«Zakhar!» he called solemnly in a drawn-out voice.
Hearing this call, Zakhar did not growl or jump off the stove as usual, making a noise with his feet, but got down slowly and, brushing against everything with his arms and sides, walked out of his room quietly and reluctantly like a dog which knows by the sound of its master’s voice that its trick has been discovered and that it is being called to receive punishment. Zakhar half opened the door, but did not venture to go in.
«Come in!» said Oblomov.
Though the door could be opened easily, Zakhar opened it only an inch and stuck in the doorway instead of walking in.
Oblomov was sitting on the edge of his couch.
«Come here!» Oblomov ordered.
Zakhar disentangled himself from the door with difficulty, but at once closed it behind him and leant against it firmly with his back.
«Here!» said Oblomov, pointing to a place beside him.
Zakhar took half a step and stopped five yards from the place indicated.
«Nearer!» said Oblomov.
Zakhar pretended to take another step, but merely swayed forward, stamped his foot, and remained where he was. Seeing that this time he could not make Zakhar come nearer, Oblomov let him stay where he was and looked at him for some time reproachfully and in silence. Embarrassed by this silent contemplation of his person, Zakhar pretended not to notice his master and stood turning away from him more than usual and did not even at that moment look at Oblomov out of the corner of his eye. He looked stubbornly to the left, where he saw a long-familiar sight: the fringe of the spider’s web round the pictures and the spider – a living reproach to his remissness.
«Zakhar!» Oblomov said quietly and with dignity.
Zakhar made no answer.
«Well», he seemed to be thinking, «what do you want? Some other Zakhar? Can’t you see that I’m here?» He transferred his gaze from the left to the right, past his master; there, too, he was reminded of himself by the looking-glass covered with a thick layer of dust as with muslin – his own gloomy and unattractive face looked at him sullenly and wildly from there as through a mist. He turned away with displeasure from that melancholy and all-too-familiar object and made up his mind to glance for a moment at Oblomov. Their eyes met.
Zakhar could not bear the reproach in his master’s eyes, and lowered his own eyes: there again, in the carpet, impregnated with dust and covered with stains, he read the sad testimony to his zeal in his master’s service.
«Zakhar!» Oblomov repeated with feeling.
«What is it, sir?» Zakhar asked in a barely audible whisper and gave a slight shudder, anticipating a pathetic speech.
«Give me some kvas», said Oblomov.
Zakhar breathed freely; he felt so happy that he rushed like a boy to the sideboard and brought some kvas.
«Well, how do you feel?» Oblomov asked gently, taking a sip from the glass and holding it in his hands. «You’re sorry, aren’t you?»
The crestfallen expression on Zakhar’s face was immediately softened by a ray of repentance that appeared on his features. Zakhar felt the first symptoms of awakening reverence for his master and he suddenly began to look straight in his eyes.
«Are you sorry for your misdemeanour?» asked Oblomov.
«Why, what „misdemeanour“ is this?» Zakhar thought bitterly. «Something awful, I’ll be bound. I shall burst into tears if he goes on lecturing me like this».
«Well, sir», Zakhar began on the lowest note of his register, «I haven’t said nothing except that…»
«No, wait!» Oblomov interrupted. «Do you realize what you’ve done? Here, put the glass on the table and tell me».
Zakhar said nothing, being completely at a loss to understand what he had done, but that did not prevent him from looking with reverence at his master; he even hung his head a little, conscious of his guilt.
«Well, aren’t you a venomous creature?» Oblomov said.
Zakhar still said nothing, and only blinked slowly a few times.
«You’ve grieved your master!» Oblomov declared slowly, looking fixedly at Zakhar and enjoying his embarrassment.
Zakhar felt so miserable that he wished he could sink through the floor.
«You have grieved him, haven’t you?» asked Oblomov.
«Grieved!» Zakhar whispered, utterly bewildered by that new, pathetic word. He glanced wildly from the right to the left, looking in vain for some deliverance, and again all he saw was the spider’s web, the dust, and his own and his master’s reflections in the looking-glass.
«Oh, I wish I could sink through the ground! Oh, why aren’t I dead?» he thought, seeing that, try as he might, he could not avoid a pathetic scene. He felt that he was blinking more and more and that any moment tears would start in his eyes. At last he regaled his master with his familiar song, except that it was in prose.
«How have I grieved you, sir?» he asked, almost in tears.
«How?» Oblomov repeated. «Why, did it occur to you to think what other people are?»
He stopped, still looking at Zakhar.
«Shall I tell you what they are?»
Zakhar turned like a bear in its lair and heaved a loud sigh.
«The other people you’re thinking of are poor wretches, rough, uncivilized people who live in dirt and poverty in some attic; they can sleep comfortably on a felt mat somewhere in the yard. What can happen to such people? Nothing. They guzzle potatoes and salt herrings. Poverty drives them from one place to another, and so they rush about all day long. They, I’m sure, wouldn’t mind moving to a new flat. Lyagayev, for instance. He would put his ruler under his arm, tie up his two shirts in a handkerchief, and go off. „Where are you going?“ „I’m moving,“ he would say. That’s what other people are like. Aren’t they?»
Zakhar glanced at his master, shifted from foot to foot, and said nothing.
«What are other people?» Oblomov went on. «They are people who do not mind cleaning their boots and dressing themselves, and though they sometimes look like gentlemen, it’s all a put-up show; they don’t know what a servant looks like. If they have no one to send out on an errand, they run out themselves. They don’t mind stirring the fire in the stove or dusting their furniture…»
«There are many Germans who are like that», Zakhar said gloomily.
«No doubt there are! And I? What do you think? Am I like them?»
«You’re quite different, sir», Zakhar said piteously, still at a loss to know what his master was driving at. «What has come over you, sir?»
«I’m quite different, am I? Wait, think carefully what you’re saying. Just consider how the „others“ live. The „others“ work hard, they rush about, they’re always busy», Oblomov went on. «If they don’t work, they don’t eat. The „others“ bow and scrape, beg, grovel. And I? Well, tell me, what do you think: am I like „other people“?»
«Please, sir, don’t go on torturing me with pathetic words», Zakhar implored. «Oh dear, oh dear!»
«I am like the „others“, am I? Do I rush about? Do I work? Have I not enough to eat? Do I look thin and wretched? Do I go short of things? It seems to me I have someone to wait on me and do things for me!