are—nothing more. Such an individual lives out his little span without achieving a single thing worth mentioning; and meanwhile he works in an office from morning till night yes, from morning till night, poor wretch!"
Certainly a modicum of quiet satisfaction was to be derived from the thought that from nine o'clock until three, and from eight o'clock until nine on the following day, he, Oblomov, could remain lying prone on a sofa instead of having to trot about with reports and to inscribe multitudes of documents. Yes, he preferred, rather, leisure for the indulgence of his feelings and imagination. Plunged in a philosophical reverie, he overlooked the fact that by his bedside there was standing a man whose lean, dark face was almost covered with a pair of whiskers, a moustache, and an imperial. Also the new-comer's dress was studied in its negligence.
"Good morning, Oblomov," he said.
"Good morning, Penkin," was the response. "I should like to show you a letter which I have just received from my starosta. Whence have you sprung?"
"From the newsagent's, near by. I went to see if the papers are yet out. Have you read my latest article?"
