so thrillingly true to life… I’ve heard extracts from it – the author is a great man! He reminds one of Dante and Shakespeare…»
«Good Lord!» cried Oblomov in surprise, sitting up. «Going a bit too far, aren’t you?»
Penkin suddenly fell silent, realizing that he had really gone too far.
«Read it and judge for yourself», he said, but with no enthusiasm this time.
«No, Penkin, I won’t read it».
«Why not? It’s creating a sensation, people are talking about it».
«Let them! Some people have nothing to do but talk. It is their vocation in life, you know».
«But why not read it, just out of curiosity?»
«Oh, what is there to be curious about?» said Oblomov. «I don’t know why they keep on writing – just to amuse themselves, I suppose».
«To amuse themselves! Why, it’s all so true to life! So laughably true! Just like living portraits. Whoever it is – a merchant, a civil servant, an army officer, a policeman – it’s as if the writers caught them alive!»
«But in that case why all this bother? Just for the fun of picking up some man and presenting him as true to life? As a matter of fact, there is no life in anything they do – no true understanding of it, no true sympathy, nothing of what one can call real humanity. Mere vanity – that’s what it is. They describe thieves and fallen women just as though they had caught them in the street and taken them to prison. What you feel in their stories is not „invisible tears“, but visible, coarse laughter and spitefulness».
«What more do you want? That’s excellent. You’ve said it yourself. Burning spite, bitter war on vice, contemptuous laughter at fallen human beings – everything’s there!»
«No, no, not everything», Oblomov cried, suddenly working himself up into a passion. «Depict a thief, a prostitute, a defrauded fool, but don’t forget that they, too, are human beings. Where’s your feeling of humanity? You want to write with your head only!» Oblomov almost hissed. «Do you think that to express ideas one doesn’t need a heart? One does need it – they are rendered fruitful by love; stretch out a helping hand to the fallen man to raise him, or shed bitter tears over him, if he faces ruin, but do not jeer at him. Love him, remember that he is a man like you, and deal with him as if he were yourself, then I shall read you and acknowledge you», he said, lying down again comfortably on the couch. «They describe a thief or a prostitute», he went on, «but forget the human being or are incapable of depicting him – what art and what poetic vein do you find in that? Expose vice and filth, but please don’t pretend that your exposures have anything to do with poetry».
«According to you, then, all we have to do is to describe nature – roses, nightingales, frosty mornings – while everything around us is in a continuous state of turmoil and movement? All we want is the bare physiology of society – we have no time for songs nowadays».
«Give me man – man!» Oblomov said. «Love him!»
«Love the money-lender, the hypocrite, the thieving or dull-witted official? Surely you can’t mean that? One can see at once that you’re not a literary person!» Penkin said heatedly. «No, sir, they must be punished, cast out from civil life, from society».
«Cast out from society?» Oblomov suddenly cried, as though inspired, jumping to his feet and facing Penkin. «That means forgetting that there was a living spirit in this unworthy vessel; that he is a depraved man, but a man none the less like yourself. Cast him out! And how do you propose to cast him out from human society, from nature, from the mercy of God!» he almost shouted, his eyes blazing.
«Going a bit too far, aren’t you?» Penkin said in his turn with surprise.
Oblomov realized, too, that he had overstepped the mark. He fell silent suddenly, stood still for a moment, yawned, and slowly lay down on the couch.
Both lapsed into silence.
«What do you read then?» asked Penkin.
«Me? Oh, books of travel mostly».
Again silence.
«But you will read the poem when it comes out, won’t you?» Penkin asked. «I’d bring it to you…»
Oblomov shook his head.
«Well, shall I send you my story?»
Oblomov nodded.
«I’m afraid I must really be off to the printers», said Penkin. «Do you know why I called? I came to ask you to go to Yekaterinhof with me. I have a carriage. I have to write an article to-morrow about the festival, and we could watch it together. You could point out to me what I failed to notice. It would be more jolly. Let’s go!»
«No, thank you, I don’t feel well», said Oblomov, frowning and pulling the blankets over himself. «I’m afraid of the damp. The ground hasn’t dried up yet. But why not come and have dinner with me to-day? We could have a talk. Two awful things have happened to me…"
«I’m sorry but the whole of our editorial staff dine at St George’s to-day. We shall go to the festival from there. And I must get my article ready during the night and send it off to the printers before the morning. Good-bye».
«Good-bye, Penkin».
«Writes articles at night», Oblomov mused. «When does he sleep? And yet he probably earns five thousand a year. It’s his bread and butter. But to keep on writing, wasting his mind and soul on trifles, to change his convictions, sell his intelligence and imagination, do violence to his nature, be in a perpetual state of excitement and turmoil, knowing no rest, always rushing about… And write and write, like a wheel or a machine – write tomorrow, write the day after – the holidays, summer will come – always writing, writing! When is he to stop and have a rest? Poor wretch!»
He turned his head towards the table, where everything was so bare, the ink dried up, and no pen to be seen, and he was glad that he lay as free of care as a new-born babe, without trying to do too many things at once, without selling anything.
«And the bailiff’s letter? And the flat?» he remembered suddenly, and sank into thought again.
But presently there was another ring at the front door.
«I seem to be holding a regular reception to-day», said Oblomov and waited to see who his new visitor was.
A man of indefinite age and of an indefinite appearance came into the room; he had reached the age when it was difficult to say how old he was; he was neither ugly nor handsome, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark; nature had not bestowed on him a single striking or outstanding characteristic, neither good nor bad. Some called him Ivan Ivanich, others Ivan Vassilyevich, and still others Ivan Mikhaylovich. People were also uncertain about his surname: some said it was Ivanov, some called him Vassilyev or Andreyev, and others thought he was Alexeyev. A stranger, meeting him for the first time and being told his name, immediately forgot it, as he forgot his face, and never noticed what he said. His presence added nothing to society and his absence took nothing away from it. His mind possessed no wit or originality or other peculiarities, just as his body possessed no peculiarities. He might have been able to tell everything he had seen or heard, and entertain people at least in that way, but he never went anywhere; he had been born in Petersburg and never left it, so that he merely saw and heard what others knew already. Is such a man attractive?
