‘That means forgetting that there was a living spirit in this unworthy vessel; that he is a depraved man, but a man none the less like yourself. Cast him out! And how do you propose to cast him out from human society, from nature, from the mercy of God!’ he almost shouted, his eyes blazing.

‘Going a bit too far, aren’t you?’ Penkin said in his turn with surprise.

Oblomov realized, too, that he had overstepped the mark. He fell silent suddenly, stood still for a moment, yawned, and slowly lay down on the couch.

Both lapsed into silence.

‘What do you read then?’ asked Penkin.

‘Me? Oh, books of travel mostly.’

Again silence.

‘But you will read the poem when it comes out, won’t you?’ Penkin asked. ‘I’d bring it to you…”

Oblomov shook his head.

‘Well, shall I send you my story?’

Oblomov nodded.

‘I’m afraid I must really be off to the printers,’ said Penkin. ‘Do you know why I called? I came to ask you to go to Yeka-terinhof with me. I have a carriage. I have to write an article to-morrow about the festival, and we could watch it together. You could point out to me what I failed to notice. It would be more jolly. Let’s go!’

‘No, thank you, I don’t feel well,’ said Oblomov, frowning and pulling the blankets over himself. ‘I’m afraid of the damp. The ground hasn’t dried up yet. But why not come and have dinner with me to-day? We could have a talk. Two awful things have happened to me…’

‘I’m sorry but the whole of our editorial staff dine at St George’s to-day. We shall go to the festival from there. And I must get my article ready during the night and send it off to the printers before the morning. Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, Penkin.’

‘Writes articles at night,’ Oblomov mused. ‘When does he sleep? And yet he probably earns five thousand a year. It’s his bread and butter. But to keep on writing, wasting his mind and soul on trifles, to change his convictions, sell his intelligence and imagination, do violence to his nature, be in a perpetual state of excitement and turmoil, knowing no rest, always rushing about.… And write and write, like a wheel or a machine – write to-morrow, write the day after – the holidays, summer will come – always writing, writing! When is he to stop and have a rest? Poor wretch!’

He turned his head towards the table, where everything was so bare, the ink dried up, and no pen to be seen, and he was glad that he lay as free of care as a new-born babe, without trying to do too many things at once, without selling anything.

‘And the bailiff’s letter? And the flat?’ he remembered suddenly, and sank into thought again.

But presently there was another ring at the front door.

‘I seem to be holding a regular reception to-day,’ said Oblomov and waited to see who his new visitor was.

A man of indefinite age and of an indefinite appearance came into the room; he had reached the age when it was difficult to say how old he was; he was neither ugly nor handsome, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark; nature had not bestowed on him a single striking or outstanding characteristic, neither good nor bad. Some called him Ivan Ivanich, others Ivan Vassilyevich, and still others Ivan Mikhaylovich. People were also uncertain about his surname: some said it was Ivanov, some called him Vassilyev or Andreyev, and others thought he was Alexeyev. A stranger, meeting him for the first time and being told his name, immediately forgot it, as he forgot his face, and never noticed what he said. His presence added nothing to society and his absence took nothing away from it. His mind possessed no wit or originality or other peculiarities, just as his body possessed no peculiarities. He might have been able to tell everything he had seen or heard, and entertain people at least in that way, but he never went anywhere; he had been born in Petersburg and never left it, so that he merely saw and heard what others knew already. Is such a man attractive? Does he love or hate or suffer? It would seem that he ought to love and hate and suffer, for no one is exempt from that. But somehow or other he managed to love everyone. There are people in whom, however hard you try, you cannot arouse any feeling of hostility, revenge, etc. Whatever you do to them, they go on being nice to you.