Oblomov (6 page)

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

‘Yes, especially to me,’ said Oblomov. ‘I read so little, you see.’

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

‘What is it about?’

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

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

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

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

‘No, Penkin, I won’t read it.’

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

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

‘But why not read it, just out of curiosity?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Give me man – man!’ Oblomov said. ‘Love him!’

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

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

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

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

Both lapsed into silence.

‘What do you read then?’ asked Penkin.

‘Me? Oh, books of travel mostly.’

Again silence.

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

Oblomov shook his head.

‘Well, shall I send you my story?’

Oblomov nodded.

‘I’m afraid I must really be off to the printers,’ said Penkin. ‘Do you know why I called? I came to ask you to go to Yeka-terinhof 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 to-morrow, write the day after – the holidays, summer will come – always writing, writing! When is he to stop and have a rest? Poor wretch!’

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

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

But presently there was another ring at the front door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where to?’

‘Why, to Ovchinin’s, of course. Matvey Andreyich Alyanov, Kasimir Albertovich Pkhailo, and Vassily Sevastyanych Koly-myagin are there.’

‘What are they doing there and what do they want me for?’

‘Ovchinin invites you to dinner.’

‘Oh, to dinner,’ Oblomov repeated without enthusiasm.

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

‘And what are we going to do there?’

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

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

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

‘Wait a little; we’ve plenty of time.’

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

‘Dress? I haven’t washed yet!’

‘Well, wash, then!’

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

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Alexeyev suddenly asked Oblomov.

‘Why?’

‘But you’re still lying down!’

‘Should I have got up, then?’

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

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

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