“Yes, I refused it. What should _we_ want with letters? _We_ have no need for them, nor had I any orders to take charge of such things. So I was afraid to touch it. ‘Don’t you go too fast with that thing,’ I said to myself. Yet how the postman abused me! He would have complained to the authorities had I left the letter where it was.” “Fool!” exclaimed the lady of the house. “And from whom can it be?” said old Oblomov meditatively as he studied the address. “Somehow I seem to know the handwriting.” Upon that the missive fell to being passed from one person to another; and much guessing and discussion began. Finally the company had to own itself nonplussed. The master of the house ordered his spectacles to be fetched, and quite an hour and a half were consumed in searching for the same; but at length be put them on, and then bethought him of opening the letter. “Wait a moment,” said his wife, hastily, arresting his hand. “Do not break the seal. Who knows what the letter may contain? It may portend something dreadful, some misfortune. To what have we not come nowadays? To-morrow, or the day after, will be soon enough. The letter will not walk away of itself.” So the letter was placed under lock and key, and tea passed round. In fact, the document would have lain there for a year, had it not constituted a phenomenon so unusual as to continue to excite the Oblomovkans’ curiosity. Both after tea and on the following day the talk was of nothing else. At length things could no longer be borne, and on the fourth day, the company being assembled, the seal was diffidently broken, and old Oblomov glanced at the signature. “Radistchev!” he exclaimed. “So the message is from Philip Matveitch!” “Oh! Ah! From _him_, indeed?” resounded on all sides. “To think that he is actually alive! Glory be to God! And what does he say?” Upon that old Oblomov started to read the letter aloud. It seemed that Philip Matveitch desired him to forward the recipe for a certain beer which was brewed at Oblomovka. “Then send it, send it,” exclaimed the chorus. “Yes, and also write him an answer.” Two weeks elapsed. “Really we _must_ write that note,” old Oblomov kept repeating. “Where is the recipe?” “Where is it?” retorted his wife. “Why, it still has to be looked for. Wait a little. Why need we hurry? Should God be good, we shall soon be having another festival, and eating flesh again. Let us write _then_. I tell you, the recipe won’t run away.” “Yes, I daresay it would be better to write when we have reached the festival.”