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?"
"To Mademoiselle Murashina. Do you remember their country villa, next to mine? I think you came to tea with me and met her there?"
"No, I have no recollection of it. Is she pretty?
"Yes, charming. Suppose, one day, we go to lunch with her?"
Oblomov hesitated. "Very well," he said after a pause; "only--"
"What about next week?"
"Certainly. Next week let it be. But at the moment I have no suitable clothes. . . . Is your fiancée a financial catch?"
"Yes, for her father is a State councillor, and intends to give her ten thousand roubles, as well as to let us have half his official house (a house of twelve rooms--the whole being furnished, heated, and lighted at the public expense); so we ought to do very well. Herewith I invite you to be my best man at the wedding."
Once more the doorbell rang.
"Good-bye," said Sudbinski. "I am annoyed that, as I surmise, I should be wanted at the office."
"Then stay where you are," urged Oblomov. "I desire your advice, for two misfortunes have just befallen me."
"No, no; I had better come and see you another day." And Sudbinski took his leave.
"Plunged up to the ears in work, good friend!" thought Oblomov as he watched him depart. "Yes, and blind and deaf and dumb to everything else in the world! Yet by going into society and, at the same time, busying yourself about your affairs you will yet win distinction and promotion. Such is what they call 'a career'! Yet of how little use is a man like that! His intellect, his will, his feelings--what do they avail him? So many luxuries is what they are--nothing more. Such an individual lives out his little span without achieving a single thing worth mentioning; and meanwhile he works in an office from morning till night--yes, from morning till night, poor wretch!"
Certainly a modicum of quiet satisfaction was to be derived from the thought that from nine o'clock until three, and from eight o'clock until nine on the following day, he, Oblomov, could remain lying prone on a sofa instead of having to trot about with reports and to inscribe multitudes of documents. Yes, he preferred, rather, leisure for the indulgence of his feelings and imagination. Plunged in a philosophical reverie, he overlooked the fact that by his bedside there was standing a man whose lean, dark face was almost covered with a pair of whiskers, a moustache, and an imperial. Also the new-comer's dress was studied in its negligence.
"Good morning, Oblomov," he said.
"Good morning, Penkin," was the response. "I should like to show you a letter which I have just received from my starosta. Whence have you sprung?"
"From the newsagent's, near by. I went to see if the papers are yet out. Have you read my latest article?"
"No."
"Then you ought to do so."
"What is it about?" Oblomov asked with a faint yawn.
"About trade, about the emancipation of women, about the beautiful April days with which we have been favoured, and about the newly formed fire-brigade. How come you not to have read that article? In it you will see portrayed the whole of our daily life. Over and above anything else, you will read therein an argument in favour of the present realistic tendency in literature."
"And have you no other work on hand?" inquired Oblomov.
"Yes, a good deal. I write two newspaper articles a week, besides reviewing a number of books. In addition, I have just finished a tale of my own."
"What is it about?"