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 to-day?" 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 hand-
