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By Root 2171 0

The visitor’s face was remarkable for the carefully attentive look with which he regarded everything he saw; there was an expression of reserve in his eyes and of discretion in his smile; his behaviour was distinguished by a modestly official decorum. He was wearing a comfortable frock-coat which opened widely and easily like a gate at a single touch. His linen was dazzlingly white, as though to match his bald head. On the forefinger of his right hand he wore a massive ring with some dark stone in it.

‘Doctor, how nice to see you!’ Oblomov cried, holding out one hand to the visitor and pulling up a chair for him with the other.

‘I’ve got tired of your being well all the time and not calling me in, so I called without being asked,’ the doctor replied jestingly. ‘Well, no,’ he added seriously afterwards. ‘I have been upstairs with your neighbour and have called in to see how you are.’

‘Thank you. And how’s the patient?’

‘Not so good, I’m afraid. He may last for three or four weeks or perhaps till the autumn, and then – it’s a dropsy in the chest; I’m afraid there’s no hope. Well, and how are you?’

Oblomov shook his head sadly.

‘I’m not feeling at all well, doctor. I’ve been thinking of calling you in. I don’t know what to do. My digestion is awful; I’ve such a feeling of heaviness in the pit of the stomach, terrible heartburn, and attacks of breathlessness,’ Oblomov said, looking miserable.

‘Give me your hand,’ said the doctor, closing his eyes for a minute and feeling Oblomov’s pulse.

‘Any cough?’ he asked.

‘At night, especially after supper.’

‘I see. Any palpitations? Headache?’

The doctor asked several more questions of the same kind, then he bent his bald head and thought deeply. After two minutes he suddenly raised his head and said in a firm voice:

‘If you spend another two or three years in this climate, and go on lying about and eating rich, heavy food, you’ll die of a stroke.’

Oblomov gave a start.

‘What am I to do? Tell me, for heaven’s sake!’ he cried.

‘What everyone else does – go abroad.’

‘Abroad?’ Oblomov repeated in surprise.

‘Yes, why not?’

‘But! Good Lord, doctor – abroad! How can I?’

‘Why can’t you?’

Oblomov looked silently at himself, at his study, and repeated mechanically:

‘Abroad!’

‘What is there to prevent you?’

‘Why, everything.’

‘Everything? Have you no money?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I haven’t any money at all,’ Oblomov said quickly, glad of this perfectly natural excuse. ‘Just have a look what my bailiff writes me. Where’s the letter? Where have I put it? Zakhar!’

‘All right, all right,’ said the doctor. ‘That isn’t my business. It is my duty to tell you that you must change the manner of your life, the place, air, occupation – everything, everything.’

‘Very well, I’ll think about it,’ said Oblomov. ‘Where ought I to go and what must I do?’

‘Go to Kissingen or Ems,’ the doctor began. ‘Spend June and July there, drink the waters, then go to Switzerland or the Tyrol for a grape cure. Spend September and October there – –’

‘Good Lord, the Tyrol!’ Oblomov whispered in a barely audible voice.

‘… then to some dry place, say, to Egypt – –’

‘Good Lord!’ thought Oblomov.

‘Avoid worry and vexation – –’

‘It’s all very well for you to talk,’ said Oblomov. ‘You don’t get such letters from the bailiff.’

‘You must also avoid thinking,’ the doctor went on.

‘Thinking?’

‘Yes, mental strain.’

‘And what about my plan for reorganizing my estate? Good heavens, doctor, I’m not a piece of wood, am I?’

‘Well, do as you like. It’s my duty to warn you. That’s all. You must also avoid passionate entanglements; they interfere with the cure. You must try and divert yourself by riding, dancing, moderate exercise in the fresh air, pleasant conversation, especially with ladies, so that your heart should be stirred lightly and only by pleasant sensations.’

Oblomov listened to him dejectedly.

‘And then?’ he asked.

‘And then keep away from reading and writing – that’s very important! Hire a villa with a southern