y coat: in this
he saw a faint emblem of vanished greatness, and he found similar
indications in some of the characteristics of his master's features and
notions, reminding of his parentage, and in his caprices, which although
he grumbled at them under his breath and aloud, yet he prized secretly
as manifestations of the truly imperious will and autocratic spirit of a
born noble. Had it not been for these whims, he would not have felt that
his master was in any sense above him; had it not been for them, there
would have been nothing to bring back to his mind his younger days, the
village which they had abandoned so long ago, and the traditions about
that ancient home,--the sole chronicles preserved by aged servants,
nurses, and nursemaids, and handed down from mouth to mouth.

The house of the Oblomofs was rich in those days, and had great
influence in that region; but afterwards somehow or other everything had
gone to destruction, and at last by degrees had sunk out of sight,
overshadowed by parvenus of aristocratic pretensions. Only the few
gray-haired retainers of the house preserved and interchanged their
reminiscences of the past, treasuring them like holy relics.

This was the reason why Zakhar so loved his gray coat. Possibly he
valued his side-whiskers because of the fact that he saw in his
childhood many of the older servants with this ancient and aristocratic
adornment.

Ilya Ilyitch, immersed in contemplation, took no notice of Zakhar,
though the servant had been silently waiting for some time. At last he
coughed.

"What is it you want?" asked Ilya Ilyitch.

"You called me, didn't you?"

"Called you? I don't remember what I called you for," he replied,
stretching and yawning. "Go back to your room; I will try to think what
I wanted."

Zakhar went out, and Ilya Ilyitch lay down on the bed again and began to
cogitate upon that cursed letter.

A quarter of an hour elapsed.

"There now," he exclaimed, "I have dallied long enough; I must get up.
However, I must read the starosta's letter over again more attentively,
and then I will get up--Zakhar!" The same noise of leaping down from the
stove, and the same growling of the dog, only more emphatic.

Zakhar made his appearance, but again Oblomof was sunk deep in
contemplation. Zakhar stood a few moments, looking sulkily and askance
at his master, and finally he turned to go.

"Where are you going?" suddenly demanded Oblomof.

"You have nothing to say