er
all the closets. But now when should we be able to do it? You are always
at home."

"I sometimes go to the theatre or go out to dine: you might--"

"Do house-cleaning at night?"

Oblomof looked at him reproachfully, shook his head, and uttered a sigh;
but Zakhar gazed indifferently out of the window and also sighed deeply.
The master seemed to be thinking, "Well, brother, you are even more of
an Oblomof than I am myself;" while Zakhar probably said to himself,
"Rubbish! You as my master talk strange and melancholy words, but how do
dust and cobwebs concern you?"

"Don't you know that moths breed in dust?" asked Ilya Ilyitch. "I have
even seen bugs on the wall!"

"Well, I have fleas on me sometimes," replied Zakhar in a tone of
indifference.

"Well, is that anything to boast about? That is shameful," exclaimed
Oblomof.

Zakhar's face was distorted by a smirking smile, which seemed to embrace
even his eyebrows and his side-whiskers, which for this reason spread
apart; and over his whole face up to his very forehead extended a ruddy
spot.

"Why, am I to blame that there are bugs on the wall?" he asked in
innocent surprise: "was it I who invented them?"

"They come from lack of cleanliness," insisted Oblomof. "What are you
talking about?"

"I am not the cause of the uncleanliness."

"But you have mice in your room there running about at night--I hear
them."

"I did not invent the mice. There are all kinds of living
creatures--mice and cats and fleas--lots of them everywhere."

"How is it that other people don't have moths and bugs?"

Zakhar's face expressed incredulity, or rather a calm conviction that
this was not so.

"I have plenty of them," he said without hesitation. "One can't look
after every bug and crawl into the cracks after them."

It seemed to be his thought, "What kind of a sleeping-room would that be
that had no bugs in it?"

"Now do you see to it that you sweep and brush them out of the corners;
don't let there be one left," admonished Oblomof.

"If you get it all cleaned up it will be just as bad again to-morrow,"
remonstrated Zakhar.

"It ought not to be as bad," interrupted the master.

"But it is," insisted the servant; "I know all about it."

"Well then, if the dust collects again, brush it out again."

"What is that you say? Brush out all the corners every day?" exclaimed
Zakhar. "What a life that would be! Better were it that God should take
my soul!"

"Why are other