“No, I am not well,” said Oblomov with a frown, covering himself with the bedclothes. “But you might come and lunch with me to-day, and _then_ talk. I have just experienced a couple of misfortunes.” “Ah! The whole of our staff is to lunch at St. George’s, * I fear, and then to go on to the festival. Also, at night I have my article to write, and the printer must receive the manuscript by daylight at the latest. Good-bye!” * A smart restaurant in Petrograd. “‘At night I have my article to write,’” mused Oblomov after his friend’s departure. “Then when does he sleep? However, he is making some five thousand roubles a year, so his work is so much bread and butter to him. Yet to think of being continually engaged in writing, in wasting one’s intellect upon trifles, in changing one’s opinions, in offering one’s brain and one’s imagination for sale, in doing violence to one’s own nature, in giving way to ebullitions of enthusiasm--and the whole without a single moment’s rest, or the calling of a single halt! Yes, to think of being forced to go on writing, writing, like the wheel of a machine--writing to-morrow, writing the day after, writing though the summer is approaching and holidays keep passing one by! Does he _never_ stop to draw breath, the poor wretch?” Oblomov glanced at the table, where everything lay undisturbed, and the ink had become dried up, and not a pen was to be seen; and as he looked he rejoiced to think that _he_ was lying there as careless as a newborn baby--not worrying at all, nor seeking to offer anything for sale. “But what of the _starosta’s_ letter and the notice to quit?” Yes, suddenly he had remembered these things; and once more he became absorbed in thought. Again the doorbell rang. “Why is every one seeking me out today?” he wondered as he waited to see who next should enter. This time the new-comer proved to be a man of uncertain age--of the age when it is difficult to guess the exact number of years. Also, he was neither handsome nor ugly, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark. In short, he was a man whom Nature had dowered with no sharp-cut, distinguishing features, whether good or bad, mental or physical. “Ha!” said Oblomov as he greeted him. “So it is you, Alexiev? Whence are you come?” “To tell the truth. I had not thought to call upon you to-day,” replied the visitor, “but by chance I met Ovchinin, and he carried me off to his quarters, whither I, in my turn, have now come to convey _you_.” “To convey me to, to----?” “To Ovchinin’s. Already Alianov, Pchailo, and Kolhniagin are there.” “But why have they collected together? And what do they want with me?” “Ovchinin desires you to lunch with him, and then to accompany him and the rest of us to the Ekaterinhov. Likewise he has instructed me to warn you to hire a conveyance. Come, get up! ’Tis fully time you were dressed.” “How am I to dress? I have not yet washed myself.” “Then do so at once.”