Oblomov by Iván Goncharov Read Free Book Online Page B

that he had really gone too far.
    ‘Read it and judge for yourself,’ he said, but with no enthusiasm this time.
    ‘No, Penkin, I won’t read it.’
    ‘Why not? It’s creating a sensation, people are talking about it.’
    ‘Let them! Some people have nothing to do but talk. It is their vocation in life, you know.’
    ‘But why not read it, just out of curiosity?’
    ‘Oh, what is there to be curious about?’ said Oblomov. ‘I don’t know why they keep on writing – just to amuse themselves, I suppose.’
    ‘To amuse themselves! Why, it’s all so true to life! So laughably true! Just like living portraits. Whoever it is – a merchant, a civil servant, an army officer, a policeman – it’s as if the writers caught them alive!’
    ‘But in that case why all this bother? Just for the fun of picking up some man and presenting him as true to life? As a matter of fact, there is no life in anything they do – no true understanding of it, no true sympathy, nothing of what one can call real humanity. Mere vanity – that’s what it is. They describe thieves and fallen women just as though they had caught them in the street and taken them to prison. What you feel in their stories is not “invisible tears”, but visible, coarse laughter and spitefulness.’
    ‘What more do you want? That’s excellent. You’ve said it yourself. Burning spite, bitter war on vice, contemptuous laughter at fallen human beings – everything’s there!’
    ‘No, no, not everything,’ Oblomov cried, suddenly working himself up into a passion. ‘Depict a thief, a prostitute, a defrauded fool, but don’t forget that they, too, are human beings. Where’s your feeling of humanity? You want to write with your head only!’ Oblomov almost hissed. ‘Do you think that to express ideas one doesn’t need a heart? One does need it – they are rendered fruitful by love; stretch out a helping hand to the fallen man to raise him, or shed bitter tears over him, if he faces ruin, but do not jeer at him. Love him, remember thathe is a man like you, and deal with him as if he were yourself, then I shall read you and acknowledge you,’ he said, lying down again comfortably on the couch. ‘They describe a thief or a prostitute,’ he went on, ‘but forget the human being or are incapable of depicting him – what art and what poetic vein do you find in that? Expose vice and filth, but please don’t pretend that your exposures have anything to do with poetry.’
    ‘According to you, then, all we have to do is to describe nature – roses, nightingales, frosty mornings – while everything around us is in a continuous state of turmoil and movement? All we want is the bare physiology of society – we have no time for songs nowadays.’
    ‘Give me man – man!’ Oblomov said. ‘Love him!’
    ‘Love the money-lender, the hypocrite, the thieving or dull-witted official? Surely you can’t mean that? One can see at once that you’re not a literary person!’ Penkin said heatedly. ‘No, sir, they must be punished, cast out from civil life, from society.’
    ‘Cast out from society?’ Oblomov suddenly cried, as though inspired, jumping to his feet and facing Penkin. ‘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