Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [7]
That was what he did. After breakfast he sat up and nearly got out of bed; glancing at his slippers, he even lowered one foot from the bed, but immediately put it back again. It struck half-past nine. Oblomov gave a start.
‘What am I doing?’ he said aloud in a vexed voice. ‘This is awful! I must set to work! If I go on like this – –
‘Zakhar!’ he shouted.
From the room separated from Oblomov’s study only by a narrow passage came what sounded like the growl of a watch-dog on a chain, followed by the noise of a pair of legs which had jumped off from somewhere. That was Zakhar, who had jumped off the stove where he usually sat dozing.
An elderly man, wearing a grey waistcoat with brass buttons and a grey coat with a hole under the arm from which a bit of his shirt protruded, came into the room; his head was bald as a billiard ball, but his side-whiskers, light brown and streaked with grey, were so enormous 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!