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.
