Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [170]
When he got up on the following morning, Oblomov put on the indoor coat he used to wear in the country cottage. He had parted with his dressing-gown long ago, having given orders to put it away in the wardrobe. Zakhar walked clumsily to the table with the coffee and rolls, holding the tray unsteadily in his hands as usual. Anisya, also as usual, thrust her head through the door to see whether Zakhar would carry the cups safely to the table and hid herself noiselessly as soon as Zakhar put down the tray on the table or rushed up to him quickly if he dropped something, so as to save the others from falling. When this happened Zakhar began to swear first at the things, then at his wife, making as if to hit her in the chest with his elbow.
‘What excellent coffee! Who makes it?’ Oblomov asked.
‘The landlady herself, sir,’ said Zakhar. ‘She’s been making it for the last five days. “You’re putting in too much chicory and don’t boil it enough – let me do it,” she said.’
‘Excellent,’ Oblomov repeated, pouring himself another cup, ‘Thank her.’
‘Here she is herself,’ said Zakhar, pointing to the half-open door of a side room. ‘That must be their pantry, I expect. She works there. They keep sugar, tea, and coffee there as well as the crockery.’
Oblomov could see only the landlady’s back, the back of her head, a bit of her white neck, and her bare elbows.
‘Why is she moving her elbows about so rapidly there?’ asked Oblomov.
‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir. Must be making lace, I expect.’
Oblomov watched her as she moved her elbows, bent her back, and straightened out again. When she bent down, he could see her clean petticoat and stockings, and her round, firm legs.
‘A civil servant’s widow, but she has elbows fit for a countess, and with dimples, too!’ Oblomov thought.
At midday, Zakhar came to ask if he would like to taste their pie: the landlady had sent it to him with her compliments.
‘It’s Sunday, sir, and they’re baking a pie to-day.’
‘I can imagine the sort of pie it is,’ Oblomov said carelessly. ‘With carrots and onions!’
‘No, sir,’ Zakhar said, ‘it’s not worse than ours at Oblomovka – with chickens and fresh mushrooms.’
‘Oh, that must be nice: bring me some! Who does the baking? That dirty peasant woman?’
‘Not her!’ Zakhar said scornfully. ‘If it wasn’t for her mistress, she wouldn’t know how to mix the dough. She’s always in the kitchen, the landlady is. She and Anisya baked the pie, sir.’
Five minutes later a bare arm, scarcely covered with the shawl he had already seen, was thrust through the door of the side-room, holding a plate with a huge piece of steaming hot pie.
‘Thank you very much,’ Oblomov cried, accepting the pie, and glancing through the door, he fixed his eyes upon the enormous bosom and bare shoulders. The door was hastily closed.
‘Wouldn’t you like some vodka?’ the voice asked.
‘Thank you, I don’t drink,’ Oblomov said, still more affably. ‘What kind have you?’
‘Our own home-made one,’ the voice said. ‘We infuse it from currant leaves ourselves.’
‘I’ve never drunk a currant-leaf liqueur,’ said Oblomov. ‘Please let me try it.’
The bare arm was thrust through the door again with a glass of vodka on a plate. Oblomov drank it and liked it very much.
‘Thank you very much,’ he said, trying to peep through the door, but the door was slammed to.
‘Why don’t you let me have a look at you and wish you good morning?’ Oblomov reproached her.
The landlady smiled behind the door. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m still wearing my everyday dress: I’ve been in the kitchen all the time, you see. I’ll dress presently, and my brother will soon be coming from Mass,’ she replied.
‘Oh, à propos of your brother,’ Oblomov observed. ‘I’d like to have a talk with him. Tell him I want to see him, please.’
‘All right, I’ll tell him when he comes.’
‘And who is it coughing?’ Oblomov