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to-day and there’ll be plenty of it to-morrow,’ said Zakhar.
    ‘No, there won’t,’ his master interrupted him. ‘There shouldn’t be.’
    ‘There will be,’ the servant insisted; ‘I know, sir.’
    ‘Well, if there is, you must sweep it up again.’
    ‘What, sir? Sweep out all the corners every day?’ Zakhar asked. ‘Why, what sort of life would that be? I’d rather be dead!’
    ‘But why are other people’s rooms clean?’ Oblomov retorted. ‘Look at the piano-tuner’s opposite: it’s a pleasure to look at his place, and he has only one maid.’
    ‘And where, sir, do you expect Germans to get dirt from?’ Zakhar objected suddenly. ‘See how they live! The whole family gnaw a bone all the week. A coat passes from the father to the son and from the son back again to the father. His wife and daughters wear short frocks: their legs stick out under them like geese.… Where are they to get dirt from? They’re not like us, with stacks of worn-out clothes lying in wardrobes for years. They don’t get a whole corner full of crusts of bread during the winter. They don’t waste a crust, they don’t! They make them into rusks and have them with their beer!’
    Zakhar spat through his teeth at the thought of such a niggardly existence.
    ‘It’s no good your talking!’ replied Oblomov. ‘You’d better tidy up the rooms.’
    ‘Well, sir, I’d be glad to tidy up sometimes, but you won’t let me.’
    ‘There he goes again! It’s I who won’t let him, if you please!’
    ‘Of course it’s you, sir. You’re always at home: how can I tidy the place with you here? Go out for a whole day and I’ll get it nice and tidy.’
    ‘Good Lord! what next? Go out indeed! You’d better go back to your room.’
    ‘But really, sir,’ Zakhar insisted. ‘Why don’t you go out to-day, and Anisya and me will get everything ship-shape. Though, mind you, sir, we shan’t be able to do everything by ourselves – not the two of us: we should have to get some charwomen to come and wash.…’
    ‘Good Lord! what an idea – charwomen! Go on, back to your room,’ said Oblomov.
    He was sorry he had started the conversation with Zakhar. He kept forgetting that as soon as he touched on that delicate subject he got involved in endless trouble. Oblomov would have liked to have his rooms clean, but he could not help wishing that it would all happen somehow of itself, without any fuss; but the moment Zakhar was asked to dust, scrub, and so on, he always made a fuss. Every time it was mentioned he began proving that it would mean a tremendous lot of trouble, knowing very well that the very thought of it terrified his master.
    Zakhar left the room and Oblomov sank into thought. A few minutes later it again struck the half-hour.
    ‘Good heavens,’ Oblomov said almost in dismay, ‘it’ll soon be eleven o’clock, and I haven’t got up and washed! Zakhar! Zakhar!’
    ‘Dear, oh dear! What now?’ Zakhar’s voice came from the passage followed by the familiar sound of a jump.
    ‘Is my water ready?’ Oblomov asked.
    ‘Been ready for hours,’ Zakhar replied. ‘Why don’t you get up, sir?’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was ready? I’d have got up long ago. Go now, I’ll follow you presently. I have some work to do. I’ll sit down and write.’
    Zakhar went out, but a minute later returned with a greasy notebook covered with writing and scraps of paper.
    ‘If you’re going to write, sir, you might as well check these accounts – they have to be paid.’
    ‘What accounts? What has to be paid?’ Oblomov asked, looking displeased.
    ‘The butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker, sir. They are all asking for money.’
    ‘All they think of is money!’ Oblomov grumbled. ‘And why don’t you give me a few bills at a time? Why do you produce them all at once?’
    ‘But every time I do, sir, you tell me to go – it’s always tomorrow, to-morrow.’
    ‘Well, can’t we put it off till to-morrow