remained alone.

There she is, in a dark dress, with a black woolen scarf around her neck, moving from room to kitchen like a shadow, still opening and closing cupboards, sewing, ironing lace, but quietly, without energy, speaking as if reluctantly, in a low voice, and no longer looking around with carelessly darting eyes, but with a concentrated expression, with a hidden inner meaning in her eyes. This thought settled invisibly on her face, it seems, at the moment when she consciously and long gazed at the dead face of her husband, and since then it has not left her.

She moved about the house, doing everything that was necessary with her hands, but her thoughts did not participate in it. Over her husband’s corpse, with his loss, she seemed to have suddenly understood her life and pondered its meaning, and this thoughtfulness forever cast a shadow on her face. After weeping out her living grief, she concentrated on the consciousness of loss: everything else died for her, except for little Andryusha. Only when she saw him did signs of life awaken within her, her facial features brightened, her eyes filled with joyful light and then flowed with tears of memories.

She was alienated from everything around her: whether her brother got angry over a needlessly spent or unbargained ruble, over a burnt roast, over stale fish; whether her sister-in-law sulked over softly starched skirts, over weak and cold tea; whether the fat cook was rude—Agafya Matveevna noticed nothing, as if it wasn’t about her, didn’t even hear the caustic whisper: “Lady, landowner!”

To everything, she responded with the dignity of her sorrow and submissive silence.

On the contrary, at Christmas, on a bright day, during the joyful evenings of Shrovetide, when everyone rejoiced, sang, ate and drank in the house, she would suddenly, amidst the general merriment, burst into hot tears and hide in her corner.

Then she would again become contemplative and sometimes even looked at her brother and his wife as if with pride, with pity.

She understood that her life had been played out and illuminated, that God had put a soul into her life and taken it out again; that the sun had lit up within her and faded forever… Forever, truly; but in return, her life had acquired meaning forever: now she knew why she had lived and that she had not lived in vain.

She had loved so fully and greatly: she loved Oblomov—as a lover, as a husband, and as a master; only she could never tell anyone this, as before. And no one around her would have understood her anyway. Where would she find the language? In the lexicon of her brother, Tarantyev, her sister-in-law, there were no such words, because there were no such concepts; only Ilya Ilyich would have understood her, but she never expressed it to him, because she did not understand it herself then and did not know how.

With the years, she understood her past more and more clearly and concealed it deeper and deeper, becoming increasingly silent and withdrawn. Rays of quiet light from those seven years, which had flown by like a single moment, spread throughout her life, and she had nothing more to desire, nowhere to go.

Only when Stolz came from the countryside for the winter did she run to his house and gaze eagerly at Andryusha, caressing him with tender timidity, and then she would have liked to say something to Andrey Ivanovich, to thank him, finally to pour out before him everything, everything that had accumulated and lived inexhaustibly in her heart: he would have understood, but she could not and would only throw herself at Olga, press her lips to her hands and burst into a flood of such hot tears that Olga too would involuntarily weep with her, and Andrey, agitated, would hastily leave the room.

They were all bound by one common sympathy, one memory of the deceased’s soul, pure as crystal. They begged her to go with them to the countryside, to live together, near Andryusha—she kept repeating one thing: “Where one was born, where one lived one’s life, there one must die.”

In vain Stolz gave her an account of the estate’s management, sent her due income—she gave everything back, asking him to save it for Andryusha.

“It’s his, not mine,” she stubbornly repeated, “he will need it; he is the master, and I will manage without it.”

XI

One day, around noon, two gentlemen walked along the wooden sidewalks on the Vyborg side; behind them, a carriage quietly followed. One of them was Stolz, the other his friend, a man of letters, stout, with an apathetic face and thoughtful, seemingly sleepy eyes. They drew abreast of a church; mass had ended, and people poured onto the street; at the front of them all were beggars. Their collection was large and varied.

“I’d like to know where beggars come from?” said the man of letters, looking at the beggars.

“What do you mean, where from? They crawl out of various cracks and corners…”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” the man of letters objected. “I’d like to know: how does one become a beggar, how does one get into this state? Does it happen suddenly or gradually, sincerely or falsely?..”

“Why do you ask? Do you want to write ‘Mystères de Pétersbourg’?”

“Perhaps…” the man of letters murmured, yawning lazily.

“Well, here’s a case: ask any of them—for a silver ruble, he’ll sell you his whole story, and you can write it down and resell it at a profit. Here’s an old man, a typical beggar, seems to be the most normal. Hey, old man! Come here!”

The old man turned at the call, took off his hat, and approached them.

“Merciful sirs!” he croaked. “Help a poor, crippled soldier, wounded in thirty battles, an old warrior…”

“Zakhar!” Stolz exclaimed in surprise. “Is that you?”

Zakhar suddenly fell silent, then, shading his eyes with his hand from the sun, stared intently at Stolz.

“Excuse me, Your Excellency, I don’t recognize you… completely blind!”

“You’ve forgotten your master’s friend, Stolz,” Stolz reproached.

“Ah, ah, my dear, Andrey Ivanych! Lord, blindness has overcome me! My dear, my own father!”

He bustled about, trying to catch Stolz’s hand and, failing, kissed the hem of his coat.

“The Lord has brought me, a wretched dog, to live to such joy…” he cried out, half weeping, half laughing.

His entire face seemed to have been scorched with a crimson mark from forehead to chin. His nose, moreover, was tinged with blue. His head was completely bald; his sideburns were still large, but matted and tangled like felt, each looking as if a lump of snow had been placed in it. He wore a decrepit, completely faded overcoat, lacking one tail; he was shod in old, worn-out galoshes on his bare feet; in his hands, he held a fur hat, quite worn through.

“Oh, merciful Lord! What grace you have shown me today for the holiday…”

“What state are you in? Why? Aren’t you ashamed?” Stolz asked strictly.

“Ah, my dear, Andrey Ivanych! What can I do?” Zakhar began with a heavy sigh. “What is there to eat? It used to be, when Anisya was alive, I didn’t wander, there was a piece of bread, but when she died of cholera—God rest her soul—the mistress’s brother didn’t want to keep me, called me a hanger-on. Mikhey Andreich Tarantyev always tried to kick me from behind when I passed: life became unbearable! How many reproaches I endured. Believe me, sir, I couldn’t swallow a piece of bread. If not for the mistress, God grant her health!” Zakhar added, crossing himself, “I would have perished in the cold long ago. She gives me warm clothes for the winter and as much bread as I want, and a corner by the stove—all out of her kindness. But they started reproaching her because of me, so I left, wherever my eyes might lead! Now I’ve been suffering for two years…”

“Why didn’t you look for another place?” Stolz asked.

“Where, my dear, Andrey Ivanych, can you find a place these days? I was in two places, but I didn’t suit. Everything’s different now, not as it used to be: it’s worse. They demand literate lackeys; and even noble gentlemen no longer have crowded antechambers. It’s all one, rarely two lackeys. They take off their own boots: they’ve invented some kind of machine!” Zakhar continued with dismay. “Shame, disgrace, gentry is dying out!”

He sighed.

“Well, I did get a job with a German, a merchant, to sit in the antechamber; everything was going well, but he sent me to serve at the buffet: is that my business? Once I was carrying some dishes, Bohemian, or something, the floors were smooth, slippery—may they rot! Suddenly my feet slipped apart, and all the dishes, with the tray, crashed to the ground: well, and I was fired! Another time, an old countess liked my appearance: ‘respectable-looking,’ she said, and hired me as a doorman. A good, old-fashioned position: just sit more importantly on a chair, cross your legs, sway, and don’t answer immediately when someone comes, but first growl, and then let them in or shove them out by the scruff of the neck, as needed; and for good guests, you know: with a mace, like this!” Zakhar made a sweeping motion with his hand. “It’s flattering, I tell you! But the lady was so disagreeable—God bless her! Once she looked into my little room, saw a bedbug, stomped her feet, screamed, as if I had invented bedbugs! When is a household ever without bedbugs! Another time she walked past me, and it seemed to her that I smelled of wine… such a one, truly! And she dismissed me.”

“And indeed, you do smell, it carries!” Stolz said.

“From grief, my dear, Andrey Ivanych, by God, from grief,” Zakhar wheezed, grimacing bitterly. “I also tried working as a cab driver. I hired myself out to a master, but my feet got chilled: I’m weak, I’m old! The horse was vicious; once it bolted towards a carriage, almost broke me; another time I ran over an old woman, and I was taken to the police station…”

“Well, enough, don’t wander and don’t drink, come to me, I’ll give you a corner, we’ll go to the village—do you hear?”

“I hear, my dear, Andrey Ivanych, but…”

He sighed.

“I don’t want to leave here, from the grave!” he cried. “Our provider, Ilya Ilyich,” he wailed, “I remembered him again today, God rest his soul! The Lord took such a master! He lived for the joy of people, he should have lived a hundred years…” Zakhar sobbed and mumbled, grimacing. “I was at his grave today; whenever I come to this side, I go there, sit down, and just sit; tears just flow… Sometimes I get lost in thought, everything quietens down, and it seems as if he’s calling: ‘Zakhar! Zakhar!’ Goosebumps run down my spine! There will never be another master like him! And how he loved you—remember, Lord, his soul in your kingdom!”

“Well, come and see Andryusha: I’ll have you fed, clothed, and then do as you wish!” Stolz said and gave him money.

“I’ll come; how could I not come to see Andrey Ilyich? I suppose he’s grown quite big! Lord! What joy the Lord has brought me to witness! I’ll come, my dear, God grant you good health and countless years…” Zakhar grumbled after the departing carriage.

“Well, did you hear the story of this beggar?” Stolz asked his friend.

“And who is this Ilya Ilyich he mentioned?” the man of letters asked.

“Oblomov: I’ve told you about him many times.”

“Yes, I remember the name: he’s your comrade and friend. What became of him?”

“Lost, vanished for nothing.”

Stolz sighed and became thoughtful.

“And he wasn’t dumber than others, his soul was pure and clear as glass; noble, gentle, and—he vanished!”

“Why?” What was the reason?”

“The reason… what reason! Oblomovism!” Stolz said.

“Oblomovism!” the man of letters repeated in bewilderment. “What is that?”

“I’ll tell you now, let me collect my thoughts and memory. And you write it down: perhaps it will be useful to someone.”

And he told him what is written here.

Oblomov, Goncharov: Read FREE Full Text Online (English Translation)

Fayina’s Dream by Yulia Basharova

Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov