“Yes, I _will_ come! How could I not come when it is to see little Andrei Ilyitch? By this time he must be grown into a tall young gentleman. What joy the Lord has reserved for me this day! Yes, I _will_ come, your Honour, and may God send you good health and many a long year of life!” But it was after a departing carriage that Zakhar was dispatching his benedictions. “Did you hear the old beggar’s story?” Schtoltz asked of his companion. “Yes. Who was the Oblomov whom he mentioned?” “He was--Oblomov. More than once I have spoken to you of him.” “Ah, I think I remember the name. Yes, he was a friend and comrade of yours, was he not? What became of him?” “He came to rack and ruin--though for no apparent reason.” As he spoke Schtoltz sighed heavily. Then he added: “His intellect was equal to that of his fellow’s, his soul was as clear and as bright as glass, his disposition was kindly, and he was a gentleman to the core. Yet he--he fell.” “Wherefore? What was the cause?” “The cause?” re-echoed Schtoltz. “The cause was--the disease of Oblomovka.” “The disease of Oblomovka?” queried the literary gentleman in some perplexity. “What is that?” “Some day I will tell you. For the moment leave me to my thoughts and memories. Hereafter you shall write them down, for they might prove of value to some one.” In time Schtoltz related to his friend what herein is to be found recorded.