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    Oblomov
    Oblomov
    Oblomov
    Ebook243 pages6 hours

    Oblomov

    By Ivan Goncharov

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    The novel focuses on the midlife crisis of the main character, Oblomov, an upper middle class son of a member of Russia's nineteenth century landed gentry. Oblomov's distinguishing characteristic is his slothful attitude towards life. While a common negative characteristic, Oblomov raises this trait to an art form, conducting his little daily business apathetically from his bed.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherInteractive Media
    Release dateFeb 15, 2014
    ISBN9781910150580

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    Reviews for Oblomov

    4/5

    583 ratings21 reviews

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    • 3/5
      I know I would have gotten a lot more out of this novel if I had been able to discuss with others. It doesn‘t feel like a whole lot happens — mainly because, due to his own ideals (and fears), Oblomov decides to spend most of his life doing not much. I can see why it‘s considered a classic, however. Read for #1001Books
    • 2/5
      Voorstelling Oblomov en zijn omgeving-prachtige karakterbeschrijvingen: traag, breed uitgesponnen, maar grondig-inderdaad creatie van een type
    • 5/5
      I first read this in 2008, after it was strongly recommended to me by multiple friends (who were all of a group that have Russian as a second language, for various divergent reasons). Each of them made the same statement. "You must read Oblomov to truly understand Russians." The Stephen Pearl translation is probably as close as you might come to reading it in the original (he won an award for this in 2008). Oblomov's tale was originally published in 1859, long before the revolution, and yet it's a cautionary tale that still has revelations of the Russian psyche today.
    • 4/5
      A great novel of lassitude.
    • 3/5
      A very early slacker novel -- one of the oldest, and certainly the oldest I've read. What it actually reminded me of was 101 Reykjvajik, only with a little more class. (This is Russian gentry, after all.) Oblomov is a none-too-subtle metaphor for the Russian aristocracy that brought ruin upon itself through indolence and self-centeredness.I really couldn't get into it, myself. I kept thinking: is anything actually going to HAPPEN? It took about 100 pages for Oblomov to even get out of bed. Then when he fell in love with Olga, I expected things to pick up a bit, but they didn't. I've read that in good fiction the protagonist must do something significant or change in some way. But Oblomov did nothing and refused to change -- which I suppose is the point of the story.
    • 5/5
      A book about a man who doesn't get out of bed...much. This is a brilliant book, but I can't explain why. Well, first it is funny, then it is sad. I think this is just one you have to read for yourself.
    • 5/5
      This book is, by turns, amusing, disturbing, symbolic, romantic, tragic, and heartrending. it is the story of Ilya Oblomov, a Russian gentry whose childhood of being served and amused by others' activities without any of his own has made a longer-lasting impression on him than others. His main pursuit is lying down and contemplating things--including why he doesn't get up. Oblomov's life takes odd turns in no small part because of his schoolmate and devoted friend Stoltz who (almost) never gives up trying to make Oblomov into a normative, active, motivated man. During this process, Oblomov meets a love interest--at which point the book becomes more like Anna Karenina or a light, romantic, tragic novel. Without spoiling the story, the story courses through the challenges and resolution of this life-long crisis of what Oblomov should, could, wants to do with his life.The book was stark in its change of tone. The first 200 pages or so are delightful and humorous courses of Gogol-like prose. When the love interest is introduced it becomes more like Tolstoy. As the novel progresses, it becomes - for a bit - like some dramatic Maupassant story - then settles into a historic account of the end of Oblomov's life. This trait was perhaps the only thing that kept this from being a perfect book for me. Magnetic, engaging, funny, tragic, perhaps depressing, but most of all the ending is a heartwrenching sorrow.
    • 5/5
      What a wonderful book. No wonder that Goncharov produced little work of any significance other than this. It must have been an exhausting process to produce such social comment and such characters. Written in typical langurous style of the period nothing is hurried. Everything is described and discussed thoroughly. In the lives of his two main characters Oblomov and Stolz Goncharov explores different approaches to life. One constantly striving for a better life, one contentendly accepting whatever comes. Oblomov is certainly not the lazy idler he is often portrayed to be.
    • 4/5
      There is also a good film adaptation of this book. I like to call my children Oblomov when they are laying around doing nothing. They don't know what it means but seem to understand it's not a complement. I appreciate this book as a critique of apathy and/or priviledge.
    • 5/5
      For the last 40 years, whenever someone has asked me what my favorite Russian novel is, I have invariably said Oblomov. More than any other, this book so well describes the dilemma of the Russian character, the conflicts and enmeshing of the oriental and european influences. It has given me the framework for reading and analyzing so much that is russian. On the other hand, it may be that I simply relate to someone who can spend so much time in bed! The movie is hilarious.
    • 4/5
      The novel opens with Oblomov lying in bed one morning. It proceeds to describe the man, the rather squalid room, the furniture, and the exchanges with Zahar, his old, grumbling, lazy, but loyal servant. The day continues, Oblomov has his meals, friends drop in, invitations accepted or rejected -- all this conducted within the confines of his bed. Between conversations or attempts at plans for the day, he returns to his semi-awakened state, and immerses himself in the fairy tale images of his pampered childhood, especially of the food and preparation of it, around which family life revolved. Life was a tranquil pool. Even his imaginings of the future mirrored the dreamy days of his childhood -- a string of quiet and languid days spent strolling thoughtfully in the gardens with a charming wife... The day would be over before long. This constituted his daily routine. One day, Stoltz, a dear friend arrives, and Oblomov is introduced to a friend, Olga. Young, lovely Olga is drawn to Oblomov who couldn't believe his luck. Despite his love for her, he was ambiguous in how he expressed himself. Oblomov felt she deserved more, and that he was not the right man for her. He knew that she would very shortly mature and realize that there was a world out there, into which he would not be able to accompany her. Because of his rejection, she went away, and it was while she was trying to get over Oblomov that she realized she belonged with Stoltz, progressive, energetic, and a man with plans for the future. The three remain very good friends, the affection between them remaining solid and untarnished until the end. Oblomov never changed, never made that long-promised visit to his neglected estate, never moved away, never took another job in his life, never fell in love again, never changed his daily habits, never lost his love for food, never lifted a finger to do anything so that long years of these left him even softer, fatter, and slower in his middle age, and his death was as quiet as his life uneventful. Based on the little I knew of this book, I was prepared to dislike Oblomov from page one -- I didn't take to slothful behaviour. But he becomes a dear figure, especially as we see his unselfishness and self-sacrificing nature, his wisdom and strength of character, displayed when he gave up Olga. He couldn't help his nature, it was how he was brought up, what he became, how he viewed the world. Oblomov was not lazy or indolent, rather he was devoid of will. He just did not see the point of effort. He knew the consequences of his inaction, his indecision, but he acted like a doomed man -- accepting of everything, a defeatist. We see not a disintegration of a character, but the continued existence of a half-formed one, and that is what makes Oblomov tragic. Oblomov meant to symbolize Russia's aristrocratic class, and Olga and Stoltz, the arrival of change, of the new things, of new ways of thinking. Goncharov's writing is engaging, the characters are very well-drawn, and the ideas fully developed. This novel is great in every sense of the word.
    • 3/5
      Although i find the proza quite good, when i got halfway i got tired and skipped to the last chapter. After reading the last chapter i had the feeling i didn't miss anything.
    • 4/5
      intersting, not like other russian masterpiece. Lots of detail, took me a while to finish the book.
    • 4/5
      Great Russian novel. Despite his so called laziness, have sympathy for main character. Sometimes want to shout to him go on do something.
    • 2/5
      Voorstelling Oblomov en zijn omgeving-prachtige karakterbeschrijvingen: traag, breed uitgesponnen, maar grondig-inderdaad creatie van een type
    • 4/5
      The story of a lazy man - it takes Oblomov 150 pages to get out of bed, and once he makes it he never seems quite sure whether he should have. This is really good, it's funny, sad and romantic, you get on his side and then want to beat him around the head with a cricket bat to make him try and engage with the world. It has great characters - his relationship with his equally lazy servant is brilliant fun - and is very readable.
    • 5/5
      A reread from years ago when I was going through a phase of reading Russian literature--just as enthralling as before. A social satire on the "landed gentry" class in 19th century Russia, as concentrated in the sloth Oblomov, a feckless, apathetic protagonist--I couldn't call him a "hero"--representing the old order where nothing should be changed and his friend Stolz, the half-German half-Russian, who tries to bring Oblomov from his slough, trying to convince him to go back to his estate from town, even introducing him to a young lady, Olga. The two fall is love but she realizes he'll never change his outlook and consummate laziness, so they part. Stolz represents change and progress. All live their lives and Oblomov finally dies, still in the clutches of his "oblomovitis". A work of great depth of perception. Marvellous character development all through with all characters. Oblomov is one of those archetypes, like, say, Don Quixote; you laugh at him but also he touches your emotions.I thought this an excellent translation; one would never know it was from decades ago. A masterpiece, most highly recommended.
    • 3/5
      I find it hard to describe this Russian story. Oblomov struck me as more sad than funny, though there were certainly some humor in this novel.
    • 3/5
      Ilya Ilyich Oblomov is not merely indolent. He is virtually inert. He can almost not even wake up, let alone wash or put his clothes on. And as for leaving his apartment, that is out of the question. Everything is too much for him. Thinking is too much. Reading is too much. He can barely muster enough energy to eat and drink and breathe. And he is as defenceless as he is inactive. So it may not be surprising that his “friends” are taking advantage of him and kind heart. All that is except for Andrei Stoltz. Oblomov grew up with Stoltz and the latter has an undying appreciation for Oblomov’s pureness of soul and kind heart. He refers to Oblomov’s intelligence as well, though we rarely see evidence of this. It is Stoltz who initiates much of the action in the novel — the offer (declined) to go abroad, the introduction to Olga, the rescue from the fiends bilking Oblomov of the wealth from his estate, and the care for Oblomov’s inheritance. If Stoltz is the figure of action and industry, then Oblomov is his mirror opposite in inaction and passivity. And yet their love and respect for each other binds them together, perhaps against reason and inclination.There can be little doubt that Goncharov has created a number of vivid and lasting characters, even beyond the titular figure who lends his name to a recognized condition. But it may be his account of love, indeed of different forms of love, that makes this novel more remarkable. The burgeoning of love between Olga and Oblomov is beyond touching. Its consequences are painful. But equally valuable is the more stable love that each arrives at for another. And of course the love of friendship that Stoltz feels towards Oblomov is richly explored.It might not stand up against some of the well-acknowledged classics of 19th century Russian literature, but Oblomov is still well worth reading. Just don’t get too comfortable on that divan! Gently recommended.
    • 5/5
      Über Oblomowschtschina / Oblomowerei / Oblomovism , das Versinken im Nichtstun oder, wie Oblomow es selbst einmal ausdrückt und auch so kann man es ansehen: streben nicht alle nachdem wovon ich träume, dem Ideal des verlorenen Paradieses? – ein Ausdruck, der in die westliche Kultur eingegangen ist - hinaus:Es ist eine Beschreibung der Liebe in aller ihrer Formen. (S.357: Über die Liebe)Auch die Frage nach dem Sinn des Lebens: für was sind wir eigendlich hier auf der Welt?Im lesenswerten Nachwort beschreibt Annelore Naumann u.a. die Struktur des Romans. (II-14)
    • 3/5
      Why is this book ‘overlooked’ and less recognized than others from the Golden Age of Russian literature? Hmm, let’s see. Tolstoy painted epics of a grand scale about adultery and Napoleon invading Russia. Turgenev? Nihilism, all-consuming passion, and beautiful slices of life in the country. Dostoevsky plumbed the depths of the soul and the meaning of man’s place in the universe. And so on. Now, what does the title character of Goncharov’s book do? Uh. Well, to put it crudely, he lays on his ass. Ok, not for all 552 pages, but for most of them. He resists pleas from his friends to get out and enjoy life, preferring the comforts of his couch instead, and he’s swindled because he’s too lazy and too inept to do anything about it. Somehow a girl falls in love with him, but he creates roadblocks and lets her slip away. What the hell is wrong with this guy, you’ll wonder. Is he severely introverted? A fool or a coward? Does he have some type of anxiety disorder which paralyzes him into inaction? Is he just a 19th century slacker? Or e) all of the above?In this book Goncharov is actually satirizing a facet of the Russian character which holds it back relative to the West: pure at heart and noble of sentiment, but indolent. Particularly compared to Stolz, his very active German friend, Oblomov is a slug. As Mikhail Shishkin says in the Afterword: “The title of Alexander Herzen’s famous mid-nineteenth century novel, Who Is To Blame? has been the most burning of Russian questions for nearly two centuries. Who is to blame for Russia’s notorious roads? For its graft and embezzlement? For its idiot officials? Who is to blame for its pervasive slave mentality, no matter what the regime or economic structure? Who is to blame for its bloody history and for the way human dignity is trampled at every step? We have people galore to accuse – and just as many accusers. One of the most famous defendants to be put on trial for this is Ilya Ilich Oblomov, caught by Goncharov’s pen in flagrante delicto - on his sofa.”The strength of devotion in two Russian women in the book offset this negative view, and Oblomov’s devoted but sloppy and lazy servant Zakhar is a source of humor, but I think the book would have been more effective had it been pared down. It’s just too long given the limited plot. The writing feels modern and occasionally there are nice turns of phrase, for example: “He spoke loudly, glibly, and nearly always crossly, and if you heard him at any remove, he sounded like three empty wagons driving over a bridge.” There are aspects of the relationship between men and women which are very outdated, but interestingly so (for example, the idea that it was not proper to be out with a woman without an escort, and the idea that a woman could only love once in life), and there are many more behaviors which seem right out of the present which is also interesting. I liked this one during a lover’s spat: “He made a frightened face. She made one just like it on purpose.”I don’t know, it may deserve another ½ star, but I was glad to finish it and would hesitate before recommending it, both of which are not great signs.Quotes:On change:“There is no peace in love either, and it is constantly changing, constantly moving forward, forward – ‘like all of life,’ as Stolz used to say.”On familiarity:“Living together as they did, they were sick and tired of each other. Brief daily intimacy between two people never leaves either one unscathed. It takes a great deal of life experience, logic, and sincere warmth on both sides to appreciate each other’s merits and not taunt or be taunted by each other’s shortcomings.”On friendship, or love:“Isn’t this it, the secret goal of every single person? To find in his friend the unchanging face of serenity, the perpetual and steady flow of emotion? After all, this is love’s standard, and if it deviates slightly, changes, or cools, we suffer. Isn’t my ideal the universal ideal? He thought. Isn’t this the crowning achievement, the very pinnacle of relations between the sexes?”On men and women, hmm ala the line from When Harry Met Sally:“There is no such thing as friendship between a man and a woman.”And:“Friendship is a fine thing, Olga Sergeyevna, when it is love between a young man and a young woman or the memory of love between old people. But God forbid if it’s friendship on one side and love on the other.”Finally this one relating to ‘nice guys’:“Pure, chaste women love them, out of sympathy; corrupt women seek out their friendship in order to purge themselves of spoilage.”On indecision:“Without outside help, he could devise no thought or intention, and like a ripe apple he would never fall of his own accord. He had to be plucked.”And:“You are prepared to coo in the rafters all your life. But I’m not like that.”On memories:“Memories are either the greatest poetry, when they are memories of a vital happiness, or a burning pain, when they touch dried wounds.”On poets, and the moon:“God knows whether a poet or dreamer would be content with nature in this peaceful corner. Those gentlemen, as we know, like to gaze at the moon and listen to the trilling of nightingales. They like a flirtatious moon who arrays herself in straw-yellow clouds and pokes mysteriously through the tree branches, or sprinkles sheaves of silver rays into her admirer’s eyes.”On reading:“She read a book and the book invariably had lines with sparks from her mind, the fire of her emotions flickered here and there, and words spoken the night before were written down, as if the author had overheard how her heart now beat.”On sadness:“In old age, your powers decline and you stop struggling with life. No, your sadness and melancholy – if it is only what I think it is – is more likely a sign of strength. The inquiries of a lively, stimulated mind sometimes burst beyond everyday limits, and, naturally, find no response, so there is a sadness, a temporary dissatisfaction with life. This is the sadness of a soul wondering about life’s mysteries.”On youth:“His eyes radiated the fire of life for longer and poured out beams of light, hope, and strength. He worried like everyone else, hoped, rejoiced over trifles, and suffered over minor details.But all that had been long ago, during that tender period when a man assumes in any other man a sincere friend and falls in love with and is prepared to offer his hand and heart to nearly any woman – something others did indeed accomplish, often to their great regret thereafter and for the rest of their life.”Lastly I love this bit of ogling; as Oblmov begins to notice a simple housekeeper and falls for her:“… asked Oblomov, looking through the scarf, which had fallen open, at her high, forever tranquil bosom, as firm as a sofa cushion.”Oh, and this one towards the end, apparently concerns in 1859 on ‘global freezing’:“Well, they’re writing that the earth’s globe is getting colder all the time and one day it’s going to freeze completely.”

    Book preview

    Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov

    Ivan Goncharov

    Oblomov

    New Edition

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    This Edition

    First published in 2014

    Copyright © 2014 Sovereign

    Design and Artwork © 2014 www.urban-pic.co.uk

    Images and Illustrations © 2014 Stocklibrary.org

    All Rights Reserved.

    ISBN: 9781910150597 (pbk)

    ISBN: 9781910150580 (ebk)

    Contents

    PART 1

    CHAPTER 1

    CHAPTER 2

    CHAPTER 3

    CHAPTER 4

    CHAPTER 5

    PART 2

    CHAPTER 1

    CHAPTER 2

    CHAPTER 3

    PART 3

    CHAPTER 1

    CHAPTER 2

    CHAPTER 3

    CHAPTER 4

    PART 4

    CHAPTER 1

    CHAPTER 2

    CHAPTER 3

    CHAPTER 4

    CHAPTER 5

    CHAPTER 6

    PART 1

    CHAPTER 1

    ONE morning, in a flat in one of the great buildings in Gorokhovaia Street, the population of which was sufficient to constitute that of a provincial town, there was lying in bed a gentleman named Ilya Ilyitch Oblomov. He was a fellow of a little over thirty, of medium height, and of pleasant exterior. Unfortunately, in his dark-grey eyes there was an absence of any definite idea, and in his other features a total lack of concentration. Suddenly a thought would wander across his face with the freedom of a bird, flutter for a moment in his eyes, settle on his half-opened lips, and remain momentarily lurking in the lines of his forehead. Then it would disappear, and once more his face would glow with a radiant insouciance which extended even to his attitude and the folds of his night-robe. At other times his glance would darken as with weariness or ennui. Yet neither the one nor the other expression could altogether banish from his countenance that gentleness which was the ruling, the fundamental, characteristic, not only of his features, but also of the spirit which lay beneath them. That spirit shone in his eyes, in his smile, and in his every movement of hand and head. On glancing casually at Oblomov a cold, a superficially observant person would have said, Evidently he is good-natured, but a simpleton; whereas a person of greater penetration and sympathy than the first would have prolonged his glance, and then gone on his way thoughtfully, and with a smile as though he were pleased with something.

    Oblomov’s face was neither reddy nor dull nor pale, but of an indefinite hue. At all events, that was the impression which it gave--possibly because, through insufficiency of exercise, or through want of fresh air, or through a lack of both, he was wrinkled beyond his years. In general, to judge from the extreme whiteness of his bare neck, his small, puffy hands, and his soft shoulders, one would conclude that he possessed an effeminate body. Even when excited, his actions were governed by an unvarying gentleness, added to a lassitude that was not devoid of a certain peculiar grace. On the other hand, should depression of spirits show itself in his face, his glance would grow dull, and his brow furrowed, as doubt, despondency, and apprehension fell to contending with one another. Yet this crisis of emotion seldom crystallized into the form of a definite idea--still less into that of a fixed resolve. Almost always such emotion evaporated in a sigh, and shaded off into a sort of apathetic lethargy.

    Oblomov’s indoor costume corresponded exactly with the quiet outlines of his face and the effeminacy of his form. The costume in question consisted of a dressing-gown of some Persian material--a real Eastern dressing-gown--a garment that was devoid both of tassels and velvet facings and a waist, yet so roomy that Oblomov might have wrapped himself in it once or twice over. Also, in accordance with the immutable custom of Asia, its sleeves widened steadily from knuckles to shoulder. True, it was a dressing-gown which had lost its pristine freshness, and had, in places, exchanged its natural, original sheen for one acquired by hard wear; yet still it retained both the clarity of its Oriental colouring and the soundness of its texture. In Oblomov’s eyes it was a garment possessed of a myriad invaluable qualities, for it was so soft and pliable that, when wearing it, the body was unaware of its presence, and, like an obedient slave, it answered even to the slightest movement. Neither waistcoat nor cravat did Oblomov wear when indoors, since he loved freedom and space. For the same reason his slippers were long, soft, and broad, to the end that, whenever he lowered his legs from the bed to the floor without looking at what he was doing, his feet might fit into the slippers at once.

    With Oblomov, lying in bed was neither a necessity (as in the case of an invalid or of a man who stands badly in need of sleep) nor an accident (as in the case of a man who is feeling worn out) nor a gratification (as in the case of a man who is purely lazy). Rather, it represented his normal condition. Whenever he was at home--and almost always he was at home--he would spend his time in lying on his back. Likewise he used but the one room--which was combined to serve both as bedroom, as study, and as reception-room--in which we have just discovered him. True, two other rooms lay at his disposal, but seldom did he look into them save on mornings (which did not comprise by any means every morning) when his old valet happened to be sweeping out the study. The furniture in them stood perennially covered over, and never were the blinds drawn up.

    At first sight the room in which Oblomov was lying was a well-fitted one. In it there stood a writing-table of redwood, a couple of sofas, upholstered in some silken material, and a handsome screen that was embroidered with birds and fruits unknown to Nature. Also the room contained silken curtains, a few mats, some pictures, bronzes, and pieces of china, and a multitude of other pretty trifles. Yet even the most cursory glance from the experienced eye of a man of taste would have detected no more than a tendency to observe les convenances while escaping their actual observance. Without doubt that was all that Oblomov had thought of when furnishing his study. Taste of a really refined nature would never have remained satisfied with such ponderous, ungainly redwood chairs, with such rickety whatnots. Moreover, the back of one of the sofas had sagged, and, here and there, the wood had come away from the glue. Much the same thing was to be seen in the case of the pictures, the vases, and certain other trifles of the apartment. Nevertheless, its master was accustomed to regard its appurtenances with the cold, detached eye of one who would ask, Who has dared to bring this stuff here? The same indifference on his part, added to, perhaps, an even greater indifference on the part of his servant, Zakhar, caused the study, when contemplated with attention, to strike the beholder with an impression of all-prevailing carelessness and neglect. On the walls and around the pictures there hung cobwebs coated with dust; the mirrors, instead of reflecting, would more usefully have served as tablets for recording memoranda; every mat was freely spotted with stains; on the sofa there lay a forgotten towel, and on the table (as on most mornings) a plate, a salt-cellar, a half-eaten crust of bread, and some scattered crumbs--all of which had failed to be cleared away after last night’s supper. Indeed, were it not for the plate, for a recently smoked pipe that was propped against the bed, and for the recumbent form of Oblomov himself, one might have imagined that the place contained not a single living soul, so dusty and discoloured did everything look, and so lacking were any active traces of the presence of a human being. True, on the whatnots there were two or three open books, while a newspaper was tossing about, and the bureau bore on its top an inkstand and a few pens; but the pages at which the books were lying open were covered with dust and beginning to turn yellow (thus proving that they had long been tossed aside), the date of the newspaper belonged to the previous year, and from the inkstand, whenever a pen happened to be dipped therein, there arose, with a frightened buzz, only a derelict fly.

    On this particular morning Oblomov had (contrary to his usual custom) awakened at the early hour of eight. Somehow he looked perturbed; anxiety, regret, and vexation kept chasing one another across his features. Evidently he had fallen a prey to some inward struggle, and had not yet been able to summon his wits to the rescue. The fact of the matter was that, overnight, he had received from the starosta of his country estate an exceedingly unpleasant letter. We all know what disagreeable things a starosta can say in his letters--how he can tell of bad harvests, of arrears of debt, of diminished incomes, and so forth; and though this particular official had been inditing precisely similar epistles during the past three years, his latest communication had affected its recipient as powerfully as though Oblomov had received an unlooked-for blow. Yet, to do Oblomov justice, he had always bestowed a certain care upon his affairs. Indeed, no sooner had he received the starosta’s first disturbing letter (he had done so three years ago) than he had set about devising a plan for changing and improving the administration of his property. Yet to this day the plan in question remained not fully thought out, although long ago he had recognized the necessity of doing something actually decisive.

    Consequently, on awakening, he resolved to rise, to perform his ablutions, and, his tea consumed, to consider matters, to jot down a few notes, and, in general, to tackle the affair properly. Yet for another half-hour he lay prone under the torture of this resolve; until eventually he decided that such tackling could best be done after tea, and that, as usual, he would drink that tea in bed--the more so since a recumbent position could not prove a hindrance to thought.

    Therefore he did as he had decided; and when the tea had been consumed he raised himself upon his elbow and arrived within an ace of getting out of bed. In fact, glancing at his slippers, he even began to extend a foot in their direction, but presently withdrew it.

    Half-past ten struck, and Oblomov gave himself a shake. What is the matter?, he said vexedly. In all conscience ‘tis time that I were doing something! Would I could make up my mind to--to-- He broke off with a shout of Zahkar! whereupon there entered an elderly man in a grey suit and brass buttons--a man who sported beneath a perfectly bald pate a pair of long, bushy, grizzled whiskers that would have sufficed to fit out three ordinary men with beards. His clothes, it is true, were cut according to a country pattern, but he cherished them as a faint reminder of his former livery, as the one surviving token of the dignity of the house of Oblomov. The house of Oblomov was one which had once been wealthy and distinguished, but which, of late years, had undergone impoverishment and diminution, until finally it had become lost among a crowd of noble houses of more recent creation.

    For a few moments Oblomov remained too plunged in thought to notice Zakhar’s presence; but at length the valet coughed.

    What do you want? Oblomov inquired.

    You called me just now, barin?

    I called you, you say? Well, I cannot remember why I did so. Return to your room until I have remembered.

    Zakhar retired, and Oblomov spent another quarter of an hour in thinking over the accursed letter.

    I have lain here long enough, at last he said to himself. Really, I must rise. . . . But suppose I were to read the letter through carefully and then to rise? Zakhar!

    Zakhar re-entered, and Oblomov straightway sank into a reverie. For a minute or two the valet stood eyeing his master with covert resentment. Then he moved towards the door.

    Why are you going away? Oblomov asked suddenly.

    Because, barin, you have nothing to say to me. Why should I stand here for nothing?

    What? Have your legs become so shrunken that you cannot stand for a moment or two? I am worried about something, so you must wait. You have just been lying down in your room haven’t you? Please search for the letter which arrived from the starosta last night. What have you done with it?

    What letter? I have seen no letter, asserted Zakhar.

    But you took it from the postman yourself?

    Maybe I did, but how am I to know where you have since placed it? The valet fussed about among the papers and other things on the table.

    You never know anything, remarked his master. Look in that basket there. Or possibly the letter has fallen behind the sofa? By the way, the back of that sofa has not yet been mended. Tell the joiner to come at once. It was you that broke the thing, yet you never give it a thought!

    I did not break it, retorted Zakhar. It broke of itself. It couldn’t have lasted for ever. It was bound to crack some day.

    This was a point which Oblomov did not care to contest. Have you found the letter yet? he asked.

    Yes--several letters. But they are not what I want."

    I can see no others, asserted Zakhar.

    Very well, was Oblomov’s impatient reply. I will get up and search for the letter myself.

    Zakhar retired to his room again, but had scarcely rested his hands against his pallet before stretching himself out, when once more there came a peremptory shout of Zahar! Zakhar!

    Good Lord! grumbled the valet as a third time he made for the study. Why should I be tormented in this fashion? I would rather be dead!

    My handkerchief! cried Oblomov. Yes, and very quickly, too! You might have guessed that that is what I am wanting.

    Zakhar displayed no particular surprise or offence at this reproachful command. Probably he thought both the command and the reproach natural.

    Who knows where the handkerchief is? he muttered as he made a tour of the room and felt each chair (although he could not but have perceived that on them there was nothing whatsoever lying). You lose everything, he added, opening the door into the parlour in order to see whether the handkerchief might not be lurking there.

    Where are you going? exclaimed Oblomov. ’Tis here you must search. I have not been into those other rooms since the year before last. Be quick, will you?

    I see no handkerchief, said Zakhar, spreading out his hands and peering into every corner. There it is! suddenly he croaked. ’Tis just underneath you. I can see its end sticking out. You have been lying on it all the time, yet you actually ask me to find it! He hobbled away without waiting for an answer. For a moment or two Oblomov was taken aback, but soon found another means of putting his valet in the wrong.

    A nice way to do your cleaning! he said. What a lot of dust and dirt, to be sure! Look at those corners! You never bestir yourself at all.

    If I never bestir myself, retorted Zakhar offendedly, at least I do my best, and don’t spare myself, for I dust and sweep almost every day. Everything looks clean and bright enough for a wedding.

    What a lie! cried Oblomov. Be off to your room again!

    That he had provoked Zakhar to engage in this conversation was a fact which gave him small pleasure. The truth was he had forgotten that, once a delicate subject is touched upon, one cannot well avoid a fuss. Though he wished his rooms to be kept clean, he wished this task to be carried out invisibly, and apart from himself; whereas, whenever Zakhar was called upon to do even the least sweeping or dusting, he made a grievance of it.

    After Zakhar had retired to his den Oblomov relapsed into thought, until, a few minutes later, the clock sounded a half-hour of some sort.

    What is that? cried Oblomov in horror. Soon the time will be eleven, yet I am not yet up and washed! Zakhar! Zakhar!

    Zakhar reappeared.

    Are my washing things ready? his master inquired.

    Yes, they have been ready a long time. Why do you not get up?

    And why didn’t you tell me that the things are ready? Had you done that, I should have risen long ago. Go along, and I will follow you; but at the moment I must sit down and write a letter.

    Zakhar left the room. Presently he reappeared with a much-bescribbled, greasy account-book and a bundle of papers.

    If you are going to write anything, he said, perhaps you would like to check these accounts at the same time? Some money is due to be paid out.

    What accounts? What money? inquired Oblomov petulantly.

    The accounts sent in by the butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker. All are wanting their money.

    Always money and worry! grumbled Oblomov. Why do you not give me the accounts at intervals instead of in a batch like this?

    "Because each time you have sent

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