Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [46]
‘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