He sometimes makes a mess of his figures and gets all his references muddled up. I’ve had such awful trouble with him, but I haven’t noticed anything of that kind – I mean, he wouldn’t do such a thing. He just wouldn’t. He must have mislaid the documents. They’ll turn up one day.’

‘So that’s how you spend your time,’ said Oblomov. ‘Always busy – working.’

‘Oh, it’s dreadful, dreadful! But of course with a man like the vice-director of our department it’s a pleasure. He never fails to reward a good and conscientious official for faithful service, and he doesn’t forget those who don’t do any work, either. Those who have done their term of service he recommends for promotion; and for those who aren’t due for promotion or the conferment of an order he’ll try to get a bonus.’

‘What salary do you get?’

‘Oh, nothing much. One thousand two hundred salary, seven hundred and fifty for board, six hundred for lodgings, five hundred for travelling expenses, and up to a thousand in bonuses.’

‘Good God!’ Oblomov exclaimed, jumping off the bed. ‘It isn’t singing you’re doing, is it? Why, you earn as much as an Italian opera singer!’

‘Oh, that’s nothing! Peresvetov receives additional remuneration, and he does less work than I – and he can’t make head or tail of anything. But then of course he hasn’t the same reputation. They think very highly of me,’ he added modestly, lowering his eyes. ‘The minister said the other day that I was a credit to the ministry.’

‘Stout fellow!’ said Oblomov. ‘But working from eight to twelve, from twelve to five, and at home, too – well!’ He shook his head.

‘But what should I do if I were not in the service?’ asked Sudbinsky.

‘Lots of things! You could read, write…’ said Oblomov.

‘But I do nothing but read and write now.’

‘I don’t mean that. You could publish your writings.’

‘Not everyone can be a writer. Look at you. You don’t write, do you?’ replied Sudbinsky.

‘Ah, but I have an estate on my hands,’ said Oblomov with a sigh. ‘I’m devising a new scheme, introducing all sorts of improvements. Worrying myself to death. But you’re doing other people’s work – not your own.’

‘Well, that can’t be helped. One has to work, if one is paid. I’ll have a rest in the summer. My chief has promised to get me some special work which will take me out into the country. I’ll get travelling expenses to hire five horses, three roubles a day for my other expenses, and then promotion.…’

‘They have money to burn!’ Oblomov said enviously; then he sighed and fell into thought.

‘I need money,’ added Sudbinsky. ‘I’m getting married in the autumn.’

‘Good Lord! Really? To whom?’ Oblomov cried sympathetically.

‘Yes, indeed, to Miss Murashin. You remember they were staying next to me in the country during my summer holidays and had tea at my place? I believe you met her.’

‘No, I don’t remember. Is she pretty?’ asked Oblomov.

‘Yes, she’s a charming girl. If you like, we can go and have dinner with them.’

Oblomov looked embarrassed. ‘All right – only – –’

‘Next week,’ said Sudbinsky.

‘Yes, yes, next week,’ Oblomov agreed, feeling relieved. ‘My new suit isn’t ready yet.