Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [51]
Zakhar heaved a deep sigh and withdrew to his room.
‘What a life!’ he growled, sitting down on the stove.
‘Good Lord,’ Oblomov, too, groaned. ‘Here I was going to devote the morning to some decent work, and now I’m upset for the whole day. And who’s done it? My own tried and devoted servant. And the things he has said! How could he have said it?’
Oblomov could not compose himself for a long time; he lay down, he got up, paced the room, and again lay down. In Zakhar’s attempt to reduce him to the level of other people he saw a violation of his rights to Zakhar’s exclusive preference of his own master. He tried to grasp the whole meaning of that comparison and analyse what the others were and what he was, and to what an extent a parallel between him and other people was justified, and how gravely Zakhar had insulted him. Finally, he wondered whether Zakhar had insulted him consciously, that is to say, whether he was convinced that he, Oblomov, was the same as ‘another’, or whether the words had escaped him without thinking. All this hurt Oblomov’s vanity and he decided to show Zakhar the difference between himself and those ‘others’ and make him feel the whole baseness of his action.
‘Zakhar!’ he called solemnly in a drawn-out voice.
Hearing this call, Zakhar did not growl or jump off the stove as usual, making a noise with his feet, but got down slowly and, brushing against everything with his arms and sides, walked out of his room quietly and reluctantly like a dog which knows by the sound of its master’s voice that its trick has been discovered and that it is being called to receive punishment. Zakhar half opened the door, but did not venture to go in.
‘Come in!’ said Oblomov.
Though the door could be opened easily, Zakhar opened it only an inch and stuck in the doorway instead of walking in.
Oblomov was sitting on the edge of his couch.
‘Come here!’ Oblomov ordered.
Zakhar disentangled himself from the door with difficulty, but at once closed it behind him and leant against it firmly with his back.
‘Here!’ said Oblomov, pointing to a place beside him.
Zakhar took half a step and stopped five yards from the place indicated.
‘Nearer!’ said Oblomov.
Zakhar pretended to take another step, but merely swayed forward, stamped his foot, and remained where he was. Seeing that this time he could not make Zakhar come nearer, Oblomov let him stay where he was and looked at him for some time reproachfully and in silence. Embarrassed by this silent contemplation of his person, Zakhar pretended not to notice his master and stood turning away from him more than usual and did not even at that moment look at Oblomov out of the corner of his eye. He looked stubbornly to the left, where he saw a long-familiar sight: the fringe of the spider’s web round the pictures and the spider – a living reproach to his remissness.
‘Zakhar!’ Oblomov said quietly and with dignity.
Zakhar made no answer.
‘Well,’ he seemed to be thinking, ‘what do you want? Some other Zakhar? Can’t you see that I’m here?’ He transferred his gaze from the left to the right, past his master; there, too, he was reminded of himself by the looking-glass covered with a thick layer of dust as with muslin – his own gloomy and unattractive face looked at him sullenly and wildly from there as through a mist. He turned away with displeasure from that melancholy and all-too-familiar object and made up his mind to glance for a moment at Oblomov. Their eyes met.
Zakhar could not bear the reproach in his master’s eyes, and lowered his own eyes: there again, in the carpet, impregnated with dust and covered with stains, he read the sad testimony to his zeal in his master’s service.
‘Zakhar!’ Oblomov repeated with feeling.
‘What is it, sir?’ Zakhar asked in a barely audible whisper and gave a slight shudder, anticipating a pathetic speech.
‘Give me some kvas,’ said Oblomov.
Zakhar breathed freely; he felt so happy that he rushed like a boy to the sideboard and brought some kvas.
‘Well, how do you feel?’ Oblomov asked gently,