The next moment there entered the room a tall, loosely built man who evidently did not believe in refinement of costume, nor was in any way ashamed of the fact. This was Mikhei Andreievitch Tarantiev, a native of the same district as Oblomov. Though an individual of rough, sullen mien, and of rather an overbearing manner, he did not lack a certain keen ruggedness of wit; nor could any one be a better judge of mundane questions in general, nor a better resolver of tangled juridical problems (though usually he behaved rudely to the person who had sought his advice on these matters). Nevertheless, his abilities stopped short at a talent for verbal exposition; and no sooner was he called upon to transmit a theory into action than his whole bearing underwent a change, and in every case he discovered practical difficulties in the way of what he conceived to be the best course to take. “How are you?” he said brusquely as he extended a hairy hand. “What do you mean by lying in bed like a log? Presently it will be twelve o’clock, yet you are sprawling about on your back!” The other forestalled him by hurriedly slipping his feet into his slippers, or the new-comer would have pulled him out of bed. “I was just about to rise,” said Oblomov with a yawn. “Yes; I know how you rise--how you go rolling about until lunch-time! Zakhar, come and help your master to dress!” Zakhar entered and glared at Tarantiev. Raising himself on his elbow, Oblomov stepped from the bed like a man who is thoroughly worn out, and, dropping into an arm-chair, sat there without moving, Meanwhile Zakhar pomaded, parted, and combed his master’s hair, and then asked him if he desired to wash. “Presently,” said Oblomov. “Do you wait a little.” “Ah! So _you_ are here?” said Tarantiev suddenly as he turned to Alexiev. “I had not seen you. By the way, what a swine is that kinsman of yours!” “_What_ kinsman?” inquired Alexiev with a stare. “I do not possess a single relative.” “I mean Athanasiev. Surely he is a relative of yours? I _know_ he is.” “My name is Alexiev, not Athanasiev,” said the other. “And I repeat that I do not possess a single relative.” “But he is just like you an ugly man, as well as (like yourself, again) a man of the name of Vassili Nikolaitch?” “Nevertheless he is no kinsman of mine. Besides, my first names are Ivan and Alexeitch.” “Well, he is exactly _like_ you, and a swine besides. You can tell him that when next you meet him.” “I neither possess his acquaintance nor have ever set eyes upon him,” said Alexiev, opening his snuffbox.