Sinking into an arm-chair, Oblomov remained there. All around was growing dim and dreamlike. As he sat there with his head resting on his hand he neither remarked the dimness nor heard the striking of the hours. All his mind was plunged in a chaos of formless, indefinite thoughts which, like the clouds in the sky, passed aimlessly, disconnectedly athwart the surface of his brain. Of none of them could he catch the actual substance. His heart felt crushed, and for the moment the life in it was in abeyance. Mechanically he gazed in front of him without even noticing that day was breaking, or that his landlady’s dry cough was once more audible, or that the _dvornik_ was beginning to cut firewood in the courtyard, or that the usual clatter in the house had begun again. At length he went to bed, and fell into a leaden, an uncomfortable sleep.... “To-day is Sunday,” whispered the kindly voice of the landlady, “and I have baked you a pie. Will you not have some?” He returned no answer, for he was in a high fever. PART IV I For many a day after his illness Oblomov’s mood was one of dull and painful despondency; but gradually this became replaced with a phase of mute indifference, in which he would spend hours in watching the snow fall and listening to the grinding of the landlady’s coffee-mill, to the barking of the housedogs as they rattled at their chains, to the creaking of Zakhar’s boots, and to the measured tick of the clock’s pendulum. As of old, Agafia Matvievna, his landlady, would come and propose one or another dish for his delectation; also her children would come running to and fro through his rooms. To the landlady he returned kindly, indifferent answers, and to the youngsters he gave lessons in reading and waiting, while smiling wearily, involuntarily at their playfulness. Little by little he regained his former mode of life. One day Schtoltz walked into his room. “Well, Ilya?” he said, with a questioning sternness which caused Oblomov to lower his eyes and remain silent. “Then it is to be ‘never’?” went on his friend. “‘Never’?” queried Oblomov. “Yes. Do you not remember my saying to you, ‘Now or never’?” “I do,” the other returned. “But I am not the man I then was. I have now set my affairs in order, and my plans for improving my estate are nearly finished, and I write regularly for two journals, and I have read all the books which you left behind you.” “But why have you never come to join me abroad?” asked Schtoltz. “Something prevented me.” “Olga?” Oblomov gathered animation at the question. “Where is she?” he exclaimed. “I heard that she had gone abroad with her aunt--that she went there soon after, after----” “Soon after she had recognized her mistake,” concluded Schtoltz. “You know the story, then?” said Oblomov, scarcely able to conceal his confusion.