Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [98]
‘But society has to be occupied by something or other,’ said Stolz. ‘Everyone has his own interests. That’s life.…’
‘Society! I suppose, Andrey, you are sending me into society on purpose so as to discourage me from going there. Life! A fine life! What is one to look for there? Intellectual interests? True feeling? Just see whether you can find the centre round which all this revolves; there is no such centre, there is nothing deep, nothing vital. All these society people are dead, they are all asleep, they are worse than I! What is their aim in life? They do not lie about, they scurry to and fro every day like flies, but to what purpose? You come into a drawing-room and you cannot help admiring the symmetrical way in which the visitors are seated – at the card tables! It is indeed an excellent purpose in life! A wonderful example for a mind looking for something exciting. Aren’t they all dead men? Aren’t they asleep all their life sitting there like that? Why am I more to blame because I lie about at home and do not infect the minds of others with my talk of aces and knaves?’
‘This is all old stuff,’ Stolz remarked. ‘It’s been said a thousand times before. You’ve nothing newer, have you?’
‘Well, and what about the best representatives of our younger generation? What do they do? Aren’t they asleep even while walking or driving along the Nevsky, or dancing? What a continual, futile shuffling and reshuffling of days! But observe the pride and wonderful dignity, the supercilious look with which they regard everyone who is not dressed or of the same rank and social position as they. And the poor wretches imagine that they are above the common people! “We,” they say, “occupy the best posts in the Civil Service, we sit in the front row of the stalls, we go to Prince N.’s balls where no other people are invited.” And when they come together, they get drunk and fight like savages. Why, are these alive, wide-awake people? And it isn’t just the young people, either. Take a look at the older people. They meet, entertain each other at meals, but there is no real good-fellowship, no real hospitality, no mutual sympathy. If they meet at a dinner or a party, it is just the same as at their office – coldly, without a spark of gaiety, to boast of their chef or their drawing-room, and then to jeer at each other in a discreet aside, to trip one another up. The other day at dinner I honestly did not know where to look and wished I could hide under the table, when they began tearing to shreds the reputations of those who did not happen to be there: so-and-so is an ass, so-and-so is a mean scoundrel; that one is a thief, and another one is ridiculous – a regular massacre! And as they said it, they looked at each other as if to say, “Just go out of the door, my dear fellow, and we’ll do the same to you.” Why, then, do they meet if they are like that? Why do they press each other’s hands so warmly? No genuine laughter, no glimmer of sympathy! They are all out to get someone of high rank, someone with a name, to come to their place. “So-and-so has called on me,” they boast afterwards. “I’ve been to see so-and-so.” What kind of life is that? I don’t want it. What can I get out of it? What will I learn there?’
‘Do you know, Ilya,’ said Stolz, ‘you talk like the ancients: they all used to write like that in old books. However, that, too, is a good thing: at least you talk and don’t sleep. Well, what else? Go on.’
‘Why go on? You have a good look: not a single person here looks fresh and healthy.’
‘It’s the climate,’ Stolz interrupted. ‘Your face, too, looks puffy and you’re not running about – you lie in bed all day.’
‘Not one