d its
tranquil seclusion, for its trees cast large shadows; the nightingale
sings in its thickets, the moon silvers the calm statues, and the
sound of music on the waters goes to the heart. Turgenev reminds one
of a certain kind of music, beautiful in form, not too passionate and
yet full of emotion, Schumann's music, for instance; if Pushkin is the
Mozart of Russian literature, Turgenev is the Schumann; not amongst
the very greatest, but still a poet, full of inspired lyrical feeling;
and a great, a classic artist, the prose Virgil of Russian literature.

What Turgenev did for the country gentry, GONCHAROV (1812-91) did for
the St. Petersburg gentry. The greater part of his work deals with the
forties. Goncharov, a noble (_dvoryanin_) by education, and according
to his own account by descent, though according to another account he
was of merchant extraction, entered the Government service, and then
went round the world in a frigate, a journey which he described in
letters. Of his three novels, _The Everyday Story_, _Oblomov_, and
_The Landslip_, _Oblomov_ is the most famous: in it he created a type
which became immortal; and Oblomov has passed into the Russian
language just as Tartuffe has passed into the French language, or
Pecksniff into the English language. A chapter of the book appeared in
1849, and the whole novel in 1859.

Oblomov is the incarnation of what in Russia is called _Halatnost_,
which means the propensity to live in dressing-gown and slippers. It
is told of Krylov, who was an Oblomov of real life, and who spent most
of his time lying on a sofa, that one day somebody pointed out to him
that the nail on which a picture was hanging just over the sofa on
which he was lying, was loose, and that the picture would probably
fall on his head. "No," said Krylov, not getting up, "the picture will
fall just beyond the sofa. I know the angle." The apathy of Oblomov,
although to the outward eye it resembles this mere physical inertness,
is subtly different. Krylov's apathy was the laziness of a man whose
brain brought forth concrete fruits; and who feels neither the
inclination nor the need of any other exercise, either physical or
intellectual. Oblomov's apathy is that of a brain seething with the
burning desires of a _vie intime_, which all comes to nothing owing to
a kind of spiritual paralysis, "une infirmite morale." It is true he
finds it difficult to put on his socks, still more to get up, when he
is awake