and so thick that each of them could have made three beards.
Zakhar had made no attempt to change either the appearance which the good Lord had bestowed upon him or the clothes he had worn in the country. His clothes were made after the pattern he had brought from his village. He liked the grey coat and waistcoat, for they reminded him vaguely of the livery he used to wear in the good old days when he accompanied his late master and mistress to church or on some visit; and to his mind this livery was the only evidence of the dignity of the Oblomov family. There was nothing else to remind the old man of his prosperous and peaceful life in his old master’s house in the wilds of the country. His old master and mistress were dead, the family portraits had been left behind in the old country house, where, no doubt, they were lying somewhere in the attic; the stories which told of the old way of life and the important position occupied by the family were no longer heard and only lived in the memory of a few old people who had remained on the estate. This was why his grey coat was so dear to Zakhar. He saw in it a faint reflection of past glory, of which he was also reminded by something in Oblomov’s face and manner which recalled his parents, Zakhar’s old master and mistress, and by his whims, at which the servant grumbled both to himself and aloud, but which he respected for all that as a manifestation of his master’s will and his master’s rights. Without these whims he would, somehow, not have felt that he had a master over him; without them nothing would have brought back to him the memory of his youth, the country they had left so long ago, and the tales of the ancient family seat, preserved in the memory of the old servants and nursemaids and passed on from one generation to another.
The Oblomov family had once been rich and famous in its part of the country, but afterwards, goodness only knows why, it had grown poorer, lost all its influence, and, at last, was imperceptibly lost among the newer families of the landed gentry. Only the grey-haired servants of the family kept alive and handed on the faithful memories of the past which they treasured as if they were something sacred.
That was why Zakhar was so fond of his grey coat. Perhaps he valued his side-whiskers, too, because as a child he had seen so many old servants who wore that ancient and aristocratic adornment.
Oblomov, absorbed in his thoughts, did not notice Zakhar for a long time. Zakhar stood before him in silence. At last he coughed.
«What do you want?» Oblomov asked.
«But you called me, sir, didn’t you?»
«Called you? Whatever did I call you for? Can’t remember!» he replied, stretching himself. «You’d better go back to your room and I’ll try and remember».
Zakhar went out of the room, and Oblomov went on lying in bed and thinking of the cursed letter.
A quarter of an hour passed.
«Well, I’ve been lying long enough», he said. «I must get up. But wait – let me read the bailiff’s letter carefully once more and then I’ll get up. Zakhar!»
Again the same jump and louder growling. Zakhar came in, and Oblomov again sank into thought. Zakhar stood for a couple of minutes looking at his master disapprovingly and slightly sideways, and at last walked towards the door.
«Where are you off to?» Oblomov asked suddenly.
«You say nothing, sir, so why should I stand here for nothing?» Zakhar said in a hoarse whisper, having lost his voice, so he claimed, riding to hounds with the old master, when a strong gust of wind had blown into his throat.
He was standing in the middle of the room, half turned away from Oblomov, at whom he went on looking sideways.
«Have you lost the use of your legs, that you can’t stand a little longer? You see I am worried – so just wait! Haven’t you been lying down long enough in your room? Find the letter I received from the bailiff yesterday. Where did you put it?»
«What letter? I’ve seen no letter, sir», Zakhar said.
«But you took it from the postman yourself – such a dirty letter!»
«How should I know where you put it?» said Zakhar, tapping the papers and the various articles on the table.
«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
