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СКАЧАТЬ are you able to discover? Should you elect to paint debauchery and the mire, at least do so without making any claim to poetry.”

      “What? You bid me depict nature—roses, nightingales, a winter’s morning, and all that sort of thing—when things like these are seething and whirling around us? Nay, we need, rather, the bare physiology of society. No longer are love songs required.”

      “Give me man, and man alone.” said Oblomov. “And, having given me him, do you try to love him.”

      “What? To love the usurer, the hypocrite, the peculating and stupid official? Why should I do that? ’tis evident you have had little experience of literature! Such fellows want punishing—want turning out of the civic circle and the community.”

      “Out of the civic circle and the community,’ you say?” ejaculated Oblomov with a gasp as he rose and stood before Penkin. “That is tantamount to saying that once in that faulty vessel there dwelt the supreme element—that, ruined though the man may be, he is still a human being, as even are you and I. Turn him out, indeed! How are you going to turn him out of the circle of humanity, out of the bosom of Nature, out of the mercy of God?” Oblomov came near to shouting as he said this, and his eyes were blazing.

      “How excited you have grown!” said Penkin in astonishment; whereupon even Oblomov realized that he had gone too far. He pulled himself up, yawned slightly, and stretched himself out sluggishly upon the sofa. For a while silence reigned.

      “What kind of books do you mostly read?’ inquired Penkin.

      “Books of travel,” replied Oblomov.

      Again there was a silence.

      “And will you read the poem when it has come out?” continued Penkin. “If so, I will bring you a copy of it.”

      Oblomov shook his head.

      “Nor my story?”

      Oblomov signified assent.

      “Very well, then. Now I must be off to press,” continued Penkin. “Do you know why I came to see you to-day? I came because I wanted to propose to you a visit to the Ekaterinhov. I have a conveyance of my own and, inasmuch as, to-morrow, I must write an article on current events, I thought we might jointly look over my notes on the subject, and you might advise me as to any point omitted. We should enjoy the expedition, I think. Let us go.”

      “No, I am not well,” said Oblomov with a frown, covering himself with the bedclothes. “But you might come and lunch with me to-day, and then talk. I have just experienced a couple of misfortunes.”

“Ah! The whole of our staff is to lunch at St. George’s, 7 I fear, and then to go on to the festival. Also, at night I have my article to write, and the printer must receive the manuscript by daylight at the latest. Good-bye!”

      “‘At night I have my article to write,’” mused Oblomov after his friend’s departure. “Then when does he sleep? However, he is making some five thousand roubles a year, so his work is so much bread and butter to him. Yet to think of being continually engaged in writing, in wasting one’s intellect upon trifles, in changing one’s opinions, in offering one’s brain and one’s imagination for sale, in doing violence to one’s own nature, in giving way to ebullitions of enthusiasm—and the whole without a single moment’s rest, or the calling of a single halt! Yes, to think of being forced to go on writing, writing, like the wheel of a machine—writing to-morrow, writing the day after, writing though the summer is approaching and holidays keep passing one by! Does he never stop to draw breath, the poor wretch?” Oblomov glanced at the table, where everything lay undisturbed, and the ink had become dried up, and not a pen was to be seen; and as he looked he rejoiced to think that he was lying there as careless as a newborn baby—not worrying at all, nor seeking to offer anything for sale.

      “But what of the starosta’s letter and the notice to quit?” Yes, suddenly he had remembered these things; and once more he became absorbed in thought.

      Again the doorbell rang.

      “Why is every one seeking me out today?” he wondered as he waited to see who next should enter. This time the new-comer proved to be a man of uncertain age—of the age when it is difficult to guess the exact number of years. Also, he was neither handsome nor ugly, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark. In short, he was a man whom Nature had dowered with no sharp-cut, distinguishing features, whether good or bad, mental or physical.

      “Ha!” said Oblomov as he greeted him. “So it is you, Alexiev? Whence are you come?”

      “To tell the truth. I had not thought to call upon you to-day,” replied the visitor, “but by chance I met Ovchinin, and he carried me off to his quarters, whither I, in my turn, have now come to convey you.”

      “To convey me to, to——?”

      “To Ovchinin’s. Already Alianov, Pchailo, and Kolhniagin are there.”

      “But why have they collected together? And what do they want with me?”

      “Ovchinin desires you to lunch with him, and then to accompany him and the rest of us to the Ekaterinhov. Likewise he has instructed me to warn you to hire a conveyance. Come, get up! ’Tis fully time you were dressed.”

      “How am I to dress? I have not yet washed myself.”

      “Then do so at once.”

      With that Alexiev fell to pacing the room. Presently he halted before a picture which he had seen a thousand times before; then he glanced once or twice out of the window, took from a whatnot an article of some sort, turned it over in his hands, looked at it from every point of view, and replaced the same. That done, he resumed his pacing and whistling—the whole being designed to avoid hindering Oblomov from rising and performing his ablutions. Ten minutes passed.

      “What is the matter with you?” asked Alexiev suddenly.

      “What is the matter with me?”

      “I mean, why are you still in bed?”

      “I cannot tell you. Is it really necessary that I should get up?”

      “Of course it is necessary, for they are waiting for us. Besides, you said that you would like to go.”

      “To go where? I have no such desire.”

      “Only this moment you said we would go and lunch at Ovchinin’s, and then proceed to the Ekatennhov!”

      “No, I cannot. It would mean my going out into the damp. Besides, rain is coming on. The courtyard looks quite dark.”

      “As a matter of fact, not a single cloud is in the sky, and the courtyard looks dark only because you never have your windows washed.”

      “Well, well!” said Oblomov. “By the way, have I yet told you of my misfortunes—of the letter from my starosta, and of the notice given me to quit this flat?”

      “No,” answered Alexiev. “What about the letter?”

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