Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov & David Magarshack

Author:Ivan Goncharov & David Magarshack [Goncharov, Ivan & Magarshack, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Literary, Classics, Literary Criticism, English fiction, Russia, Russian & Former Soviet Union, Russian Fiction
ISBN: 9780140440409
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 1954-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

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Part 2

Chapter 1

OFTEN Oblomov's old school friend had endeavoured--though in vain--to wean his comrade from the state of inertia in which he (Oblomov) was plunged. The pair were discussing the same subject in Oblomov's study.

"Once upon a time," said Schtoltz, "I remember you a slim, lively young fellow. Have you forgotten our joint readings of Rousseau, Schiller, Göethe, and Byron?"

"Have I forgotten them?" re-echoed Oblomov. "No. How could I forget them? How I used to dream over those books, and to whisper to myself my hopes for the future, and to make plans of all sorts!--though I kept them from you for fear lest you would laugh at them. But that expired at Verklevo; and never since has it been repeated. What is the reason, I would ask? Never have I gone through any great mental tempest or upheaval, my conscience is as clear as a mirror, and no adverse stroke of fortune has occurred to destroy my self-conceit. Yet for some reason or another I have gone to pieces." He sighed. "You see, Andrei, at no point in my life have I been touched with a fire which could either save me or destroy me. I have lived a life different from that of others. With me it has not been a morning dawn which, gradually broadening to a sultry, bustling noon, has faded, imperceptibly, naturally, into eventide. No, I began life with a quenching of the light of day, and, from the first moment that I realized myself, realized also that I was on the wane. I realized that fact as I sat at my desk in the chancellory, as I read, as I consorted with friends, as I squandered my means upon Minia, as I lounged on the Nevski Prospect, as I attended receptions where I was welcomed as an eligible parti, as I wasted my life and brains in fluctuating between town and country. Even my self-conceit--upon what was it flung away? Upon figuring in clothes made by a good tailor, upon gaining the entrée to well-known houses, upon having my hand shaken by Prince P---! Yet self-conceit ought to be the very salt of life. Whither is mine gone? Either I have never understood the life of which I speak or it was never suited to me. Oh, that I had never known or seen it, that no one had ever pointed it out to me For yourself, you entered and left my orbit like a bright, swift comet; and when you were gone I forgot everything, and began to fade."

As Schtoltz listened to Oblomov's words there was no trace of a contemptuous smile on his features.

"Not long ago," resumed Oblomov, "you said that my face had lost its freshness and colour. Yes, that is so. I am like a ragged, cast-off garment--though less from the effect of weather and wear and tear than from the fact that during the past twelve years there has lain within me a light that has ever been seeking an outlet, but has been doomed to illumine only its own prison.

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