«You never know anything! Look there – in the waste-paper basket! Or perhaps it has dropped behind the sofa? Look at the back of that sofa – hasn’t it been repaired yet? Why don’t you send for the carpenter and have it repaired? It was you who broke it, wasn’t it? You never think of anything!»

«It wasn’t me that broke it, sir», replied Zakhar. «It broke by itself. Can’t last for ever, can it? It’s bound to get broken some day».

Oblomov did not think it necessary to contest the point.

«Haven’t you found it yet?» he merely asked.

«Here are some letters, sir».

«That’s not it».

«Well, sir, there ain’t no more», Zakhar said.

«Very well, you can go», Oblomov said impatiently. «I’ll look for it myself when I get up».

Zakhar went back to his room, but he was just about to lay his hands on the stove in order to jump on to it, when he again heard a hurried call:

«Zakhar! Zakhar!»

«Oh Lord!» Zakhar growled, as he went into the study again. «What a trial he is! I wish I was dead!

„What is it now, sir?“ he asked, holding on to the door of the study with one hand, and, to show his extreme disapproval, looking at Oblomov at such an angle that he could see his master only out of the corner of his eye, while his master could only see one of his vast side-whiskers, out of which, it would seem, two or three birds might fly at any moment.

„My handkerchief, and be quick about it! You might have thought of it yourself – you never see anything!“ Oblomov observed sternly.

Zakhar showed no sign of any particular displeasure or surprise at his master’s command and reproach, no doubt finding both quite natural.

„How should I know where your handkerchief is?“ he grumbled, walking round the room and feeling every chair with his hand, though one could see there was nothing lying there.

„You’re always losing things“, he observed, opening the drawing-room door to see if the handkerchief was there.

„Where are you going? Look for it here! I haven’t been there since the day before yesterday. And hurry up, will you?“ Oblomov said.

„Where is that handkerchief? Can’t see it anywhere!“ said Zakhar, throwing up his hands and looking round the room. „Why, there it is“, he suddenly hissed angrily. „It’s under you, sir! There’s one end of it sticking out! You lie on your handkerchief and then you ask for it!“

And, without waiting for a reply, Zakhar was about to leave the room. Oblomov felt a little disconcerted by his own mistake. But he quickly found another reason for putting the blame on Zakhar.

„Is this the way you keep the place clean and tidy? Look at the dust, the dirt – good Lord! There – have a look in the corners – you don’t do anything!“

Don’t I, sir?» Zakhar said in a hurt voice. «As if I wasn’t trying. Working my fingers to the bone, I am. Dusting and sweeping nearly every day».

He pointed to the middle of the floor and the table at which Oblomov had dinner.

«Look there, sir, there», he said; «everything’s swept up and tidy as for a wedding. What more do you want?»

«And what’s this?» Oblomov interrupted him, pointing to the walls and the ceiling. «And this! And this!»

He pointed to the towel left on the sofa since the day before and to a plate with a piece of bread on it, forgotten on the table.

«Well, sir, I daresay I might take this away», said Zakhar, picking up the plate with a condescending air.

«Only that? And what about the dust on the walls – the cobwebs?» Oblomov said, pointing to the walls.

«I usually sweep the walls before Easter, sir. I clean the icons then, too, and take off the cobwebs».

«And the books and pictures – when do you dust them?»

«The books and pictures, sir, I do before Christmas: Anisya and I turn out all the book-cases then. How do you expect me to clean the place now? You’re at home all day, aren’t you?»

«I sometimes go to the theatre or visit friends – that’s when you ought to do it».

«Can’t do things at night, can I, sir?»

Oblomov gave him a reproachful look, shook his head, and sighed. Zakhar cast an indifferent glance out of the window and sighed, too. The master seemed to think: «Well, my dear chap, you’re even more of an Oblomov than I am». And Zakhar, quite likely, thought to himself: «Fiddlesticks! All you’re good at is to use high-sounding and aggravating words – you don’t care a fig for the dust and the cobwebs!»

«Don’t you realize», said Oblomov, «that moths thrive on dust? And sometimes I can even see a bug on the wall!»

«I’ve got fleas as well, sir», Zakhar remarked unconcernedly.

«You think that’s all right, do you?» Oblomov said. «Why, it’s vermin!»

Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that his eyebrows and side-whiskers parted, and a red flush spread all over his face.

«Isn’t my fault, sir, if there are bugs in the world», he said with naive surprise. «I didn’t invent them, did I?»

«It’s because of the dirt», Oblomov interrupted him. «What nonsense you do talk!»

«I didn’t invent dirt, either».

«You’ve got mice running about in your room at night – I can hear them».

«I didn’t invent the mice, either. There are lots of these creatures everywhere, sir: mice and moths and bugs».

«How is it other people have neither moths nor bugs?»

Zakhar’s face expressed incredulity, or rather a calm certainty that this never happened.

«I’ve got lots of everything, sir», he said obstinately. «You can’t expect me to see to every bug. I can’t crawl into their cracks, can I?»

He seemed to be thinking to himself: «And what would sleep be like without a bug?»

«Sweep up the dirt out of the corners – then there won’t be any», Oblomov instructed him.

«Sweep it up to-day and there’ll be plenty of it to-morrow», said Zakhar.

«No, there won’t», his master interrupted him. «There shouldn’t be».

«There will be», the servant insisted; «I know, sir».

«Well, if there is, you must sweep it up again».

«What, sir? Sweep out all the corners every day?» Zakhar asked. «Why, what sort of life would that be? I’d rather be dead!»

«But why are other people’s rooms clean?» Oblomov retorted. «Look at the piano-tuner’s opposite: it’s a pleasure to look at his place, and he has only one maid».

«And where, sir, do you expect Germans to get dirt from?» Zakhar objected suddenly. «See how they live! The whole family gnaw a bone all the week. A coat passes from the father to the son and from the son back again to the father. His wife and daughters wear short frocks: their legs stick out under them like geese… Where are they to get dirt from? They’re not like us, with stacks of worn-out clothes lying in wardrobes for years. They don’t get a whole corner full of crusts of bread during the winter. They don’t waste a crust, they don’t! They make them into rusks and have them with their beer!»

Zakhar spat through his teeth at the thought of such a niggardly existence.

«It’s no good your talking!» replied Oblomov. «You’d better tidy up the rooms».

«Well, sir, I’d be glad to tidy up sometimes, but you won’t let me».

«There he goes again! It’s I who won’t let him, if you please!»

«Of course it’s you, sir. You’re always at home: how can I tidy the place with you here? Go out for a whole day and I’ll get it nice and tidy».

«Good Lord! what next? Go out indeed! You’d better go back to your room».

«But really, sir», Zakhar insisted. «Why don’t you go out today, and Anisya and me will get everything ship-shape. Though, mind you, sir, we shan’t be able to do everything by ourselves – not the two of us: we should have to get some charwomen to come and wash…»

«Good Lord! what an idea – charwomen! Go on, back to your room», said Oblomov.

He was sorry he had started the conversation with Zakhar. He kept forgetting that as soon as he touched on that delicate subject he got involved in endless trouble. Oblomov would have liked to have his rooms clean, but he could not help wishing that it would all happen somehow of itself, without any fuss; but the moment Zakhar was asked to dust, scrub, and so on, he always made a fuss. Every time it was mentioned he began proving that it would mean a tremendous lot of trouble, knowing very well that the very thought of it terrified his master.

Zakhar left the room and Oblomov sank into thought. A few minutes later it again struck the half-hour.

«Good heavens», Oblomov said almost in dismay, «it’ll soon be eleven o’clock, and I haven’t got up and washed! Zakhar! Zakhar!»

«Dear, oh dear! What now?» Zakhar’s voice came from the passage followed by the familiar sound of a jump.

«Is my water ready?» Oblomov asked.

«Been ready for hours», Zakhar replied. «Why don’t you get up, sir?»

«Why didn’t you tell me it was ready? I’d have got up long ago. Go now, I’ll follow you presently. I have some work to do. I’ll sit down and write».

Zakhar went out, but a minute later returned with a greasy notebook covered with writing and scraps of paper.

«If you’re going to write, sir, you might as well check these accounts – they have to be paid».

«What accounts? What has to be paid?» Oblomov asked, looking displeased.

«The butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker, sir. They are all asking for money».

«All they think of is money!» Oblomov grumbled. «And why don’t you give me a few bills at a time? Why do you produce them all at once?»

«But every time I do, sir, you tell me to go – it’s always tomorrow, to-morrow».

«Well, can’t we put it off till to-morrow now?»

«No, sir. They keep on pestering me, sir. They won’t give us any credit. To-day’s the first of the month».

«Oh dear!» said Oblomov dejectedly. «A fresh worry! Well, what are you standing there for? Put them on the table. I’ll get up presently, wash, and have a look at them. So my water is ready, is it?»

«It’s ready, sir», said Zakhar.

«All right, now», – he groaned and was about to raise himself in his bed in order to get up.

«I forgot to tell you, sir», Zakhar began. «Just a few hours ago, while you were still asleep, the house agent sent the porter to say that we must move – they want the flat».

«Well, what about it? If they want it, we shall of course move. What are you pestering me for? It’s the third time you’ve told me».

«They’re pestering me too, sir».

«Tell them we’re going to move».

«They say, sir, you’ve been promising to move for the last month but you still don’t move. They’re threatening to tell the police».

«Let them!» Oblomov said resolutely. «We’ll move as soon as the weather gets warmer – in three weeks or so».

«In three weeks, sir? Why, sir, the agent says the workmen are coming in in a fortnight’s time. They’re going to break the whole place down. You’ll have to move to-morrow or the day after – that’s what he says, sir!»

«Does he? He’s in too much of a hurry! He wants us to move at once, does he? Don’t you dare even to mention the flat to me again. I’ve told you once before and you’re at it again. Take care!»

«But what am I to do, sir?» Zakhar asked.

«What are you to do? So that’s the way you want to wriggle out of your responsibilities?» replied Oblomov. «You’re asking me! What do I care? So long as you don’t bother me, you can make any arrangements you like, provided we haven’t got to move out of this flat! You won’t do anything for your master, will you?»

«But what can I do, sir?» – Zakhar began, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice. «It’s not my house, is it? How can we refuse to go, if we’re being chucked out? Now, if it was my house, sir, I’d have been only too glad…»

«Can’t you persuade them somehow? Tell them we’ve been here for years, always paid the rent regularly…»

«I told them that, sir».

«Oh? Well, what did they say?»

«Why, sir, what do you think they said? They just keep on saying we must move because they have to do all sorts of alterations. You see, sir, they want to convert this flat and the doctor’s next door into one big flat in time for the landlord’s son’s wedding».

«Goodness me, how do you like that?» Oblomov said with vexation. «To think that there are such donkeys who want to get married!»

He turned over on his back.

«Why don’t you write to the landlord, sir?» said Zakhar. «Perhaps he wouldn’t bother you then, but tell the workmen to break down the flat next door first».

Zakhar pointed somewhere to the right.

«Oh, very well, I’ll write as soon as I get up. You’d better go back to your room now, and I’ll think it over», he added. «It seems that you can’t do anything and I shall have to arrange this stupid affair myself too».

Zakhar went out of the room and Oblomov began thinking. But he could not make up his mind what he was to think of first: the bailiff’s letter, or moving out of the flat, or looking through the accounts. He was lost in a flood of worldly cares, and remained lying in bed, turning over from side to side. At times sudden cries were heard in the room: «Oh dear, oh dear! You can’t run away from life – it gets at you everywhere!»

It is difficult to say how long he would have remained in this state of indecision, if there had not been a ring at the front door.

«There’s someone at the door already», said Oblomov, wrapping his dressing-gown round him, «and I haven’t got up yet. Oh, it’s disgraceful! I wonder who it can be so early?»

And without attempting to get up, he looked curiously at the door.