“No, not the only ones,” said Oblomov, firing up. “Picture a thief or a fallen woman or a cheated fool, if you like, but do not forget the rest of mankind. What about humanity, pray? Writers like yourself try to write only with the head. What? Do you suppose the intellect can work separately from the heart? Why, the intellect needs _love_ to fertilize it. Rather, stretch out your hand to the fallen and raise him weep over him if he is lost beyond recall, but in no case make sport of him, for he is one to whom there should be extended only compassion. See in him yourself, and act accordingly. That done, I will read you, and bow my head before you. But in the writings of the school of which I have spoken, what art, what poetical colouring, are you able to discover? Should you elect to paint debauchery and the mire, at least do so without making any claim to poetry.” “What? You bid me depict nature--roses, nightingales, a winter’s morning, and all that sort of thing--when things like _these_ are seething and whirling around us? Nay, we need, rather, the bare physiology of society. No longer are love songs required.” “Give me man, and man alone.” said Oblomov. “And, having given me him, do you try to love him.” “_What?_ To love the usurer, the hypocrite, the peculating and stupid official? Why should I do that? ’tis evident you have had little experience of literature! Such fellows want punishing--want turning out of the civic circle and the community.” “Out of the civic circle and the community,’ you say?” ejaculated Oblomov with a gasp as he rose and stood before Penkin. “That is tantamount to saying that once in that faulty vessel there dwelt the supreme element--that, ruined though the man may be, he is still a human being, as even are you and I. Turn him out, indeed! _How_ are you going to turn him out of the circle of humanity, out of the bosom of Nature, out of the mercy of God?” Oblomov came near to shouting as he said this, and his eyes were blazing. “How excited you have grown!” said Penkin in astonishment; whereupon even Oblomov realized that he had gone too far. He pulled himself up, yawned slightly, and stretched himself out sluggishly upon the sofa. For a while silence reigned. “What kind of books do you mostly read?’ inquired Penkin. “Books of travel,” replied Oblomov. Again there was a silence. “And will you read the poem when it has come out?” continued Penkin. “If so, I will bring you a copy of it.” Oblomov shook his head. “Nor my story?” Oblomov signified assent. “Very well, then. Now I must be off to press,” continued Penkin. “Do you know why I came to see you to-day? I came because I wanted to propose to you a visit to the Ekaterinhov. I have a conveyance of my own and, inasmuch as, to-morrow, I must write an article on current events, I thought we might jointly look over my notes on the subject, and you might advise me as to any point omitted. We should enjoy the expedition, I think. Let us go.”