Do stay a little longer, Oblomov said, trying to detain him. Besides, Id like to ask your advice two awful things have happened to me.
No, no, Im sorry, old man, Id better look you up again in a couple of days, Sudbinsky said, leaving the room.
My dear fellow, youre up to your neck in it, thought Oblomov, as he watched him go. Blind, deaf, and dumb to everything else in the world. But hell be a big man one day, be put in charge of all sorts of important things, and reach a high rank in the service. This is what they call making a career, I suppose! But how little of the real man is wanted for such a career intelligence, will, feelings are not wanted. What for? Theyre a luxury! And so hell go on till he dies, and hell go through life without being aware of lots of things. And there he goes on working from twelve till five at his office and from eight till twelve at home poor fellow!
He felt a quiet satisfaction at the thought that he could stay in bed from nine till three and from eight till nine, and was proud that he had no reports to make nor papers to write and that there was ample scope both for his feelings and his imagination.
Oblomov was absorbed in his thoughts and did not notice a very thin dark man standing by his bed, a man whose face was practically invisible behind his whiskers, moustache, and imperial. He was dressed with studied negligence.
Good morning, Oblomov!
Good morning, Penkin, said Oblomov. Dont come near, dont come near, youre straight from the cold!
Oh, you funny fellow, Penkin said. Still the same incorrigible, care-free idler!
Yes, care-free! said Oblomov. Let me show you the letter I received from my bailiff last night: I am racking my brains and you say: care-free! Where do you come from?
From a bookshop: I went to find out if the magazines were out. Have you read my article?
No.
Ill send it to you. Read it.
What is it about? asked Oblomov, yawning heartily.
About trade, the emancipation of women, the beautiful April weather weve been having, and about a newly invented fire extinguisher. How is it you dont read the papers? Why, you find all about our daily life there. But most of all Im agitating for the realistic movement in literature.
Have you plenty of work? asked Oblomov.
Oh, quite a lot. Two articles a week for my paper, reviewing novels, and Ive just written a short story.
What about?
About the mayor of a provincial town who boxes the ears of the local tradespeople.
Yes, thats realism all right, said Oblomov.
Isnt it? the literary gentleman said, looking pleased. This is the main idea of my story and, mind you, I know7 it is new and daring. A traveller happened to sec the beating and he went and complained to the Governor about it. The Governor ordered a civil servant, who was going to the town on official business, to look into the matter and, generally, find out all he could about the mayors conduct and personality. The official called a meeting of the local tradespeople on the pretext of discussing their trade with them, and began questioning them about that, too. Well, what do you think those shopkeepers did? Why, they bowed and scraped and praised the mayor up to the skies. The official made some private inquiries and found that the trades men were awful rogues, sold rotten goods, gave short measure, cheated the Government, were utterly immoral, so that the beating was a well-deserved punishment!»
«So the mayors blows play the part of Fate in the ancient tragedies?» said Oblomov.
«Yes, indeed», Penkin was quick to agree. «You have a fine appreciation of literature, Oblomov. You ought to be a writer. You see, Ive succeeded in showing up the mayors arbitrary disregard of the laws and the common peoples corrupt morals, the bad methods adopted by the subordinate officials, and the need for stern but legal measures. Dont you think this idea of mine is er rather new?»
«Yes, especially to me», said Oblomov. «I read so little, you see».
«As a matter of fact», said Penkin, «one doesnt see many books in your room, does one? But you must read one thing, a most excellent poem will be published shortly A Corrupt Officials Love for a Fallen Woman I cant tell you who the author is. It is still a secret».
«What is it about?»
«The whole mechanism of our social life is shown up, and all in a highly poetic vein. All the hidden wires are exposed, all the rungs of the social ladder are carefully examined. The author summons, as though for trial, the weak but vicious statesman and а whole swarm of corrupt officials who deceive him; and every type of fallen woman is closely scrutinized Frenchwomen, German, Finnish and everything, everything is so remarkably, so thrillingly true to life Ive heard extracts from it the author is a great man! He reminds one of Dante and Shakespeare»
«Good Lord!» cried Oblomov in surprise, sitting up. «Going a bit too far, arent you?»
Penkin suddenly fell silent, realizing that he had really gone too far.
«Read it and judge for yourself», he said, but with no enthusiasm this time.
«No, Penkin, I wont read it».
«Why not? Its creating a sensation, people are talking about it».
«Let them! Some people have nothing to do but talk. It is their vocation in life, you know».
«But why not read it, just out of curiosity?»
«Oh, what is there to be curious about?» said Oblomov. «I dont know why they keep on writing just to amuse themselves, I suppose».
«To amuse themselves! Why, its all so true to life! So laughably true! Just like living portraits. Whoever it is a merchant, a civil servant, an army officer, a policeman its as if the writers caught them alive!»
«But in that case why all this bother? Just for the fun of picking up some man and presenting him as true to life? As a matter of fact, there is no life in anything they do no true understanding of it, no true sympathy, nothing of what one can call real humanity. Mere vanity thats what it is. They describe thieves and fallen women just as though they had caught them in the street and taken them to prison. What you feel in their stories is not invisible tears, but visible, coarse laughter and spitefulness».
«What more do you want? Thats excellent. Youve said it yourself. Burning spite, bitter war on vice, contemptuous laughter at fallen human beings everythings there!»
«No, no, not everything», Oblomov cried, suddenly working himself up into a passion. «Depict a thief, a prostitute, a defrauded fool, but dont forget that they, too, are human beings. Wheres your feeling of humanity? You want to write with your head only!» Oblomov almost hissed. «Do you think that to express ideas one doesnt need a heart? One does need it they are rendered fruitful by love; stretch out a helping hand to the fallen man to raise him, or shed bitter tears over him, if he faces ruin, but do not jeer at him. Love him, remember that he is a man like you, and deal with him as if he were yourself, then I shall read you and acknowledge you», he said, lying down again comfortably on the couch. «They describe a thief or a prostitute», he went on, «but forget the human being or are incapable of depicting him what art and what poetic vein do you find in that? Expose vice and filth, but please dont pretend that your exposures have anything to do with poetry».
«According to you, then, all we have to do is to describe nature roses, nightingales, frosty mornings while everything around us is in a continuous state of turmoil and movement? All we want is the bare physiology of society we have no time for songs nowadays».
«Give me man man!» Oblomov said. «Love him!»
«Love the money-lender, the hypocrite, the thieving or dull-witted official? Surely you cant mean that? One can see at once that youre not a literary person!» Penkin said heatedly. «No, sir, they must be punished, cast out from civil life, from society».
«Cast out from society?» Oblomov suddenly cried, as though inspired, jumping to his feet and facing Penkin. «That means forgetting that there was a living spirit in this unworthy vessel; that he is a depraved man, but a man none the less like yourself. Cast him out! And how do you propose to cast him out from human society, from nature, from the mercy of God!» he almost shouted, his eyes blazing.
«Going a bit too far, arent you?» Penkin said in his turn with surprise.
Oblomov realized, too, that he had overstepped the mark. He fell silent suddenly, stood still for a moment, yawned, and slowly lay down on the couch.
Both lapsed into silence.
«What do you read then?» asked Penkin.
«Me? Oh, books of travel mostly».
Again silence.
«But you will read the poem when it comes out, wont you?» Penkin asked. «Id bring it to you»
Oblomov shook his head.
«Well, shall I send you my story?»
Oblomov nodded.
«Im afraid I must really be off to the printers», said Penkin. «Do you know why I called? I came to ask you to go to Yekaterinhof with me. I have a carriage. I have to write an article to-morrow about the festival, and we could watch it together. You could point out to me what I failed to notice. It would be more jolly. Lets go!»
«No, thank you, I dont feel well», said Oblomov, frowning and pulling the blankets over himself. «Im afraid of the damp. The ground hasnt dried up yet. But why not come and have dinner with me to-day? We could have a talk. Two awful things have happened to me"
«Im sorry but the whole of our editorial staff dine at St Georges to-day. We shall go to the festival from there. And I must get my article ready during the night and send it off to the printers before the morning. Good-bye».
«Good-bye, Penkin».
«Writes articles at night», Oblomov mused. «When does he sleep? And yet he probably earns five thousand a year. Its his bread and butter. But to keep on writing, wasting his mind and soul on trifles, to change his convictions, sell his intelligence and imagination, do violence to his nature, be in a perpetual state of excitement and turmoil, knowing no rest, always rushing about And write and write, like a wheel or a machine write tomorrow, write the day after the holidays, summer will come always writing, writing! When is he to stop and have a rest? Poor wretch!»
He turned his head towards the table, where everything was so bare, the ink dried up, and no pen to be seen, and he was glad that he lay as free of care as a new-born babe, without trying to do too many things at once, without selling anything.
«And the bailiffs letter? And the flat?» he remembered suddenly, and sank into thought again.
But presently there was another ring at the front door.
«I seem to be holding a regular reception to-day», said Oblomov and waited to see who his new visitor was.
A man of indefinite age and of an indefinite appearance came into the room; he had reached the age when it was difficult to say how old he was; he was neither ugly nor handsome, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark; nature had not bestowed on him a single striking or outstanding characteristic, neither good nor bad. Some called him Ivan Ivanich, others Ivan Vassilyevich, and still others Ivan Mikhaylovich. People were also uncertain about his surname: some said it was Ivanov, some called him Vassilyev or Andreyev, and others thought he was Alexeyev. A stranger, meeting him for the first time and being told his name, immediately forgot it, as he forgot his face, and never noticed what he said. His presence added nothing to society and his absence took nothing away from it. His mind possessed no wit or originality or other peculiarities, just as his body possessed no peculiarities. He might have been able to tell everything he had seen or heard, and entertain people at least in that way, but he never went anywhere; he had been born in Petersburg and never left it, so that he merely saw and heard what others knew already. Is such a man attractive? Does he love or hate or suffer? It would seem that he ought to love and hate and suffer, for no one is exempt from that. But somehow or other he managed to love everyone. There are people in whom, however hard you try, you cannot arouse any feeling of hostility, revenge, etc. Whatever you do to them, they go on being nice to you. To do them justice, however, it is only fair to say that if you were to measure their love by degrees, it would never reach boiling point. Although such people are said to love everybody and are therefore supposed to be good-natured, they do not really love anybody and are good-natured simply because they are not ill-natured. If people were to give alms to a beggar in the presence of such a man, he, too, would give him a penny, and if they should scold the beggar or drive him away and laugh at him, he, too, would scold him or laugh at him. He cannot be called wealthy, because he is rather poor than rich; but he cannot be called poor either, if only because there are many people poorer than he. He has a private income of about 300 roubles a year, and, besides, has some unimportant post in the Civil Service, for which he receives a small salary; he is never in need, nor does he ever borrow money, nor, needless to say, would it ever occur to anyone to borrow money from him. He has no special or regular job in the service, because neither his superiors nor his colleagues could ever discover if there were any one thing he did better or worse in order to decide what he was particularly fit for. If he were told to do one thing or another, he did it in such a way that his superior was unable to say whether he had done it badly or well. He would just look at his work, read it through a few times and say: «Leave it, Ill look it through later, and, anyway, it seems to be perfectly all right». No trace of worry or strong desire could be detected on his face, nor anything that would show that he was at that moment thinking of something; nor would you ever see him examining anything closely to show that he took a particular interest in it. If he happened to meet an acquaintance in the street and was asked where he was going, he would reply that he was going to his office or to a shop or to see some friend. But if his acquaintance asked him to go with him instead to the post office or to his tailor or just for a walk, he would go with him to the post office, the tailor, or for a walk, though it might mean going in the opposite direction.
It is doubtful if anyone except his mother noticed his advent into the world, and indeed very few people are aware of him while he lives, and it is quite certain that no one will miss him when he is gone. No one will inquire after him, no one will pity him, no one rejoice at his death. He has neither friends nor enemies, but lots of acquaintances. Quite likely only his funeral procession will attract the attention of a passer-by, who will for the first time honour this obscure individual by a show of respect, namely a low bow; and perhaps some curious fellow will run in front of the procession to find out the dead mans name, and immediately forget it.
This Alexeyev, Andreyev, Vassilyev, or whatever his name is, seems to be a sort of incomplete and impersonal reminder of the human crowd, its dull echo, its pale reflection.
Even Zakhar, who in his candid talks with his cronies at the gate or in the shops gave all sorts of characterizations of his masters visitors, always felt perplexed when they came to talk of this let us say, Alexeyev. He would reflect a long time, trying to catch some prominent feature in the face, the looks or the manners or the character of this man, to which he might be able to hold on, and at last had to give it up with the words: «Oh, that one is neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring».