Of course, also, there were certain rare occasions when these methods of spending the time were interrupted by such happenings as the entire household falling ill of a fever, or some member of it either tripping over a stake in the dark or falling out of the hayloft or being struck on the head by a beam which had slipped from the roof. Yet, as I say, such events were rare, and when they occurred, every known and tried domestic remedy was brought into play. The injured spot was rubbed with ointment, a dose of holy water was administered, a prayer was muttered--and all was well. On the other hand, a winter headache * was quite a common phenomenon and in that case the household would retire to bed, groans and sighs would resound. One person would wrap a cucumber poultice and insert cranberries in his ears. A third walk about with nothing on but his shirt conscious, roll about the room at regular periods of once or twice a month. This happened, for the reason that the Oblomovkans did not like to allow any superfluous heat to escape by the chimney, but covered the stoves when the flames were rising high. Consequently upon no single stove-couch or stove could a hand be laid without danger of that hand being blistered. * Due to the fumes of the charcoal used for heating purposes. Only once was the monotony of Oblomovkan life broken by a wholly unexpected circumstance. The household, exhausted by the labours of dinner, had assembled for tea, when there entered a local peasant who had just been making an expedition to the town. Thrusting his hand into his bosom, he with difficulty produced a much-creased letter, addressed to the master of the house. Every one sat thunderstruck, and even the master himself changed countenance. Not an eye was there which did not dart glances at the missive. Not a nose was there which was not strained in its direction. “How unlooked for!” at length said the mistress of the household as she recovered herself. “From whom can the letter have come?” Old Oblomov took it, and turned it over in his hands, as though at a loss what to do with the epistle. “Where did you get it from?” he inquired of the peasant. “And who gave it you?” “I got it at the inn where I put up,” replied the man. “Twice did folk come from the post-office to inquire if any peasantry from Oblomovka were there, since a letter was awaiting the _barin_. The first time they came, I kept quiet, and the postman took the letter away; but afterwards the deacon of Verklevo saw me, and they came and gave me the letter, and made me pay five kopecks for it. I asked them what I was to do with the letter, and they said that I was to hand it to your Honour.” “Then at first you refused it?’ the mistress remarked sharply.