Ivan Goncharov - Oblomov / Обломов. Книга для чтения на английском языке

«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 tomorrow, 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 Kolymyagin 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?»