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.
Youre 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 havent been there since the day before yesterday. And hurry up, will you? Oblomov said.
Where is that handkerchief? Cant see it anywhere! said Zakhar, throwing up his hands and looking round the room. Why, there it is, he suddenly hissed angrily. Its under you, sir! Theres 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 dont do anything!
Dont I, sir?» Zakhar said in a hurt voice. «As if I wasnt 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; «everythings swept up and tidy as for a wedding. What more do you want?»
«And whats 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? Youre at home all day, arent you?»
«I sometimes go to the theatre or visit friends thats when you ought to do it».
«Cant 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, youre even more of an Oblomov than I am». And Zakhar, quite likely, thought to himself: «Fiddlesticks! All youre good at is to use high-sounding and aggravating words you dont care a fig for the dust and the cobwebs!»
«Dont you realize», said Oblomov, «that moths thrive on dust? And sometimes I can even see a bug on the wall!»
«Ive got fleas as well, sir», Zakhar remarked unconcernedly.
«You think thats all right, do you?» Oblomov said. «Why, its vermin!»
Zakhar grinned all over his face, so that his eyebrows and side-whiskers parted, and a red flush spread all over his face.
«Isnt my fault, sir, if there are bugs in the world», he said with naive surprise. «I didnt invent them, did I?»
«Its because of the dirt», Oblomov interrupted him. «What nonsense you do talk!»
«I didnt invent dirt, either».
«Youve got mice running about in your room at night I can hear them».
«I didnt 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?»
Zakhars face expressed incredulity, or rather a calm certainty that this never happened.
«Ive got lots of everything, sir», he said obstinately. «You cant expect me to see to every bug. I cant 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 wont be any», Oblomov instructed him.
«Sweep it up to-day and therell be plenty of it to-morrow», said Zakhar.
«No, there wont», his master interrupted him. «There shouldnt 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? Id rather be dead!»
«But why are other peoples rooms clean?» Oblomov retorted. «Look at the piano-tuners opposite: its 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? Theyre not like us, with stacks of worn-out clothes lying in wardrobes for years. They dont get a whole corner full of crusts of bread during the winter. They dont waste a crust, they dont! They make them into rusks and have them with their beer!»
Zakhar spat through his teeth at the thought of such a niggardly existence.
«Its no good your talking!» replied Oblomov. «Youd better tidy up the rooms».
«Well, sir, Id be glad to tidy up sometimes, but you wont let me».
«There he goes again! Its I who wont let him, if you please!»
«Of course its you, sir. Youre always at home: how can I tidy the place with you here? Go out for a whole day and Ill get it nice and tidy».
«Good Lord! what next? Go out indeed! Youd better go back to your room».
«But really, sir», Zakhar insisted. «Why dont you go out today, and Anisya and me will get everything ship-shape. Though, mind you, sir, we shant 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, «itll soon be eleven oclock, and I havent got up and washed! Zakhar! Zakhar!»
«Dear, oh dear! What now?» Zakhars 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 dont you get up, sir?»
«Why didnt you tell me it was ready? Id have got up long ago. Go now, Ill follow you presently. I have some work to do. Ill sit down and write».
Zakhar went out, but a minute later returned with a greasy notebook covered with writing and scraps of paper.
«If youre 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.