To his vision there dawned the great, dark drawing-room in the house of his youth, lit by a single candle. At the table his mother and her guests were sitting over their needlework, while his father was silently pacing up and down. Somehow the present and the past had become fused and interchanged, so that, as the little Oblomov, he was dreaming that at length he had reached the enchanted country where the rivers run milk and honey, and bread can be obtained without toil, and every one walks clad in gold and silver. Once again he could hear the old legends and the old folk-tales, mingled with the clatter of knives and crockery in the kitchen. Once again he was pressing close to his nurse to listen to her tremulous, old woman’s voice. “That is Militrissa Kirbitievna,” she was saying as she pointed to the figure of his landlady. Also, the same clouds seemed to be floating in the blue zenith that used to float there of yore, and the same wind to be blowing in at the window, and ruffling his hair, and the same cock of the Oblomovkan poultry-yard to be strutting and crowing below. Suddenly a dog barked. Some other guest must be arriving! Would it be old Schtoltz and his little boy from Verklevo? Yes, probably, for to-day is a holiday. And in very truth it _is_ they--he can hear their footsteps approaching nearer and nearer! The door opens, and “Andrei!” he exclaims excitedly, for there, sure enough, stands his friend--but now grown to manhood, and no longer a little boy!... IV Oblomov recovered consciousness. Before him Schtoltz _was_ standing--but the Schtoltz of the present, not the Schtoltz of a daydream. Swiftly the landlady caught up the baby Andriusha, swept the table clear of her work, and carried off the children. Alexiev also disappeared, and Schtoltz and Oblomov found themselves alone. For a moment or two they gazed at one another amid a tense silence. “Is that really you. Schtoltz?” asked Oblomov in tones scarcely audible for emotion--such tones as a man employs only towards his dearest friend and after a long separation. “Yes, it is I,” replied Schtoltz quietly. “And you--are you quite well?” Oblomov embraced him heartily. In that embrace were expressed all the long-concealed grief and joy which, fermenting ever in his soul, had never, since Schtoltz’s last departure, been expressed to any human being. Then they seated themselves, and once more gazed at one another. “Are you _really_ well?” Schtoltz asked again. “Yes, thank God!” replied Oblomov. “But you have been ill?” “Yes--I was seized with a stroke.” “Ah, Ilya, Ilya! Evidently you have let yourself go again. What have you been doing? Actually, it is five years since last we saw one another!” Oblomov sighed, but said nothing. “And why did you not come to Oblomovka?” pursued Schtoltz. “And why have you never written to me?” “What was there to say?” was Oblomov’s sad reply. “You know me. Consequently you need ask no more.”