Oblomov. Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov
where the handkerchief is?” he muttered as he made a tour of the room and felt each chair (although he could not but have perceived that on them there was nothing whatsoever lying). “You lose everything,” he added, opening the door into the parlour in order to sec whether the handkerchief might not be lurking there.
“Where are you going?” exclaimed Oblomov. “ ’Tis here you must search. I have not been into those other rooms since the year before last. Be quick, will you?”
“I see no handkerchief,” said Zakhar, spreading out his hands and peering into every corner. “There it is!” suddenly he croaked. “ ’Tis just underneath you. I can see its end sticking out. You have been lying on it all the time, yet you actually ask me to find it!” He hobbled away without waiting for an answer. For a moment or two Oblomov was taken aback, but soon found another means of putting his valet in the wrong.
“A nice way to do your cleaning!” he said. “What a lot of dust and dirt, to be sure! Look at those comers! You never bestir yourself at all.”
“If I never bestir myself,” retorted Zakhar offendedly, “at least I do my best, and don’t spare myself, for I dust and sweep almost every day. Everything looks clean and bright enough for a wedding.”
“What a lie!” cried Oblomov. “Be off to your room again!”
That he had provoked Zakhar to engage in this conversation was a fact which gave him small pleasure. The truth was he had forgotten that, once a delicate subject is touched upon, one cannot well avoid a fuss. Though he wished his rooms to be kept clean, he wished this task to be carried out invisibly, and apart from himself; whereas, whenever Zakhar was called upon to do even the least sweeping or dusting, he made a grievance of it.
After Zakhar had retired to his den Oblomov relapsed into thought, until, a few minutes later, the clock sounded a halfhour of some sort.
“What is that?” cried Oblomov in horror. “Soon the time will be eleven, yet I am not yet up and washed! Zakhar! Zakhar!”
Zakhar reappeared.
“Are my washing things ready?” his master inquired.
“Yes, they have been ready a long time. Why do you not get up?”
“And why didn’t you tell me that the things are ready? Had you done that, I should have risen long ago. Go along, and I will follow’ you; but at the moment I must sit down and write a letter.”
Zakhar left the room. Presently he reappeared with a much-bescribbled, greasy account-book and a bundle of papers.
“If you are going to write anything,” he said, “perhaps you would like to check these accounts at the same time? Some money is due to be paid out.”
“What accounts? What money?” inquired Oblomov petulantly.
“The accounts sent in by the butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker. All are wanting their money.”
“Always money and worry!” grumbled Oblomov. “Why do you not give me the accounts at intervals instead of in a batch like this?”
“Because each time you have sent me away, and then put matters off until the morrow.”
“Well, these accounts can wait until the morrow.”
“No, they cannot, for the creditors are pressing, and say they are going to allow you nothing more on credit. To-day is the first of the month, you must remember.”
“Ah! Fresh cares, fresh worries!” cried Oblomov gloomily. “Why are you standing there? Lay the table, and I will rise, wash, and look into the whole business. Is the water yet ready?”
“Quite.”
Oblomov raised himself and grunted as though he really intended to get out of bed.
“By the way,” said Zakhar, “whilst you were still asleep the manager of the building sent the dvornik * to say that soon you must quit the flat, since he wants It for some one else.”
* Porter or doorkeeper.
“Very well, then. We must go. Why worry me about it? This is the third time you have done so.”
“But they keep worrying me about it.”
“Then tell them that we intend to go.”
Zakhar departed again, and Oblomov resumed his reverie. How long he would have remained in this state of indecision it is impossible to say had not a ring at the doorbell resounded through the hall.
“Some one has called, yet I am not yet up!” exclaimed Oblomov as he slipped into his dressing-gown. “Who can it be?”
Lying down again, he gazed furiously towards the door.
II
T here entered a young fellow of about twenty-five. Beaming with health and irreproachably dressed to a degree which dazzled the eye with its immaculateness of linen and gorgeousness of jewellery, he was a figure calculated to excite envy.
“Good morning, Volkov!” cried Oblomov.
“And good morning to you,” returned the radiant gentleman, approaching the bed and looking about him for a spot whereon to deposit a hat. However, perceiving only dust, he retained his headgear in his hand. Next he drew aside the skirts of his coat (preparatory to sitting down), but a hasty inspection of the nearest chair convinced him that he had far better remain standing.
“So you are not yet up?” he went on. “And why on earth are you wearing a nightshirt? They have quite gone out of fashion.”
“ ’Tis not a nightshirt, it is a dressinggown,” said Oblomov, nestling lovingly into the ample folds of the garment. “Where are you from?”
“From the tailor’s. Do you think this frock-coat a nice one?” And he turned himself round and round for Oblomov’s inspection.
“Splendid! Made with excellent taste!” was the verdict. “Only why is it so broad behind?”
“The better to ride in it. It is a riding-coat. I ordered it for to-day for the reason that this is the first of May and I am to go to the Ekaterinhov * with Gorunov. He has just got his promotion, and we intend to cut a dash on the strength of it. He has a roan horse—all the horses in his regiment are roans—and I a black. How are you going-in a carriage or on foot?”
“By neither method,” replied Oblomov.
“What? To-day is the first of May, and you are not going to the Ekaterinhov? Why, every one will be there!”
“Not quite every one,” Oblomov lazily remarked.
“You must go, though. Sophia Nikolaevna and Lydia will be occupying two of the seats in our carriage, but the seat facing them will be vacant. Come with us, I tell you.”
“No, I do not intend to occupy the vacant seat. What sort of a figure should I cut on it?”
“Then, if you like, Mischa Gorunov shall lend you a horse.”
“Of what is the fellow thinking?” said Oblomov as though to himself. “How come you and the Gorunov family to be so friendly with one another?”
“Give me your word of honour not to repeat what I may tell you, and I will explain.”
“Herewith I give it.”
“Very well. I am in love with Lydia.”
“Splendid! Have you been in love with her long? She seems