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
