“Because each time you have sent me away, and then put matters off until the morrow.” “Well, _these_ accounts can wait until the morrow.” “No, they cannot, for the creditors are pressing, and say they are going to allow you nothing more on credit. To-day is the first of the month, you must remember.” “Ah! Fresh cares, fresh worries!” cried Oblomov gloomily. “Why are you standing there? Lay the table, and I will rise, wash, and look into the whole business. Is the water yet ready?” “Quite.” Oblomov raised himself and grunted as though he really intended to get out of bed. “By the way,” said Zakhar, “whilst you were still asleep the manager of the building sent the _dvornik_ * to say that soon you must quit the flat, since he wants it for some one else.” * Porter or doorkeeper. “Very well, then. We must go. Why worry me about it? This is the third time you have done so.” “But they keep worrying _me_ about it.” “Then tell them that we intend to go.” Zakhar departed again, and Oblomov resumed his reverie. How long he would have remained in this state of indecision it is impossible to say had not a ring at the doorbell resounded through the hall. “Some one has called, yet I am not yet up!” exclaimed Oblomov as he slipped into his dressing-gown. “Who can it be?” Lying down again, he gazed furiously towards the door. II There entered a young fellow of about twenty-five. Beaming with health and irreproachably dressed to a degree which dazzled the eye with its immaculateness of linen and gorgeousness of jewellery, he was a figure calculated to excite envy. “Good morning, Volkov!” cried Oblomov. “And good morning to you,” returned the radiant gentleman, approaching the bed and looking about him for a spot whereon to deposit a hat. However, perceiving only dust, he retained his headgear in his hand. Next he drew aside the skirts of his coat (preparatory to sitting down), but a hasty inspection of the nearest chair convinced him that he had far better remain standing. “So you are not yet up?” he went on. “And why on earth are you wearing a _nightshirt?_ They have quite gone out of fashion.” “’Tis not a nightshirt, it is a dressinggown,” said Oblomov, nestling lovingly into the ample folds of the garment. “Where are you from?” “From the tailor’s. Do you think this frock-coat a nice one?” And he turned himself round and round for Oblomov’s inspection. “Splendid! Made with excellent taste!” was the verdict. “Only why is it so broad behind?” “The better to ride in it. It is a riding-coat. I ordered it for to-day for the reason that this is the first of May and I am to go to the Ekaterinhov * with Gorunov. He has just got his promotion, and we intend to cut a dash on the strength of it. He has a roan horse--all the horses in his regiment are roans--and I a black. How are _you_ going-in a carriage or on foot?” “By neither method,” replied Oblomov.