“Whom am I to appoint in the _starosta’s_ place?” asked Oblomov. “Another man might prove even worse than he.” “You yourself had better go to the estate, and stay there for the summer, and then move into my friend’s house. _I_ will see that her rooms shall be ready for you--yes, I will see to it at once. Personally, I should have sold that property of yours, and bought another. Hand it over to me, and I will very soon make the folk there aware that I am alive!” The upshot of it was that Oblomov accorded a half-hearted consent to Tarantiev’s procuring him a new lodging, and also to his writing to the governor of the district where his (Oblomov’s) property was situated. After that Tarantiev departed, stating that he would return to dinner at five o’clock. With Tarantiev’s departure a calm of ten minutes reigned in the apartment. Oblomov was feeling greatly upset, both by the _starostas_ letter and by the prospect of the impending removal. Also, the tumultuous Tarantiev had thoroughly tired him out. “Why do you not sit down and write the letter?” asked Alexiev. “If you wish I will clean the inkstand for you.” “Clean it, and the Lord bless you!” sighed Oblomov. “Let me write the letter alone, and then you shall fair-copy it after dinner.” “Very well,” replied Alexiev. “But now I must be off, or I shall be delaying the Ekaterinhov party. Good-bye!” Oblomov did not heed him, but, sinking back into a recumbent position in the armchair, relapsed into a state of meditative lethargy. IV Zakhar, after closing the door 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.