"It ought not to be as bad," interrupted the master.
"But it is," insisted the servant; "I know all about it."
"Well then, if the dust collects again, brush it out again."
"What is that you say? Brush out all the corners every day?" exclaimed Zakhár. "What a life that would be! Better were it that God should take my soul!"
"Why are other people's houses clean?" urged Oblómof. "Just look at the piano-tuner's rooms: see how neat they look, and only one maid—"
"Oh, these Germans!" exclaimed Zakhár suddenly interrupting. "Where do they make any litter? Look at the way they live! Every family gnaws a whole week on a single bone. The coat goes from the father's back to the son's, and back from the son's to the father's. The wives and daughters wear little short skirts, and when they walk they all lift up their legs like ducks—where do they get any dirt? They don't do as we do—leave a whole heap of soiled clothes in the closet for a year at a time, or fill up the corners with bread crusts for the winter. Their crusts are never flung down at random: they make zweiback out of them, and eat them when they drink their beer!"
Zakhár expressed his disgust at such a penurious way of living by spitting through his teeth.
"Say nothing more," expostulated Ílya Ílyitch. "Do better work with your house-cleaning."
"One time I would have cleaned up, but you yourself would not allow it," said Zakhár.
"That is all done with! Don't you see I have entirely changed?"