“Yes, they have been ready a long time. Why do you not get up?”
“And why didn’t you tell me that the things are ready? Had you done that, I should have risen long ago. Go along, and I will follow you; but at the moment I must sit down and write a letter.”
Zakhar left the room. Presently he reappeared with a much-bescribbled, greasy account-book and a bundle of papers.
“If you are going to write anything,” he said, “perhaps you would like to check these accounts at the same time? Some money is due to be paid out.”
“What accounts? What money?” inquired Oblomov petulantly.
“The accounts sent in by the butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, and the baker. All are wanting their money.”
“Always money and worry!” grumbled Oblomov. “Why do you not give me the accounts at intervals instead of in a batch like this?”
“Because each time you have sent me away, and then put matters off until the morrow.”
“Well, these accounts can wait until the morrow.”
“No, they cannot, for the creditors are pressing, and say they are going to allow you nothing more on credit. To-day is the first of the month, you must remember.”