IV
Zakhar, after closing the dour successively behind Tarantiev and Alexiev, stood expecting to receive a summons from his master, inasmuch as he had overheard the fact that the latter had undertaken to write a letter. But in Oblomov’s study all remained silent as the tomb. Zakhar peeped through the chink of the door, and perceived that his master was lying prone on the sofa, with his head resting on the palm of his hand. The valet entered the room.
“Why have you lain down again?” he asked.
“Do not disturb me: cannot you see that I am reading?” was Oblomov’s abrupt reply.
“Nay, but you ought to wash, and then to write that letter,” urged Zakhar, determined not to be shaken on.
“Yes, I suppose I ought. I will do so presently. Just now I am engaged in thought.”
As a matter of fact, he did read a page of the book which was lying open—a page which had turned yellow with a month’s exposure. That done, he laid it down and yawned.
“How it all wearies me!” he whispered, stretching, and then drawing up, his legs. Glancing at the ceiling as once more he relapsed into a voluptuous state of coma, he said to himself with momentary sternness: “No—business first.” Then he rolled over, and clasped his hands behind his head.