Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [105]
‘Where to?’
‘Where to? Why not to the Volga with your peasants? There is more life there, you could have found all sorts of interests there, a purpose, work! I’d have gone to Siberia, to Sitkha.’
‘Well,’ Oblomov observed dejectedly, ‘the remedies you prescribe are rather drastic, aren’t they? Besides, I’m not the only one. There’s Mikhailov, Petrov, Semyonov, Alexeyev, Stepanov.… too many to count: our name is legion!’
Stolz was still under the influence of Oblomov’s confession and said nothing. Then he sighed.
‘Yes, much water has flowed past,’ he said. ‘I shan’t leave you like that. I’ll take you away from here, first abroad, then to the country. You will grow slimmer, you will recover from your depression, and then, we will find something for you to do.…’ ‘Yes, let’s go away somewhere!’ Oblomov cried.
‘To-morrow we will apply for a passport and then we’ll start packing. I won’t leave you alone – do you hear, Ilya?’
‘It’s always to-morrow with you!’ Oblomov replied, as though coming down from the clouds.
‘And you would like “not to put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day”, would you? What energy! It is too late to-day,’ Stolz added, ‘but in a fortnight’s time we shall be far from here.’
‘Good Lord, man, what’s your hurry?’ Oblomov said. ‘In a fortnight’s time! A bit sudden, isn’t it? Let me think it over carefully and get everything ready. We shall have to get a carriage of some sort – in three months perhaps.’
‘A carriage! What will you be thinking of next! As far as the frontier we shall travel in a post-chaise or by steamer to Lubeck, whichever is more convenient; and abroad there are railways in many places.’
‘And my flat, and Zakhar, and Oblomovka?’ Oblomov defended himself. ‘I must see to it all.’
‘Oblomovitis! Oblomovitis!’ said Stolz, laughing, and he took his candle and, bidding Oblomov good night, went to his room. ‘Now or never, remember!’ he added, turning to Oblomov before shutting the door behind him.
5
‘NOW OR NEVER!’ the stern words appeared before Oblomov as soon as he woke in the morning. He got up, walked up and down the room a few times, and glanced into the drawing-room; Stolz sat writing.
‘Zakhar!’ he called.
He heard no sound of Zakhar jumping off the stove. Zakhar did not come: Stolz had sent him to the post-office.
Oblomov went up to his dusty table, sat down, picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell, but there was no ink; he looked for paper, there was none, either. He sank into thought and began absent-mindedly writing in the dust with a finger, then he looked at what he had written – it was Oblomovitis. He quickly wiped it off with his sleeve. He had dreamt of that word at night written in letters of fire on the walls as at Belshazzar’s feast. Zakhar came back and glared dully at his master, astonished that he should have got out of bed. In this vacant look of astonishment he read: ‘Oblomovitis.’
‘A single word,’ Oblomov reflected, ‘but how – venomous it is!’
Zakhar, as was his wont, took up the comb, brush, and towel and went up to do his master’s hair.
‘Go to hell!’ Oblomov said angrily, knocking the brush out of Zakhar’s hand, while Zakhar dropped the comb himself.
‘Aren’t you going to lie down again, sir?’ Zakhar asked. ‘I could make the bed.’
‘Fetch me some paper and ink,’ replied Oblomov.
He was pondering over the words ‘Now or never!’ As he listened intently to this desperate appeal of reason and energy, he realized and carefully weighed up the amount of will-power he still had left and where he could apply and what use he could make of that meagre remnant. After thinking it over painfully, he seized the pen and pulled a book out of the corner, wishing to read, write, and think over in one hour what he had not read, written, and thought over in ten years. What was he to do now? Go forward or stay where he was? This typically Oblomov question was of deeper significance to him than Hamlet’s. To go forward meant to throw the capacious dressing-gown not only off his shoulders