"It tells how, in a certain town, the governor used to beat the citizens with his own hand."
"The realistic tendency, right enough!" commented Oblomov.
"Quite so," said the delighted litteérateur. "In my tale (which is novel and daring in its idea) a traveller witnesses a beating of this kind, seeks an interview with the governor of the province, and lays before him a complaint. At once the said governor of the province orders an official who happens to be proceeding to that town for the purpose of conducting another investigation to inquire also into the truth of the complaint just laid, and likewise to collect evidence as to the character and behaviour of the local administrator. The official in question calls together the local citizens, on the pretext of a trade conference, and incidentally sounds them concerning the other matter. And what do you suppose they do? They merely smile, present their compliments, and load the governor of the town with praises! Thereafter the official makes extraneous inquiries, and is informed that the said citizens are rogues who trade in rotten merchandise, give underweight, cheat the Treasury, and indulge in wholesale immorality; wherefore the beatings have been a just retribution."
"Then you intend the assaults committed by the governor to figure in the story as the fatum of the old tragedians?"
"Quite so," said Penkin. "You have great quickness of apprehension, and ought yourself to tackle the writing of stories. Yes, it has always been my idea to expose the arbitrariness of our local governors, the decline of morality among the masses, the faulty organization existing among our subordinate officials, and the necessity of drastic, but legal, measures to counterbalance these evils. 'Tis a novel idea for a story, is it not?"
"Certainly; and to me who read so little a peculiarly novel one."
"True, I have never once seen you with a book in your hand. Nevertheless, I beseech you to read a poem which, I may say, is shortly to appear. It is called 'The Love of a Blackmailer for a Fallen Woman.' The identity of the author I am not at liberty to disclose--at all events yet."
"Pray give me an idea of this poem."
"It exposes, as you will see, the whole mechanism of the social movement--but a mechanism that is painted only in poetic colours. Each spring of that engine is touched upon, and each degree of the social scale held up to the light. We see summoned to the bar, as it were, a weak, but vicious, lord, with a swarm of blackmailers who are engaged in cheating him. Also various categories of fallen women are dissected--French women, German women, and others; the whole being done with vivid and striking verisimilitude. Certain extracts from the poem have come to my ears, and I may say that the author is a great man--one hears in him the notes both of Dante and of Shakespeare."
"And whence has he originated?" asked Oblomov, leaning forward in astonishment; but Penkin, perceiving that he had now said too much, merely repeated that Oblomov must read the poem, and judge for himself. This Oblomov declined to do.
"Why?" asked Penkin. "The thing will make a great stir and be much talked about."
"Very welclass="underline" let people talk. 'Tis all some folks have to do. 'Tis their métier."
"Nevertheless, read it yourself, for curiosity's sake."
"What have I not seen in books!" commented the other. "Surely folk must write such things merely to amuse themselves?"
"Yes; even as I do. At the same time, what truth, what verisimilitude, do you not find in books! How powerfully some of them move one through the vivid portraiture which they contain! Whomsoever these authors take--a tchinovnik, an officer, or a blackmailer--they paint them as living creatures."
"But what have those authors to worry about, seeing that if, as you say, one chooses to take a given model for amusement's sake, the picture is sure to succeed? Yet no: real life is not to be described like that. In a system of that kind there is no understanding or sympathy, nor a particle of what we call humanity. 'Tis all self-conceit--no more. Folk describe thieves and fallen women as though they were apprehending them in the streets and taking them to prison. Never in the tales of such writers is the note of 'hidden tears' to be detected--only that of gross, manifest malice and love of ridicule."
"And what more would you have? You yourself have said (and very aptly so) that seething venom, a taste for bilious incitement to vice, and a sneering contempt for the fallen are the only ingredients needed."
"No, not the only ones," said Oblomov, firing up. "Picture a thief or a fallen woman or a cheated fool, if you like, but do not forget the rest of mankind. What about humanity, pray? Writers like yourself try to write only with the head. What? Do you suppose the intellect can work separately from the heart? Why, the intellect needs love to fertilize it. Rather, stretch out your hand to the fallen and raise him, weep over him if he is lost beyond recall, but in no case make sport of him, for he is one to whom there should be extended only compassion. See in him yourself, and act accordingly. That done, I will read you, and bow my head before you. But in the writings of the school of which I have spoken, what art, what poetical colouring, are you able to discover? Should you elect to paint debauchery and the mire, at least do so without making any claim to poetry."
"What? You bid me depict nature--roses, nightingales, a winter's morning, and all that sort of thing--when things like these are seething and whirling around us? Nay, we need, rather, the bare physiology of society. No longer are love songs required."
"Give me man, and man alone," said Oblomov. "And, having given me him, do you try to love him."
"What? To love the usurer, the hypocrite, the peculating and stupid official? Why should I do that? 'Tis evident you have had little experience of literature! Such fellows want punishing--want turning out of the civic circle and the community."
"Out of 'the civic circle and the community,' you say?" ejaculated Oblomov with a gasp as he rose and stood before Penkin. "That is tantamount to saying that once in that faulty vessel there dwelt the supreme element--that, ruined though the man may be, he is still a human being, as even are you and I. Turn him out, indeed! How are you going to turn him out of the circle of humanity, out of the bosom of Nature, out of the mercy of God?" Oblomov came near to shouting as he said this, and his eyes were blazing.
"How excited you have grown!" said Penkin in astonishment; whereupon even Oblomov realized that he had gone too far. He pulled himself up, yawned slightly, and stretched himself out sluggishly upon the sofa. For a while silence reigned.
"What kind of books do you mostly read?" inquired Penkin.
"Books of travel," replied Oblomov.
Again there was a silence.
"And will you read the poem when it has come out?" continued Penkin. "If so, I will bring you a copy of it."
Oblomov shook his head.
"Nor my story?"
Oblomov signified assent.
"Very well, then. Now I must be off to press," continued Penkin. "Do you know why I came to see you to-day? I came because I wanted to propose to you a visit to the Ekaterinhov. I have a conveyance of my own, and, inasmuch as, to-morrow, I must write an article on current events, I thought we might jointly look over my notes on the subject, and you might advise me as to any point omitted. We should enjoy the expedition, I think. Let us go."
"No, I am not well," said Oblomov with a frown, covering himself with the bed-clothes. "But you might come and lunch with me to-day, and then talk. I have just experienced a couple of misfortunes."
"Ah! The whole of our staff is to lunch at St. George's, I fear, and then to go on to the festival. Also, at night I have my article to write, and the printer must receive the manuscript by daylight at the latest. Good-bye!"