The opera season will be opening soon and I shall book seats for it. And now I’m in love – summer is coming – Misha has been promised leave – we’ll go for a month to their estate for a change. We can do some shooting there. They have splendid neighbours who give bals champêtres. Lydia and I will go for walks in the woods, go boating, pick flowers – Oh!’ and he spun round and round with delight. ‘However, I must be off. Good-bye,’ he said, trying in vain to have a good look at himself in the dusty mirror.

‘Wait a moment,’ Oblomov tried to stop him. ‘I wanted to talk business with you.’

‘Sorry – I’m in a hurry,’ Volkov replied. ‘Another time! But won’t you come with me and have some oysters? You’ll be able to tell me all about it then. Come, Misha is treating us.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Oblomov.

‘Good-bye, then.’

He walked to the door and came back.

‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, showing him a hand in a marvellously fitting glove.

‘What is it?’ asked Oblomov, looking perplexed.

‘The new lacets. You see how wonderfully they fit. You haven’t got to wrestle for two hours trying to button your glove. You just pull the lace and it’s done. It’s just arrived from Paris. Would you like me to bring you a pair to try?’

‘All right, bring me a pair,’ said Oblomov.

‘And have a look at this. Very charming, isn’t it?’ he asked, picking out one of his trinkets. ‘A visiting-card with a corner turned down.’

‘Can’t make out the inscription.’

‘Pr. Prince M. Michel,’ Volkov said. ‘There was no room for the surname Tyumenev. He gave this to me instead of an Easter egg. – But good-bye – au revoir. I’ve another ten calls to make. Oh, how gay life is!’

And he vanished.

‘Ten visits in one day – the poor wretch!’ thought Oblomov. ‘And this is life!’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘What’s there left of the man? What is he wasting and frittering himself away for? No doubt it’s nice to look in at the theatre, and fall in love with some Lydia – she’s very charming! Pick flowers with her in the country, go shooting – there’s nothing wrong with that. But make ten calls in one day – poor wretch!’ he concluded, turning over on his back, glad that he had no such empty thoughts and desires, that he did not rush about, but lay in bed, preserving his peace and his human dignity.

Another ring at the door interrupted his thoughts. A new visitor came in.

It was a man in a dark green frock-coat, with brass embossed buttons, his cleanly-shaven, worn-out face framed evenly by a pair of dark side-whiskers; he had tired, but calm and thoughtful, eyes, and a pensive smile.

‘Good morning, Sudbinsky,’ Oblomov greeted him gaily. ‘So you’ve come at last to see your old colleague! Don’t come near – don’t come near – you’re straight from the cold street!’

‘How are you, Oblomov? I’ve long been meaning to call on you,’ said the visitor, ‘but you know how devilishly busy I am. Look – I’m taking a caseful of official papers to the office to report on.