With that Alexiev fell to pacing the room. Presently he halted before a picture which he had seen a thousand times before; then he glanced once or twice out of the window, took from a whatnot an article of some sort, turned it over in his hands, looked at it from every point of view, and replaced the same. That done, he resumed his pacing and whistling--the whole being designed to avoid hindering Oblomov from rising and performing his ablutions. Ten minutes passed. “What is the matter with you?” asked Alexiev suddenly. “What is the matter with me?” “I mean, why are you still in bed?” “I cannot tell you. Is it _really_ necessary that I should get up?” “Of course it is necessary, for they are waiting for us. Besides, you said that you would like to go.” “To go where? I have no such desire.” “Only this moment you said we would go and lunch at Ovchinin’s, and then proceed to the Ekatennhov!” “No, I cannot. It would mean my going out into the damp. Besides, rain is coming on. The courtyard looks quite dark.” “As a matter of fact, not a single cloud is in the sky, and the courtyard looks dark only because you never have your windows washed.” “Well, well!” said Oblomov. “By the way, have I yet told you of my misfortunes--of the letter from my _starosta_, and of the notice given me to quit this flat?” “No,” answered Alexiev. “What about the letter?” The document not being immediately forthcoming, Zakhar was summoned to search for it; and after it had been discovered beneath the counterpane Oblomov read it to his friend--though passing over certain greetings, added to inquiries as to the recipient’s health. The gist of the epistle was that the bulk of the crops on Oblomov’s estate were likely to fail for want of rain. “Never mind,” said Alexiev. “One must never give way to despair.” “And what would _you_ do in my place?” “I should first of all consider matters. Never ought one to come to a hasty decision.” Crumpling the letter in his hands, Oblomov leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and remained in that posture for a considerable time--his brain flooded with disturbing reflections. “I wish Schtoltz would come!” at length he remarked. “He has written that he is about to do so, but God knows what has happened to him! _He_ could solve the situation.” Suddenly the doorbell rang with such vehemence that both men started, and Zakhar came hurrying out of his pantry. III