“Hm! And does your heart throb at all, or your head ache?” He then added other questions, bowed his bald pate, and subsided into profound meditation. At length he straightened himself with a jerk, and said with an air of decision—
“Two or three years more, of this room, of lying about, of eating rich, heavy foods, and you will have a stroke.”
Oblomov started.
“Then what ought I to do, doctor? Tell me, for Heaven’s sake!”
“Merely what other people do—namely, go abroad.”
“Pardon me, doctor, but how am I to do that?”
“Why should you not? Does money prevent you, or what?”
“Yes, yes; money is the reason,” replied Oblomov, gladly catching at the excuse, which was the most natural one that could possibly have been devised. “See here—just read what my slarosta writes.”
“Quite so, but that is no business of mine,” said the doctor. “My business is to inform you that you must change your mode of life, and also your place of residence. You must have fresh air—you must have something to do. Go to Kissingen or to Ems, and remain there during June and July, whilst you drink the waters. Then go on to Switzerland, or to the Tyrol, and partake of the local grape cure. That you can do during September and October.”
“Oh the devil take the Tyrol!” murmured Oblomov under his breath.