Chapter VIII: Part IV: I (2)

But suddenly a change occurred. One day, after his usual quota of slumber and day dreams, he tried to rise from the sofa, but failed, and his tongue refused to obey him. Terrified, he could compass only a gesture when he tried to call for help. Had he been living with Zakhar alone, he might have continued to signal for assistance until next morning, or have died, and not been found there till the following day; but, as it was, the eyes of his landlady had been watching over him like the eyes of Providence itself, and it cost her no skill of wit, but only an instinct of the heart, to divine that all was not well with Oblomov. No sooner had the instinct dawned upon her than Anisia was dispatched in a cab for a doctor, while Agafia Matvievna herself applied ice to the patient’s head, and extracted from her medicine chest the whole armoury of smelling-bottles and fomentations which custom and report had designated for use at such a juncture. Even Zakhar managed to get one of his boots on, and, thus shod, to fuss around his master in company with the doctor, the mistress of the house, and Anisia.

At length, blood having been let, Oblomov returned to consciousness, and was informed that he had just sustained an apoplectic stroke, and that he must adopt a different course of life. Henceforth, _vodka_, beer, wine, coffee, and rich food were, with certain exceptions, to be prohibited, while in their place there were prescribed for him daily exercise and a regular amount of sleep of an exclusively nocturnal nature. Even then these remedies would have come to nothing but for Agafia Matvievna’s watchfulness; but she had the wit so to introduce the system that the entire household involuntarily assisted in its working. Thus, partly by, cunning and partly by kindness, she contrived to wean Oblomov from his attractive indulgences in wind, postprandial slumber, and fish pasties. For instance, as soon as ever he began to doze, either a chair would be unset in an adjoining room, or, of its own volition, some old and worthless crockery would begin flying into splinters, or the children would start making a noise, and be told, _fortissimo_, to be gone. Lastly, should even this not prove effective, her own kindly voice would be heard calling to him, in order to ask him some question or another.

Also, the garden path was lengthened, and on it Oblomov accomplished, morning and evening, a constitutional of some two hours’ duration. With him there would walk the landlady--or, if she could not attend, one of the children, or his old friend, the irresponsible and to every man both humble and agreeable Alexiev. One morning Oblomov, leaning on the boy Vania’s arm, slowly paced the path. By this time Vania had grown into almost a youth, and found it hard to restrict his brisk, rapid step to Oblomov’s more tardy gait. As the elder man walked he made little use of one of his legs, which was a trace of the stroke which he had recently sustained.

“Let us go indoors now, Vaniushka,” he said; wherefore they directed their steps towards the door. But to meet them! there issued Agafia Matvievna.

“Why are you coming in so early?” she inquired.

“Early, indeed? Why, we have paced the path twenty times each way, and from here to the fence is a distance of fifty _sazhens_; wherefore we have covered two versts in all.”

“And how many times do _you_ say you have paced it?” she inquired of Vania.

He hesitated.

“Do not lie, but look me straight in the face,” she continued, fixing him with her gaze. “I have been watching you the whole time. Remember next Sunday. Possibly I might not let you go to the party that night.”

“Well, mother,” the boy said at length, “we have paced the path only _twelve_ times.”

“Ah, you rogue!” exclaimed Oblomov. “You were nipping off acacia-leaves all the time, whereas _I_ was keeping the most careful account.”

“Then you must go and do some more walking,” decided the landlady. “Besides, the fish soup is not yet ready.” And she closed the door upon the pair.

Oblomov, much against his will, completed another eight pacings of the path, and then entered the dining-room. On the large round table the fish soup was now steaming, and all hastened to take their usual seats--Oblomov in solitary state on the sofa, the landlady on his right, and the rest in due sequence.

“I will help you to _this_ herring, as it is the fattest,” said Agafia Matvievna.

“Very well,” he remarked. “Only, I think that a pie would go well with it.”

“Oh dear! I have forgotten the pies! I meant to make some last night, but my memory is all gone to pieces!” The artful Agafia Matvievna! “Besides, I am afraid that I have forgotten the cutlets and the cabbage. In fact, you must not expect very much of a dinner to-day.” This was addressed ostensibly to Alexiev.

“Never mind,” he replied. “I can eat anything.”

“But why not cook him some pork and peas, or a beef-steak?” asked Oblomov.

“I _did_ go to the butcher’s for a beefsteak, but there was not a single morsel of good beef left. However, I have made Monsieur Alexiev a cherry _compote_ instead. I know he likes that.” The truth was that cherry _compote was not_ bad for Oblomov; wherefore the complacent Alexiev had no choice but both to eat it and to like it.

After dinner no power on earth could prevent Oblomov from assuming a recumbent position; so, to obviate his going to sleep, the landlady was accustomed to place beside him his coffee, and then to inspire, her children to play games on the floor, so that, willy-nilly, Oblomov should be forced to join in their sport. Presently she withdrew to the kitchen to see if the coffee was yet ready, and, meanwhile, the children’s clatter died away. Almost at once a gentle snore arose in the room--then a louder one--then one louder still; and when Agafia Matvievna returned with the steaming coffee-pot she encountered such a volume of snoring as would have done credit to a post-house.

Angrily she shook her head at Alexiev.

“It is not my fault,” he said deprecatingly. “I tried to stir up the children, but they would not listen to me.”

Swiftly depositing the coffee-pot upon the table, she caught up little Andriusha from the floor, and gently seated him upon the sofa by Oblomov’s side; whereupon the child wriggled towards him, climbed his form until he had reached his face, and grasped him firmly by the nose.

“Hi! Hullo! Who is that?” cried Oblomov uneasily as he opened his eyes.

“You had gone to sleep, so Andriusha climbed on to the sofa and awoke you,” replied the landlady kindly.

“I had gone to sleep, indeed?” retorted Oblomov, laying his arm around the little one. “Do you think I did not hear him creeping along on all fours? Why, I hear _everything_. To think of the little rascal catching me by the nose! I’ll give it him! But there, there.” Tenderly embracing the child, he deposited him on the floor again, and heaved a profound sigh. “Tell us the news, Ivan Alexiev,” he said.

“You have heard it all. I have nothing more to tell.”

“How so? You go into society, and I do not. Is there nothing new in the political world?”

“It is being said that the earth is growing colder every day, and that one day it will become frozen altogether.”

“Away with you! Is _that_ politics?”

A silence ensued. Oblomov quietly relapsed into a state of coma that was neither sleeping nor waking. He merely let his thoughts wander at will, without concentrating them upon anything in particular as calmly he listened to the beating of his heart and occasionally blinked his eyes. Thus he sank into a vague, enigmatical condition which partook largely of the nature of hallucination. In rare instances there come to a man fleeting moments of abstraction when he seems to be reliving past stages of his life. Whether he has previously beheld in sleep the phenomena which are passing before his vision, or whether he has gone through a previous existence and has since forgotten it, we cannot say; but at all events he can see the same persons around him as were present in the first instance, and hear the same words as were uttered then.

So was it with Oblomov now. Gradually there spread itself about him the hush which he had known long ago. He could hear the beating of the well-known pendulum, the snapping of the thread as it was bitten off, and the repetition of familiar whispered sentences like “I cannot make the thread go through the eye of the needle. Pray do it for me, Masha--your eyesight is keener than mine.”

Lazily, mechanically he looked into his landlady’s face; and straightway from the recesses of his memory there arose a picture which, somewhere, had been well known to him.

To his vision there dawned the great, dark drawing-room in the house of his youth, lit by a single candle. At the table his mother and her guests were sitting over their needlework, while his father was silently pacing up and down. Somehow the present and the past had become fused and interchanged, so that, as the little Oblomov, he was dreaming that at length he had reached the enchanted country where the rivers run milk and honey, and bread can be obtained without toil, and every one walks clad in gold and silver.

Once again he could hear the old legends and the old folk-tales, mingled with the clatter of knives and crockery in the kitchen. Once again he was pressing close to his nurse to listen to her tremulous, old woman’s voice. “That is Militrissa Kirbitievna,” she was saying as she pointed to the figure of his landlady. Also, the same clouds seemed to be floating in the blue zenith that used to float there of yore, and the same wind to be blowing in at the window, and ruffling his hair, and the same cock of the Oblomovkan poultry-yard to be strutting and crowing below. Suddenly a dog barked. Some other guest must be arriving! Would it be old Schtoltz and his little boy from Verklevo? Yes, probably, for to-day is a holiday. And in very truth it _is_ they--he can hear their footsteps approaching nearer and nearer! The door opens, and “Andrei!” he exclaims excitedly, for there, sure enough, stands his friend--but now grown to manhood, and no longer a little boy!...

IV

Oblomov recovered consciousness. Before him Schtoltz _was_ standing--but the Schtoltz of the present, not the Schtoltz of a daydream.

Swiftly the landlady caught up the baby Andriusha, swept the table clear of her work, and carried off the children. Alexiev also disappeared, and Schtoltz and Oblomov found themselves alone. For a moment or two they gazed at one another amid a tense silence.

“Is that really you. Schtoltz?” asked Oblomov in tones scarcely audible for emotion--such tones as a man employs only towards his dearest friend and after a long separation.

“Yes, it is I,” replied Schtoltz quietly. “And you--are you quite well?”

Oblomov embraced him heartily. In that embrace were expressed all the long-concealed grief and joy which, fermenting ever in his soul, had never, since Schtoltz’s last departure, been expressed to any human being. Then they seated themselves, and once more gazed at one another.

“Are you _really_ well?” Schtoltz asked again.

“Yes, thank God!” replied Oblomov. “But you have been ill?”

“Yes--I was seized with a stroke.”

“Ah, Ilya, Ilya! Evidently you have let yourself go again. What have you been doing? Actually, it is five years since last we saw one another!”

Oblomov sighed, but said nothing.

“And why did you not come to Oblomovka?” pursued Schtoltz. “And why have you never written to me?”

“What was there to say?” was Oblomov’s sad reply. “You know me. Consequently you need ask no more.”

“So you are still living in these rooms?” And Schtoltz surveyed the room as he spoke. “Why have you not moved?”

“Because I am still here. I do not think the move will ever take place.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because I _am_ sure.”

Again Schtoltz eyed him closely, then became thoughtful, and started to pace the room.

“And what of Olga Sergievna?” was Oblomov’s next question. “Where is she now, and does she still remember me?” At this point he broke off abruptly.

“Yes, she is well, and has of you a remembrance as clear as though she had parted from you yesterday. Presently I will tell you where she is.”

“And your children?”

“The children too are well. But are you jesting when you say that you are going to remain where you are? My express purpose in coming here is to carry you off to our place in the country.”

“No, no!” cried Oblomov, though lowering his voice as he glanced at the door. Evidently the proposal had disturbed him greatly. “Do not say a word about it,” he pleaded. “Do not begin your arguments again.”

“But why will you not come? What is the matter with you? You know me well, and know that long ago I undertook this task, and shall never relinquish it. Hitherto business affairs have occupied my time, but now I am free once more. Come and live with us, or, at all events, near us. Olga and I have decided that you _must_ do so. Thank God that I have found you the same as before, and not worse! My hopes of doing that had been small. Let us be off at once. I am prepared even to abduct you by force. You _must_ change your mode of life, as you well know.”

To this speech Oblomov listened with impatience.

“Do not speak so loudly,” he urged. “In there----”

“Well--in there?”

“Is the landlady, and, should she hear us, she will think that I am going to leave her.”

“And why should you not leave her? Let her think what she likes!”

“Listen, Andrei.” Oblomov’s tone was one of unwonted firmness. “Do not continue your useless attempts to persuade me. Come what may, I must remain where I am.”

Schtoltz gazed at his friend in astonishment, but Oblomov returned the gaze with quiet resolution on his features.

“Remain here, and you are lost,” said Schtoltz. “This house, that woman, this way of living?--I tell you the thing cannot be. Let us go.”

He caught Oblomov by the sleeve, and started to drag him towards the door.

“Why do you want to take me away?” asked Oblomov, hanging back.

“Because I want you to leave this den, this swamp, for the world of light and air and health and normal existence.” Schtoltz was speaking sternly, and almost in a tone of command. “To what point have you sunk?” he went on. “What is going to become of you? Think for a moment. Are you so attached to this mode of life that you wish to go to sleep like a mole in its burrow? Remember that-----”

“I desire to remember nothing. Do not disturb the past. It can never be brought back again.” Into Oblomov’s face there had come a full consciousness of his power to think, to reason, and to will. “What is it you wish me to do? From the world to which you would abduct me I have parted for ever; and to solder together two pieces which have started asunder is impossible. I have grown to look upon this nook as my world. Should you uproot me from it, I shall die.”

“But look at the place, at the people with whom you are living!”

“I know what you mean--I am perfectly conscious of the facts. Ah, Andrei, believe me when I say that so well do I feel and understand things that for many a day past I have been ashamed to show myself abroad. Yet I cannot accompany you on your road. Even did I wish it, such a course is out of my power. Possibly, when you were last here, I _might_ have made the attempt; but now”--here he dropped his eyes for a moment and paused--“now it is too late. Go, and waste no further time upon me. Your friendship, as God in heaven knows, I value; but your disturbance of my peace I do _not_ value.”

“Nothing that you can say will turn me from my purpose. I intend to carry you off, ard the more so because I suspect certain things. Look here. Put on a garment of some sort, and come and spend the evening at my rooms. I have much to tell you, for I suppose you know what is afoot at our place?”

Oblomov looked at him inquiringly.

“Ah, I had forgotten,” Schtoltz went on. “You no longer go into society. Well, come with me, and I will tell you the whole story. Also, do you know who is waiting for me in a carriage at the gates? I will go and call her in.”

“What? Olga?” As the words burst tremulously from Oblomov’s lips his face underwent a sudden change. “For God’s sake do not bring her here! Go, go for God’s sake!”

But the elder man refused to move, although his friend half started to push him towards the door.

“I cannot return to her without you,” he said. “I have pledged my word on that. If you will not come with me to-day, then you must come to-morrow. You are merely putting me off for a time: you will never put me off for ever. Even should it be the day after to-morrow, we still shall meet again.”

Oblomov said nothing, but hung his head as though afraid to meet Schtoltz’s eye.

“When are you coming, therefore?” went on Schtoltz. “Olga will be sure to ask me when.”

“Ah, Andrei,” cried the other in a tone of affectionate appeal as he embraced his friend and laid his head upon his shoulder, “Pray leave me and--_forget_ me.”

“What? For ever?” cried Schtoltz in astonishment as he withdrew a little from Oblomov’s embrace in order the better to look him in the face.

“Yes,” whispered Oblomov.

Schtoltz stepped back a pace or two.

“Can this really be you, Ilya?” he exclaimed reproachfully. “Do you really reject me in favour of that woman, of that landlady of yours?” He started with a sudden pang. “So that child which I saw just new is _your_ child? Ah, Ilya, Ilya! Come hence at once. How you have fallen! What is that woman to you?”

“She is my wife,” said Oblomov simply.

Schtoltz stood petrified.

“Yes, and the child is my son,” Oblomov continued. “He has been called Andrei after yourself.” Somehow he seemed to breathe more freely now that he had got rid of the burden of these disclosures. As for Schtoltz, his face fell, and he gazed around the room with vacant eyes. A gulf had opened before him, a high wall had suddenly shot up, and Oblomov seemed to have ceased to exist--he seemed to have vanished from his friend’s sight, and to have fallen headlong. The only feeling in Schtoltz’s mind was an aching sorrow of the kind which a man experiences when, hastening to visit a friend after a long parting, he finds that for many a day past that friend has been dead.

“You are lost!” he kept whispering mechanically. “What am I to say to Olga?”

At length Oblomov caught the last words, and tried to say something, but failed. All he could do was to extend his hands in Schtoltz’s direction. Silently, convulsively the pair embraced, even as before death or a battle. In that embrace was left no room for words or tears or expressions of feeling.

“Never forget my little Andrei,” was Oblomov’s last choking utterance. Slowly and silently Schtoltz left the house. Slowly and silently he crossed the courtyard and entered the carriage. When he had gone Oblomov reseated himself upon the sofa in his room, rested his elbows upon the table, and buried his face in his hands....

“No, never will I forget your little Andrei,” thought Schtoltz sadly as he drove homewards. “Ah, Ilya, you are lost beyond recall! It would be useless now to tell you that your Oblomovka is no longer in ruins, that its turn is come again, and that it is basking in the rays of the sun. It would be useless now to tell you that, some four years hence, it will have a railway-station, and that your peasantry are clearing away the rubbish there, and that before long an iron road will be carrying your grain to the wharves, and that already local schools have been built. Such a dawn of good fortune would merely affright you; it would merely cause your unaccustomed eyes to smart. Yet along the road which you could not tread I will lead your little Andrei; and with him I will put into practice those theories whereof you and I used to dream in the days of our youth. Farewell, Oblomovka of the past! You have outlived your day!” For the last time Schtoltz looked back at Oblomov’s diminutive establishment.

“What do you say?” asked Olga with a beating heart.

“Nothing,” Schtoltz answered dryly and abruptly.

“Is he alive and well?”

“Yes,” came the reluctant reply.

“Then why have you returned so soon? Why did you not call me to the house, or else bring him out to see me? Let me go back, please.”

“No, you cannot.”

“Why so? What has happened there? Will you not tell me?”

Schtoltz continued to say nothing.

“Again I ask you: what is the matter with him?”

“The disease of Oblomovka,” was the grim response. And throughout the rest of the journey homeward Schtoltz refused to answer a single one of Olga’s questions.

V

Five years have passed, and more than one change has taken place in the Veaborg Quarter. The street which used to lead, unenclosed, to Oblomov’s humble abode is now lined with villas. In the midst of them a tall stone Government office rears its head between the sunlight and the windows of that quiet, peaceful little house which the sun’s rays once warmed so cheerfully.

The house itself has grown old and crazy: it wears a dull, neglected look like that of a man who is unshaven and unwashed. In places the paint has peeled away, and in others the gutters are broken. To the latter is due the fact that pools of dirty water stand in the courtyard, and that thrown across them is a piece of old planking. Should a visitor approach the wicket, the old watchdog no longer leaps nimbly to the extent of his chain, but gives tongue hoarsely and lazily from the interior of his kennel.

And, within the house, what changes have taken place! Over it there reigns a different housewife to the former one, and different children sport in play. Again is seen about the premises the lean countenance of Tarantiev, rather than the kindly, careless features of Alexiev; while of Zakhar and Anisia also there is not a sign discernible. A new cook performs, rudely and unwillingly, the quiet behests of Agafia Matvievna, and our old friend Akulina--her apron girded around her middle--washes up, as formerly, the domestic crockery and the pots and pans. Lastly, the same old sleepy _dvornik_ whiles away the same old idle life in the same old den by the gates, and at a given hour each morning, as well as always at the hour of the evening meal, there flashes past the railings of the fence the figure of Agafia’s brother, clad, summer and winter alike, in galoshes, and always carrying under his arm a large bundle of documents.

But what of Oblomov? Where is he--where? Under a modest urn in the adjoining cemetery his body rests among the shrubs. All is quiet where he is lying; only a lilac-tree, planted there by a loving hand, waves its boughs to and fro over the grave as it mingles its scent with the sweet, calm odour of wormwood. One would think that the _Angel of Peace_ himself were watching over the dead man’s slumbers....

Despite his wife’s ceaseless and devoted care for every moment of his existence, the prolonged inertia, the unbroken stillness, the sluggish gliding from day to day had ended by quietly arresting the machine of life. Thus Oblomov met his end, to all appearances without pain, without distress, even as stops a watch which its owner has--forgotten to wind up. No one witnessed his last moments or heard his expiring gasp. A second stroke of apoplexy occurred within a year of the first, and, like its precursor, passed away favourably. Later, however, Oblomov became pale and weak, took to eating little and seldom walking in the garden, and increased in moodiness and taciturnity as the days went on. At times he would even burst into tears, for he felt death drawing nearer, and was afraid of it. One or two relapses occurred, from which he rallied, and then Agafia Matvievna entered his room, one morning, to find him resting on his deathbed as quietly as he had done in sleep--the only difference being that his head had slipped a little from the pillow, and that one of his hands was convulsively clutching the region of the heart in a manner which suggested that the pain had there centred itself until the circulation of the blood had stopped for ever.

After his death Agafia Matvievna’s sister-in-law, Irina Paptelievna, assumed control of the establishment. That is to say, she arrogated to herself the right to rise late in the morning, to drink three cups of coffee for breakfast, to change her dress three times a day, and to confine her housewifely energies to seeing that her gowns were starched to the utmost degree of stiffness. More she would not trouble to undertake, and, as before, Agafia Matvievna remained the active pendulum of the domestic clock. Not only did she superintend the kitchen and the dining-room, and prepare tea and coffee for the entire household, but also she did the general mending and supervised the linen, the children, Akulina, and the _dvornik_.

Why was this? Was she not Madame Oblomov and the proprietress of a landed estate? Might she not have maintained a separate, an independent establishment, and have wanted for nothing, and have been at no one’s beck and call? What had led her to take upon her shoulders the burden of another’s housekeeping, the care of another’s children, and all those petty details which women usually assume only at the call of love, or in obedience to sacred family ties, or for the purpose of earning a morsel of daily bread? Where, too, were Zakhar and Anisia--now become, by every right of law, her servants? Where, too, was the little treasure, Andrei, which Oblomov had bequeathed her? Where, finally, were her children by her first husband?

Those children were now all provided for. That is to say, Vania had finished his schooling and entered Government service, his sister had married the manager of a Government office, and little Andrei had been committed to the care of Schtoltz and his wife, who looked upon him as a member of their own family. Never for a moment did Agafia Matvievna mentally compare his lot, or place it on a level with, that of her first children--although, unconsciously it may be, she allotted them all an equal place in her heart. In her opinion the little Andrei’s upbringing, mode of life, and future career stood divided by an immeasurable gulf from the fortunes of Vania and his sister.

“What are _they?_” she would say to herself when she called to see Andrei. “They are children born of the people, whereas this one was born a young _barin_.”

Then she would caress the boy, if not with actual timidity, at all events with a certain touch of caution, and add to herself with something like respect: “What a white skin he has! ’Tis almost transparent. And what tiny hands and feet, too, and what silky hair! He is just like his dead father.” Consequently she was the more ready to accede to Schtoltz’s request when he asked her that he (Schtoltz) should educate the youngster; since she felt sure that Schtoltz’s household was far more the lad’s proper place than was her own establishment, where he would have been thrown among her grimy young nephews.

Clad in black, she would glide like a shadow from room to room of the house--opening and shutting cupboards, sewing, making lace, but doing everything quietly, and without the least sign of energy. When spoken to, she would reply as though to do so were an effort. Moreover, her eyes no longer glanced swiftly from object to object, as they had done in the old days: rather, they remained fixed in a sort of ever concentrated gaze. Probably they had assumed that gaze during the hour when she had stood looking at her dead husband’s face.

That the light of her life was fast flickering before going out, that God had breathed His breath into her existence and taken it away again, and that her sun had shone brilliantly and was setting for ever, she clearly understood. Yes, that sun was setting for ever, but not before she had learnt the reason why she had been given life, and the fact that she had not lived in vain. Greatly she had loved, and to the full: she had loved _Oblomov_ as a lover, as a husband, and as a _barin_. But around her there was no one to comprehend this; wherefore she kept her grief the more closely locked, in her own bosom.

Only, next winter, when Schtoltz came to town, she ran to see him, and to gaze hungrily at little Andrei, whom she covered with caresses. Presently she tried to say something--to thank Schtoltz, and to pour out before him all that had been accumulating in her heart in the absence of an outlet. Such words he would have understood perfectly, had they been uttered. But the task was beyond her--she could only throw herself upon Olga, glue her lips to her hand, and burst into such a torrent of scalding tears that perforce Olga wept with her, and Schtoltz, greatly moved, hastened from the room. All three had now a common bond of sympathy--that bond being the memory of Oblomov’s unsullied soul. More than once Schtoltz and Olga besought the widow to come and live with them in the country, but always she replied: “Where I was born and have lived my live, there must I also die.” Likewise, when Schtoltz proposed to render her an account of his management of the Oblomovkan property, she returned him the income therefrom, with a request that he should lay it by for the benefit of little Andrei.

“’Tis his, not mine,” she said. “_He_ is the _barin_, and I will continue to live as I have always done.”

VI

One day, about noon, two gentlemen were walking along a pavement in the Veaborg Quarter, while behind them a carriage quietly paced. One of the gentlemen was Schtoltz, the other a literary friend of his--a stout individual with an apathetic face and sleepy, meditative eyes. As they drew level with a church, Mass had just ended, and the congregation was pouring into the street. In front of them a knot of beggars was collecting a rich and varied harvest.

“I wonder where these mendicants come from,” said the literary gentleman, glancing at the reapers.

“Out of sundry nooks and corners, I suppose,” replied the other carelessly.

“That is not what I meant. What I meant is, how have they descended to their present position of beggars? Have they come to it suddenly or gradually, for a good reason or for a bad one?”

“Why are you so anxious to know? Are you contemplating writing a ‘Mysteries of Petrograd’?”

“Perhaps I am,” the literary gentleman explained with an indolent yawn.

“Then here is a chance for you. Ask any one of them, and, for the sum of a rouble, he will sell you his story, which, jotted down, you could resell to the nobility. For instance, take this old man here. He looks a good example of the normal type. Hi, old man! We want you!”

The old man turned his head at the summons, doffed his cap, and approached the two gentlemen.

“Good sirs,” he whined, “pray help a poor man who has been wounded in thirty battles and grown old in war.”

“It is Zakhar!” exclaimed Schtoltz in astonishment. “It _is_ you, Zakhar, is it not?”

But Zakhar said nothing. Then suddenly, he shaded his eyes from the sun, and, staring intently at Schtoltz, muttered--

“Pardon me, your Honour--I do not recognize you. I am nearly blind.”

“What? You have forgotten your old friend, the _bavin_ Schtoltz?” the other asked reproachfully.

“Dear, dear! Is it _really_ your Honour? My bad sight has got the better of me.”

Catching Schtoltz impetuously by the hand, the old man imprinted kiss after kiss upon the skirt of his coat.

“The Lord Himself has permitted a poor lost wretch to see a joyful day!” he said, half-laughing, half-crying. Over his face, and particularly over his nose, there had spread a purplish tinge, while his head was almost completely bald, and his whiskers, though still long, looked so matted and entangled as to resemble pieces of felt wherein snowballs have been wrapped. As for his clothing, it consisted of an old, faded cloak, with one of the lapels missing, and a pair of down-at-heel goloshes. In his hands was a cap from which the fur had become worn away.

“Ah, good sir!” he repeated. “Heaven has indeed granted me joy for to-day’s festival!”

“But why are you in this state?” Schtoltz inquired. “Are you not ashamed of yourself?”

“Yes, your Honour; but what else could I do?” And Zakhar heaved a profound sigh. “How else was I to live? So long as Anisia was alive I had _not_ to go wandering about like this, for I was given bite and sup whenever I wanted it; but she died of cholera (Heaven rest her soul!), and her brother straightway refused to support me, saying that I was nothing but an old hanger-on. From Michei Andreitch Tarantiev too I received shameful abuse, and neither of them--would you believe it, your Honour?--ever gave me a morsel of bread! Indeed, had it not been for the _barinia_, God bless her”--and Zakhar crossed himself--“I should long ago have perished of the cold; but for a while she gave me a bit of clothing, and as much bread as I could eat, and a place by the stove of a night. Then they took to rating her on my account; so at last I left the house to wander whither my eyes might lead me. This is the second year that I have been dragging out this miserable existence.”

“But why did you not go and seek a situation?” Schtoltz inquired.

“Where was I to get one at this time of day, your Honour? True, I tried for two, but was unsuccessful. Things are not what they used to be: everything has changed for the worse. Nowadays masters require their lacqueys to look respectable, and the gentry no longer keep their halls chock-full of footmen. Indeed, ’tis seldom that you will find so many as _two_ footmen in a house. Yes,” he went on, “the gentry actually take off their_ own boots! They have even gone so _far as to invent a machine to do it with!” Evidently the idea cut Zakhar to the heart. “Yes,” he repeated, “our gentry are a shame and a disgrace to the country. They are fast coming to rack and ruin.” A sigh of profound regret followed.

“At one place,” presently he resumed, “I did obtain a situation. ’Twas with a German merchant, who engaged me to be his hall lacquey. After a while, however, he sent me to serve in the pantry. Now, was _that_ my proper business? One day I was carrying some crockery across the room on a tray, and the floor happened to be smooth and slippery, and down I fell, and the tray and the crockery with me. So I was turned out of doors. Next, an old countess took a fancy to my looks. ‘He is of respectable appearance,’ she said to herself, and added me to her staff of Swiss lacqueys. The post was a light one, and bid fair to be permanent, too. All that I had to do was to sit as solemnly as possible on a chair, to cross one leg over the other, and, when any rascal called, not to answer him, but just to grunt and send the fellow away--or else give him a box on the ear. Of course, to the gentry one had to behave differently--just to wave one’s staff like this.” Zakhar gave an illustration of what he meant. “As I say, ’twas an easy job, and the lady, God bless her! was not overdifficult to please. But one day she happened to peep into my room and to see there a bug. With that she bristled up and shrieked as though it had been _I_ who had invented bugs! When was a household _ever_ without a bug? So the next time she passed me she pretended that I smelt of liquor, and dismissed me.”

“Yes, and you smell of it now--and very strongly,” remarked Schtoltz.

“To my sorrow, I suppose so,” whined Zakhar, wrinkling his brow bitterly. “Well, then I tried to get a coachman’s job, and took service with a gentleman; but one day I had my feet frost-bitten (for I was overold and weak for the job), and another day the brute of a horse fell down and nearly broke my ribs, and another day I ran over an old woman and got taken to the police-station.”

“Well, well! Instead of drinking and getting yourself into trouble, come to my house, and I will give you a corner there until it is time for us to return to the country. Do you hear?”

“Yes, your Honour--yes; but, but----”

Zakhar sighed again. “I would rather not leave these parts. You see, the grave is here--the grave where my old patron is lying.” Zakhar sobbed. “Only to-day I have been there to commend his soul to God. What a _barin_ the Lord God has taken from us! ’Twould have been good for us if he could have lived another hundred years. Yes, only to-day I have been visiting his grave. Whenever I am near the spot I go and sit beside it, and shed tears--ah, such tears! And sometimes, too, when all is quiet there, I seem to hear him calling to me once more, ‘Zakhar! Zakhar!’--and shivers go running down my back. Never lived there such a _barin_ as he! And how fond of yourself he was, your Honour! May the Lord remember him when the heavenly kingdom shall come!”

“You ought to see our little Andrei,” said Schtoltz. “If you like, you can have charge of him.” And he handed the old man some money.

“Yes, I _will_ come! How could I not come when it is to see little Andrei Ilyitch? By this time he must be grown into a tall young gentleman. What joy the Lord has reserved for me this day! Yes, I _will_ come, your Honour, and may God send you good health and many a long year of life!” But it was after a departing carriage that Zakhar was dispatching his benedictions.

“Did you hear the old beggar’s story?” Schtoltz asked of his companion.

“Yes. Who was the Oblomov whom he mentioned?”

“He was--Oblomov. More than once I have spoken to you of him.”

“Ah, I think I remember the name. Yes, he was a friend and comrade of yours, was he not? What became of him?”

“He came to rack and ruin--though for no apparent reason.” As he spoke Schtoltz sighed heavily. Then he added: “His intellect was equal to that of his fellow’s, his soul was as clear and as bright as glass, his disposition was kindly, and he was a gentleman to the core. Yet he--he fell.”

“Wherefore? What was the cause?”

“The cause?” re-echoed Schtoltz. “The cause was--the disease of Oblomovka.”

“The disease of Oblomovka?” queried the literary gentleman in some perplexity. “What is that?”

“Some day I will tell you. For the moment leave me to my thoughts and memories. Hereafter you shall write them down, for they might prove of value to some one.”

In time Schtoltz related to his friend what herein is to be found recorded.