Oblomov hesitated. “Very well,” he said after a pause; “only----” “What about next week?” “Certainly. Next week let it be. But at the moment I have no suitable clothes. Is your _fiancêe_ a financial catch?” “Yes, for her father is a State councillor, and intends to give her ten thousand roubles, as well as to let us have half his official house (a house of twelve rooms--the whole being furnished, heated, and lighted at the public expense); so we ought to do very well. Herewith I invite you to be my best man at the wedding.” Once more the doorbell rang. “Good-bye,” said Sudbinski. “I am annoyed that, as I surmise, I should be wanted at the office.” “Then stay where you are,” urged Oblomov. “I desire your advice, for two misfortunes have just befallen me.” “No, no; I had better come and see you another day.” And Sudbinski took his leave. “Plunged up to the ears in work, good ‘friend!” thought Oblomov as he watched him depart. “Yes, and blind and deaf and dumb to everything else in the world! _Yet by going into society and at the same time, busying yourself about your affairs you will yet__win distinction, and promotion. Such is what they call ‘a career’! Yet of how_ little use is a man like that! His intellect, his will, his feelings--what do they avail him? So many luxuries is what they are--nothing more. Such an individual lives out his little span without achieving a single thing worth mentioning; and meanwhile he works in an office from morning till night--yes, from morning till night, poor wretch!” Certainly a modicum of quiet satisfaction was to be derived from the thought that from nine o’clock until three, and from eight o’clock until nine on the following day, he, Oblomov, could remain lying prone on a sofa instead of having to trot about with reports and to inscribe multitudes of documents. Yes, he preferred, rather, leisure for the indulgence of his feelings and imagination. Plunged in a philosophical reverie, he overlooked the fact that by his bedside there was standing a man whose lean, dark face was almost covered with a pair of whiskers, a moustache, and an imperial. Also the new-comer’s dress was studied in its negligence. “Good morning, Oblomov,” he said. “Good morning, Penkin,” was the response. “I should like to show you a letter which I have just received from my _starnsta_. Whence have you sprung?” “From the newsagent’s, near by. I went to see if the papers are yet out. Have you read my latest article?” “No.” “Then you ought to do so.” “What is it about?” Oblomov asked with a faint yawn. “About trade, about the emancipation of women, about the beautiful April days with which we have been favoured, and about the newly formed fire-brigade. How come you not to have read that article? In it you will see portrayed the whole of our daily life. Over and above anything else, you will read therein an argument in favour of the present realistic: tendency in literature.”