Oblomov. Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov

is Dashenka?”

      “What! You do not know Dashenka? Why, the whole town is raving over her dancing. To-night I am going to the Opera with Mischa, and he is to throw her a bouquet. Well, I must be off to buy the necessary camelias for it.”

      “Come back, then, and take lunch with me. I should like to have a talk with you, for I have just experienced two misfortunes.”

      “Impossible, I fear, for I am lunching with Prince Tiumenev. All the Gorunova—yes, and Lydia, too—are to be there. What a cheerful house it is! And so is Tiumenev’s country place. I have heard that it is to be the scene of numberless dances and tableaux this summer. Are you likely to be one of the guests?”

      “No—I think not.”

      “What hospitality the Prince dispenses! This winter his guests averaged fifty, and sometimes a hundred.”

      “How wearisome the whole thing must have been!”

      “What! Wearisome? Why, the more the merrier. Lydia, too, used to be there—though in those days I never so much as noticed her. In fact, never once did I do so until one day I found myself ‘vainly trying to forget her, vainly pitting reason in the lists with love.’ ” Volkov hummed the concluding words, and seated himself carelessly upon a chair. Almost instantly he leaped to his feet again, and blushed the dust from his trousers.

      “What quantities of dirt you keep everywhere!” he remarked.“ ’tis Zakhar’s fault, not mine,” replied Oblomov.

      “Well, now I must be off, as it is absolutely necessary that I should buy those camelias for Mischa’s bouquet. Au revoir!”

      “Come and have tea after the opera, and tell me all about it.”

      “No, that is impossible, for I am promised to supper at the Musinskis’. It is their reception day, you know. However, meet me there, and I’ll present you.”

      “What is toward at the Musinskis’?”

      “What, indeed? Why, entertainment in a house where you hear all the news.”

      “Like everything else, it would bore me.”

      “Then go and call upon the Mezdrovs, where the talk centres upon one topic, and one topic alone—the arts. Of nothing else will you hear but the Venetian School. Beethoven, Bach, Leonardo da Vinci, and so forth.”

      “All of them boring subjects!” said Oblomov with a yawn. “What a lot of pedants the Mezdrovs must be! Do you never get tired of running about from house to house?”

      “Tired? Why should I? Every morning like to go out and learn the news, thank God, my official duties never require my actual presence, save twice a week, when they consist of lunching with and doing the civil to the General. * After that I proceed to call upon any people upon whom I have not called for a long while. Next there will be some new actress—whether at the Russian theatre or at the French. Besides, always there is the Opera, to which I am a subscriber. Furthermore, I am in love, and Mischa is about to enjoy a month’s leave from his regiment, and the summer is on the point of beginning, and Mischa and I intend to retire to his country house for a change of air. We shall have plenty of sport there, since he possesses excellent neighbours and they give bals champêtres. Also I shall be able to escort Lydia for walks through the woods, and to row her about in a boat, and to pluck flowers for her benefit. At the present moment I must leave you. Good-bye!”

      * In this case the term “General” denotes a civil grade

       corresponding to the military rank of the same title.

      Rising, he endeavoured to look at himself in a dust-coated mirror; after which he departed—though returning once more to show his friend the newest thing in Parisian gloves and an Easter card which Prince Tiumenev had recently sent him.

      “What a life!” thought Oblomov, with a shrug of his shoulders. “What good can a man get out of it? It is merely a squandering and a wasting of his all. Of course, an occasional look into a theatre is not a bad thing, nor is being in love—for Lydia is a delightful girl, and pursuits like plucking flowers with her and rowing her about in a boat even I should enjoy; but to have to be in ten different places every day, as Volkov has——!”

      He turned over on his back and congratulated himself that he at least cherished no vain social aspirations. ’Twas better to lie where he was and to preserve both his nerves and his human dignity. …

      Another ring at the doorbell interrupted his reflections. This time the visitor turned out to be a gentleman in a dark frock-coat with crested buttons whose most prominent features were a clean-shaven chin, a pair of black whiskers around a haggard (but quiet and sensible) face, and a thoughtful smile.

      “Good day, Sudbinski!” cried Oblomov cheerfully.

      “Good day to you,” replied the gentleman. “ ’Tis a long time since I last saw you, but you know what this devilish Civil Service means. Look at that bagful of reports which I have brought with me! And not only that, but I have had to leave word at the office that a messenger will find me here should I be wanted. Never do I get a single moment to myself.”

      “So you were on the way to your office? How come you to be going so late? Your usual hour used to be nine.”

      “Yes, it used to be nine, but now I go at twelve.”

      “Ah, I see: you have recently been made the head of a department. Since when?”

      “Since Easter,” replied Sudbinski, with a meaning nod. “But what a lot of work! It is terrible! From eight to twelve in the morning I am slaving at home; from twelve to five at the Chancellory; and all the evening at home again. I have quite lost touch with my acquaintances.”

      “Come and lunch with me to-day, and we will drink to your promotion,” said Oblomov.

      “No, to-day I am lunching with the Vice-Director, as well as have a report to prepare by Thursday. You see, one cannot rely upon provincial advices, but must verify every return personally. Are you going to the Ekaterinhov to-day?”

      “No, for I am not very well,” replied Oblomov, knitting his brows. “Moreover, like yourself, I have some work to do.”

      “I am very sorry,” said Sudbinski; “for it is a fine day, and the only day on which I myself can hope for a little rest.”

      “And what news have you?” asked Oblomov.

      “Oh, a good deal-of a sort. We are required no longer to write at the end of our official letters ‘Your humble servant,’ but merely ‘Accept the assurance of my profound respect.’ Also we have been told that we are to cease to make out formal documents in duplicate. Likewise, our office has just been allotted three new tables and a couple of confidential clerks. Lastly, the Commission has now concluded its sittings. There’s a budget of news for you!”

      “And what of our old comrades?”

      “Nothing at present, except that Svinkin has lost his case.”

      “And to think that you work from eight to twelve, and from twelve to five, and again in the evening! Dear, dear!”

      “Well, what should I do if I were not in the Service?” asked Sudbinski.

      “You would just read and write on your own account.”

      “But it is not given to every one to be a littérateur. For example, you yourself write nothing.”

      “No, for I have some property on my hands,” said Oblomov with a sigh. “But I am working out a new system for it; I am going to introduce reforms of various kinds. The affair worries me terribly.”

      “Well, for my part, I must work, in order to make a little money. Besides, I am to be married this coming autumn.”

      “Indeed! And to whom?”