"It ought to go by the next post," her husband remarked.
"And what will it cost to go?"
Old Oblomov produced an ancient calendar. "Forty kopecks," he said.
"What? You are going to throw away forty kopecks on such a trifle?" she exclaimed. "We had far better wait until we are sending other things also to the town. Let the peasants know about it."
"That might be better," agreed old Oblomov, tapping his pen against the table. With that he replaced the pen in the inkstand, and took off his spectacles.
"Yes, it might be better," he concluded.
And to this day no one knows how long Philip Matveitch had to wait for that recipe.
Also, there were times when old Oblomov actually took a book in his hands. What book it might be he did not care, for he felt no actual craving to read; he looked upon literature as a mere luxury which could easily be indulged in, or be done without, even as one might have a picture on one's wall, or one might not—one might go out for an occasional walk, or one might not. Hence, as I say, he was indifferent to the identity of a book, since he looked upon
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