LITMIR.BIZ

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wonder if Tarantyev took it», Oblomov thought irresolutely. «But no, he would have taken all the change».

      «What else is there left?» he asked.

      «Nothing, sir. There may be some ham left over from yesterday», said Zakhar. «I’ll go and ask Anisya. Shall I bring it?»

      «Bring what there is. But how is it there’s no cheese left?» «Well, there isn’t», said Zakhar, and went out.

      Oblomov slowly and thoughtfully paced about the study.

      «Yes», he said softly, «there’s plenty to do. Take the plan alone – lots of work still to be done on it! I’m sure there was some cheese left», he added thoughtfully. «It’s that Zakhar who’s eaten it and he’s just saying there wasn’t any. And where could the coppers have gone to?» he went on, rummaging on the table.

      A quarter of an hour later Zakhar opened the door with the tray, which he carried in both hands. As he came into the room, he wanted to shut the door with his foot, but missed it and nearly fell over; a wine-glass, the stopper of the decanter, and a roll dropped to the floor.

      «You can’t take a step without dropping something», said Oblomov. «Well, pick up what you’ve dropped! Look at him, standing there and admiring his handiwork!»

      Zakhar, still holding the tray, bent down to pick up the roll, but as he squatted down, he realized that both his hands were still occupied and he could not possibly do so.

      «Well, sir, pick it up!» Oblomov said sarcastically. «Why don’t you? What’s wrong?»

      «Oh, damn you all!» Zakhar burst out furiously, addressing himself to the articles on the floor. «Who ever heard of having lunch before dinner?»

      And, putting down the tray, he picked up the things from the floor; taking the roll, he blew on it and then put it on the table.

      Oblomov began his lunch, and Zakhar remained standing at some distance from him, glancing at him sideways and evidently intending to say something. But Oblomov went on eating without taking the slightest notice of him. Zakhar coughed once or twice. Oblomov still paid no attention.

      «The landlord’s agent, sir, has just called again», Zakhar at last began timidly. «The builder has been to see him and asked if he could have a look at our flat. It’s all about the conversion, sir…»

      Oblomov went on eating without answering a word.

      «Sir», Zakhar said after a pause, more quietly than ever.

      Oblomov pretended not to hear.

      «They say we must move next week, sir», Zakhar wheezed.

      Oblomov drank a glass of wine and said nothing.

      «What are we going to do, sir?» Zakhar asked almost in a whisper.

      «I told you not to mention it to me again», Oblomov said sternly and, getting up, went up to Zakhar.

      Zakhar drew back from him.

      «What a venomous creature you are, Zakhar!» Oblomov added with feeling.

      Zakhar was hurt.

      «Me, sir?» he said. «Me venomous? I haven’t killed nobody».

      «Why, of course you are venomous», Oblomov repeated. «You poison my life».

      «No, sir», Zakhar insisted. «I’m not venomous, sir!»

      «Why, then, do you pester me about the flat?»

      «But what can I do, sir?»

      «What can I do?»

      «But you were going to write to the landlord, weren’t you, sir?»

      «Well, of course, I will write. But you must have patience. One can’t do it all at once».

      «You ought to write to him now, sir».

      «Now, now! I have much more important business to attend to. You think it’s just like chopping wood? Bang – and it’s done? Look», Oblomov said, turning a dry pen in the inkwell, «there no ink in the inkwell, either. How can I write?»

      «I’ll dilute it with kvas at once», said Zakhar, picking up the inkstand, and he walked quickly out of the room, while Oblomov began looking for note-paper.

      «I don’t think we have any note-paper in the house», he said, rummaging in a drawer and running his fingers over the table. «No, there isn’t! Oh, that Zakhar – what a damn nuisance the fellow is!»

      «Well», said Oblomov to Zakhar as he came back, «aren’t you a venomous creature? You never look after anything! Why isn’t there any note-paper in the house?»

      «But really, sir, how can you say that? I am a Christian, I am. Why do you call me venomous? Venomous, indeed! I was born and grew up in the old master’s time. He’d call me a puppy, and box my ears, but I never heard him call me that! He’d never have thought of such a word, he wouldn’t! There is no telling what you might do next! Here’s the paper, sir».

      He picked up half a sheet of grey note-paper from the bookcase and gave it to Oblomov.

      «You don’t suppose I can write a letter on this, do you?» Oblomov asked, throwing down the paper. «I’ve been using it to cover my glass at night so that nothing – venomous might drop into it!»

      Zakhar turned away and looked at the wall.

      «Oh, never mind, give it to me and I’ll write a rough draft and Alexeyev will copy it».

      Oblomov sat down at the table and quickly wrote: «Dear Sir.»..

      «What awful ink!» said Oblomov. «Next time you’d better look out, Zakhar, and see everything’s done properly».

      He thought a little and began writing.

      «The flat which I occupy on the second floor of the house in which you propose to make some alterations, entirely conforms to my mode of life and habits acquired by my long residence in this house. Having been informed by my serf, Zakhar Trofimov, that you had asked him to tell me that the flat I occupy…’

      Oblomov paused and read what he had written.

      „It’s awkward“, he said. „There are two whichs at the beginning and two thats at the end“.

      He read it through in a whisper and transposed the words: which now seemed to refer to the floor – again awkward. He corrected it somehow and began thinking how he could avoid using that twice. He crossed out a word and then put it in again. He transposed that three times, but it either made nonsense or was too near the other that.

      „Can’t get rid of the second that!“ he said impatiently. „Oh, to hell with the letter! Rack my brains over such trifles! I’ve lost the knack of writing business letters. Good Lord, it’s almost three o’clock!“

      „Well, Zakhar, here you are!“

      He tore the letter into four and threw it on the floor.

      „Did you see that?“ he asked.

      „I saw it“, replied Zakhar, picking up the bits of paper.

      „So don’t pester me any more about the flat, there’s a good fellow. And what have you got there?“

      „The bills, sir“.

      ’Oh, good heavens, you’ll be the death of me! Well, how much is it? Tell me quickly?»

      «Eighty-six roubles and fifty-four copecks – to the butcher, sir».

      Oblomov threw up his hands in dismay.

      «Have you gone mad? Such a lot of money for the butcher only?»

      «If you don’t pay for three months, sir, it’s liable to mount up. It’s all written down here. No one has stolen it!»

      «And you still say you’re not venomous, do you?» said Oblomov. «Spent a million on beef! And what good does it do you? None at all as far as I can see».

      «I didn’t eat it», Zakhar muttered angrily.

      «You

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