“Yes, the whole of it--even to the point of the sprig of lilac. Do you not feel ashamed of yourself, Ilya? Does it not hurt you? Are you not consumed with regret and remorse?” “Yes; please do not remind me of it,” interrupted Oblomov hurriedly. “So great was my agony when I perceived the gulf set between us that I fell ill of a fever. Ah, Schtoltz, if you love me, do not torture me, do not mention her name. Long ago I pointed out to her her mistake, but she would not listen to me. Indeed I am not so much to blame.” “I am not blaming you,” said Schtoltz gently; “for I have read your letter. It is I that am most to blame--then she--then you least of all.” “How is she now?” “How is she? She is in great distress. She weeps, and will not be comforted.” Mingled anguish, sympathy, and alarm showed themselves on Oblomov’s features. “What?” he cried, rising to his feet. “Come, Schtoltz! We must go to her at once, in order that I may beg her pardon on my knees.” Schtoltz thought it well to change his tactics. “Do you sit still,” he said with a laugh. “I have not been telling you the exact truth. As a matter of fact, she is well and happy, and bids me give you her greeting. Also, she wanted to write to you, but I dissuaded her on the ground that it would only cause you pain.” “Thank God for that!” cried Oblomov, almost with tears of joy. “Oh, I am so glad, Schtoltz! Pray let me embrace you, and then let us drink to her happiness!” “But why are you hidden away in this corner?” asked Schtoltz after a pause. “Because it is quiet here--there is no one to disturb me.” “I suppose so,” retorted Schtoltz. “In fact, you have here--well, Oblomovka over again, only worse.” He glanced about him. “And how are you now?” “I am not very well. My breathing is bad, and spots persist in floating before my eyes. Sometimes, too, when I am asleep, some one seems to come and strike me a blow upon the back and head, so that I leap up with a start.” “Listen, Ilya,” said Schtoltz gravely. “I tell you, in all seriousness, that if you do not change your mode of life you will soon be seized with dropsy or a stroke. As for your future, I have no hopes of it at all. If Olga, that angel, could not bear you from your swamp on her wings, neither shall I succeed in doing so. However, to the end I shall stand by you: and when I say that, I am voicing not only my own wish, but also that of Olga. For she desires you not to perish utterly, not to be buried alive; she desires that at least I shall make an attempt to dig you from the tomb.” “Then she has not forgotten me?” cried Oblomov with emotion--adding: “As though I were worthy of her remembrance!” “No, she has not forgotten you, and, I think, never will. Indeed, she is not the sort of person to forget you. Some day you must go and pay her a visit in the country.” “Yes, yes--but not now,” urged Oblomov. “Even at this moment I--I----” He pointed to his heart. “What does it contain?” asked Schtoltz. “Love?”