Oblomov / Обломов. Книга для чтения на английском языке

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-byeВ».

В«Good-bye, PenkinВ».

«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 tomorrow, 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.

В«I seem to be holding a regular reception to-dayВ», 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.