“No, no,” she interrupted, raising her head, and striving to look at him through her tears. “Not long ago I realized that I was loving in you only what I wished you to contain--that it was only the future Oblomov of my dreams that was so dear to me. Ilya, you are good and honourable and tender; but you are all this only as is a dove which, with its head hidden under its wing, wishes to see nothing better. All your life you would have sat perched beneath the eaves. But I am different--I wish for more than that; though what it is I wish for even I myself could scarcely say. On the other hand, do you think that _you_ could have taught me what that something is, that _you_ could have supplied me with what I lack, that _you_ could have given me all that I----?” Oblomov’s legs were tottering under him. Sinking into a chair, he wiped his hands and forehead with his handkerchief. The words had been harsh--they had stung him to the quick. Somehow, too, they had seared him inwardly, while outwardly, they had chilled him as with a breath of frost. No more could he do than smile the sort of pitiful, deprecating smile which may be seen on the face of a beggar who is being rated for his sorry clothing--the sort of smile which says: “I am poor and naked and hungry. Beat me, therefore--beat me.” Suddenly Olga realized the sting which her words had contained, and threw herself impetuously upon him. “Forgive me, my friend,” she said tenderly and with tears in her voice. “I did not think what I was saying, for I am almost beside myself. Yes, forget all that has happened, and let us be as formerly--let all remain unchanged.” “No,” he replied, as abruptly he rose to his feet and checked her outburst with a decisive gesture. “All _cannot_ remain unchanged. Nor need you regret that you have told me the truth. I have well deserved it.” She burst into a renewed fit of weeping. “Go!” she said, twisting her tear-soaked handkerchief in her hands. “I cannot bear this any longer. To _me_ at least the past is dear.” She covered her face, and the sobs poured forth afresh. “Why has everything thus come to rack and ruin?” she cried. “Who has put a curse upon you, Ilya? Why have you done this? You are clever and kind and good and noble; yet you can wreck our lives in this way! What nameless evil has undone you?” “It has a name,” he said almost inaudibly. She looked at him questioningly with tear-filled eyes. “That name,” he added, “is ‘The Disease of Oblomovka.’” Turning with bowed head, he departed. Whither he wandered, or what he did, he never afterwards knew. Late at night he returned home. His landlady, hearing his knock, awoke Zakhar, who undressed his master, and wrapped him in the old dressing-gown. “How comes that to be here?” asked Oblomov, glancing at the garment. “I was given it by the landlady to-day,” replied Zakhar. “She has just cleaned and mended it.”