Oblomov - Ivan Goncharov [8]
Again the same jump and louder growling. Zakhar came in, and Oblomov again sank into thought. Zakhar stood for a couple of minutes looking at his master disapprovingly and slightly sideways, and at last walked towards the door.
‘Where are you off to?’ Oblomov asked suddenly.
‘You say nothing, sir, so why should I stand here for nothing?’ Zakhar said in a hoarse whisper, having lost his voice, so he claimed, riding to hounds with the old master, when a strong gust of wind had blown into his throat.
He was standing in the middle of the room, half turned away from Oblomov, at whom he went on looking sideways.
‘Have you lost the use of your legs, that you can’t stand a little longer? You see I am worried – so just wait! Haven’t you been lying down long enough in your room? Find the letter I received from the bailiff yesterday. Where did you put it?’
‘What letter? I’ve seen no letter, sir,’ Zakhar said.
‘But you took it from the postman yourself – such a dirty letter!’
‘How should I know where you put it?’ said Zakhar, tapping the papers and the various articles on the table.
‘You never know anything! Look there – in the waste-paper basket! Or perhaps it has dropped behind the sofa? Look at the back of that sofa – hasn’t it been repaired yet? Why don’t you send for the carpenter and have it repaired? It was you who broke it, wasn’t it? You never think of anything!’
‘It wasn’t me that broke it, sir,’ replied Zakhar. ‘It broke by itself. Can’t last for ever, can it? It’s bound to get broken some day.’
Oblomov did not think it necessary to contest the point.
‘Haven’t you found it yet?’ he merely asked.
‘Here are some letters, sir.’
‘That’s not it.’
‘Well, sir, there ain’t no more,’ Zakhar said.
‘Very well, you can go,’ Oblomov said impatiently. ‘I’ll look for it myself when I get up.’
Zakhar went back to his room, but he was just about to lay his hands on the stove in order to jump on to it, when he again heard a hurried call:
‘Zakhar! Zakhar!’
‘Oh Lord!’ Zakhar growled, as he went into the study again. ‘What a trial he is! I wish I was dead!
‘What is it now, sir?’ he asked, holding on to the door of the study with one hand, and, to show his extreme disapproval, looking at Oblomov at such an angle that he could see his master only out of the corner of his eye, while his master could only see one of his vast side-whiskers, out of which, it would seem, two or three birds might fly at any moment.
‘My handkerchief, and be quick about it! You might have thought of it yourself – you never see anything!’ Oblomov observed sternly.
Zakhar showed no sign of any particular displeasure or surprise at his master’s command and reproach, no doubt finding both quite natural.
‘How should I know where your handkerchief is?’ he grumbled, walking round the room and feeling every chair with his hand, though one could see there was nothing lying there.
‘You’re always losing things,’ he observed, opening the drawing-room door to see if the handkerchief was there.
‘Where are you going? Look for it here! I haven’t been there since the day before yesterday. And hurry up, will you?’ Oblomov said.
‘Where is that handkerchief? Can’t see it anywhere!’ said Zakhar, throwing up his hands and looking round the room. ‘Why, there it is,’ he suddenly hissed angrily. ‘It’s under you, sir! There’s one end of it sticking out! You lie on your handkerchief and then you ask for it!’
And, without waiting for a reply, Zakhar was about to leave the room. Oblomov felt a little disconcerted by his own mistake. But he quickly found another reason for putting the blame on Zakhar.
‘Is this the way you keep the place clean and tidy? Look at the dust, the dirt – good Lord! There – have a look in the corners – you don’t do anything!’
‘Don’t I, sir?’ Zakhar said in a hurt voice. ‘As if I wasn’t trying. Working my fingers to the bone, I am. Dusting and sweeping nearly every day.’
He pointed to the middle of the floor and the table at which Oblomov had dinner.
‘Look there, sir, there,’ he said;