Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [103]
‘Yes, yes,’ Oblomov said, following anxiously every word of Stolz’s. ‘I remember I did actually – I believe – of course,’ he went on, suddenly remembering the past, ‘you and I, Andrey, were planning first to travel all over Europe, walk through Switzerland, scorch our feet on Vesuvius, go down to Herculaneum. We nearly went off our heads! Oh, the stupidities – –’
‘Stupidities!’ Stolz repeated reproachfully. ‘Wasn’t it you who said with tears in your eyes, as you looked at the prints of Raphael’s Madonnas, Correggio’s Night, Apollo Belvedere: “Good Lord, shall I never be able to see the originals and be struck dumb with awe at the thought that I am standing before the works of Michelangelo and Titian, and treading the soil of Rome? Shall I never in all my life see those myrtles, cypresses, and citrons in their native land instead of in hot-houses? Shall I never breathe the air of Italy and feast my eyes on her azure skies?” And what magnificent intellectual fireworks you used to let off in those days! Stupidities!’
‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ Oblomov said, going over the past in his mind. ‘You took me by the hand and said, “Let us vow to see it all before we die.”’
‘I remember,’ Stolz went on, ‘how once you brought me a translation from a book by Jean-Baptiste Say which you dedicated to me on my name-day. I have it still. And how you used to closet yourself with the teacher of mathematics because you were determined to find out why you had to know all about circles and squares, but threw it up half-way and never found out! You began to learn English and – never did learn it! And when I drew up a plan for a journey abroad and asked you to take a course at the German universities with me, you jumped to your feet, embraced me, and solemnly held out your hand to me: “I’m yours, Andrey, and I will go with you everywhere” – those were your very words. You always were a bit of an actor. Well, Ilya? I’ve been abroad twice, and after all the things I learned at our universities, I humbly sat on the students’ benches in Bonn, Jena, and Erlangen, and then got to know Europe like my own estate. But after all a journey abroad is a luxury and not everybody can afford it – but Russia? I have travelled all over Russia. I work – –’
‘But one day you will stop working, won’t you?’ Oblomov remarked.
‘I shall never stop. Why should I?’
‘When you have doubled your capital,’ said Oblomov.
‘I won’t stop even when I have quadrupled it.’
‘So why,’ said Oblomov after a pause, ‘do you work so hard if it is not your intention to get enough money to last you your lifetime and then retire to the country for a well-earned rest?’
‘Oblomovitis in the country!’ said Stolz.
‘Or achieve a high position in society by your work as a civil servant and then enjoy a well-earned rest in honourable inactivity.…’
‘Oblomovitis in Petersburg!’ Stolz retorted.
‘In that case when are you going to live?’ Oblomov replied, vexed by Stolz’s remarks. ‘Why work hard all your life?’
‘For the sake of the work itself and nothing else. Work means everything to me, it is the very breath of life – of my life, at any rate. You have banished work from your life, and what is it like? I’ll try to raise you up, perhaps for the last time. If after this you still go on sitting here with the Tarantyevs and Alexe-yevs, you will be done for and become a burden even to yourself. Now or never!’ he concluded.
Oblomov listened, looking at him with anxious eyes. His friend seemed to have held out a mirror to him, and he was frightened when he recognized himself.
‘Don’t scold me, Andrey,’ he began with a sigh, ‘but help me rather! I’m worried to death about it myself, and had you seen me to-day and heard me bewailing my fate digging my own grave, you would not have had the heart to reproach me. I know and