Anna Karenina (Literature Classics Series). Leo Tolstoy
remained silent, then a kind and rather pathetic smile appeared on his handsome face.
‘Ah, Matthew!’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Never mind, sir — things will shape themselves.’
‘Shape themselves, eh?’
‘Just so, sir.’
‘Do you think so? — Who’s that?’ asked Oblonsky, hearing the rustle of a woman’s dress outside the door.
‘It’s me, sir,’ answered a firm and pleasant woman’s voice, and Matrena Filimonovna, the children’s nurse, thrust her stern pockmarked face in at the door.
‘What is it, Matrena?’ asked Oblonsky, stepping out to her.
Although he was entirely guilty and was conscious of it, almost every one in the house — even the nurse, Darya Alexandrovna’s best friend — sided with him.
‘What is it?’ said he mournfully.
‘Won’t you go and try again sir? By God’s grace you might make it up! She suffers dreadfully; it’s pitiful to see her, and everything in the house is topsy-turvy. You should consider the children! Own up, sir — it can’t be helped! There’s no joy without …’
‘But she won’t admit me!’
‘Do your part — God is merciful. Pray to Him, sir, pray to Him!’
‘All right — now go,’ said Oblonsky, suddenly blushing.
‘I must get dressed,’ said he, turning to Matthew, and he resolutely threw off his dressing-gown.
Matthew blew some invisible speck off the shirt which he held ready gathered up like a horse’s collar, and with evident pleasure invested with it his master’s carefully tended body.
Chapter 3
WHEN he was quite dressed Oblonsky sprinkled some scent on himself, pulled down his cuffs, and as usual distributing in different pockets his cigarette-case, matches, pocket-book, and the watch with its double chain and bunch of charms, he shook out his handkerchief, and feeling clean, sweet, healthy, and physically bright in spite of his misfortune, went with a slight spring in each step into the dining-room where his coffee stood ready. Beside the coffee lay letters and papers from the Office.
He read the letters, one of which impressed him unpleasantly. It concerned the sale of a forest on his wife’s estate, and came from a dealer who wanted to buy that forest. This forest had to be sold; but until he was reconciled with his wife the sale was quite out of the question. What was most unpleasant was that a financial consideration would now be mixed up with the impending reconciliation. The idea that he might be biased by that consideration, might seek a reconciliation in order to sell the forest, offended him. Having looked through his letters, Oblonsky drew the Departmental papers toward him, and turning over the pages of two files made a few notes on them with a big pencil; then pushing them aside, began to drink his coffee.
At the same time he unfolded the still damp morning paper, and began reading. Oblonsky subscribed to and read a Liberal paper — not an extreme Liberal paper but one that expressed the opinions of the majority. And although neither science, art, nor politics specially interested him, he firmly held to the opinions of the majority and of his paper on those subjects, changing his views when the majority changed theirs, — or rather, not changing them — they changed imperceptibly of their own accord.
Oblonsky’s tendency and opinions were not his by deliberate choice: they came of themselves, just as he did not choose the fashion of his hats or coats but wore those of the current style. Living in a certain social set, and having a desire, such as generally develops with maturity, for some kind of mental activity, he was obliged to hold views, just as he was obliged to have a hat. If he had a reason for preferring Liberalism to the Conservatism of many in his set, it was not that he considered Liberalism more reasonable, but because it suited his manner of life better. The Liberal Party maintained that everything in Russia was bad, and it was a fact that Oblonsky had many debts and decidedly too little money. The Liberal Party said that marriage was an obsolete institution which ought to be reformed; and family life really gave Oblonsky very little pleasure, forcing him to tell lies and dissemble, which was quite contrary to his nature. The Liberal Party said, or rather hinted, that religion was only good as a check on the more barbarous portion of the population; and Oblonsky really could not stand through even a short church service without pain in his feet, nor understand why one should use all that dreadful high-flown language about another world while one can live so merrily in this one. Besides, Oblonsky was fond of a pleasant joke, and sometimes liked to perplex a simple-minded man by observing that if you’re going to be proud of your ancestry, why stop short at Prince Rurik and repudiate your oldest ancestor — the ape?
Thus Liberalism became habitual to Oblonsky, and he loved his paper as he loved his after-dinner cigar, for the slight mistiness it produced in his brain. He read the leading article, which explained that in our time it is needless to raise the cry that Radicalism is threatening to swallow up all Conservative elements and to maintain that the Government should take measures to crush the hydra of revolution; for, on the contrary, ‘in our opinion the danger lies not in an imaginary hydra of revolution, but in an obstinate clinging to tradition which hampers progress,’ etc. He also read the finance article in which Bentham and Mill were mentioned and hits were made at the Ministry. With his natural quickness of perception he understood the meaning of each hit, whence it came, for whom it was meant and what had provoked it, and this as usual gave him a certain satisfaction. But to-day the satisfaction was marred by the memory of Matrena Filimonovna’s advice, and of the fact that there was all this trouble in the house. He went on to read that there was a rumour of Count Beust’s journey to Wiesbaden; that there would be no more grey hairs; that a light brougham was for sale, and a young person offered her services; but all this information did not give him the quiet, ironical pleasure it usually did.
Having finished the paper, his second cup of coffee, and a buttered roll, he got up, flicked some crumbs off his waistcoat, and, expanding his broad chest, smiled joyfully, not because there was anything specially pleasant in his mind — no, the smile was but the result of a healthy digestion. But that joyful smile at once brought everything back to his mind, and he grew thoughtful.
Then he heard the sound of two childish voices outside the door, and recognized them as the voices of his eldest daughter, Tanya, and of his little boy Grisha. They were dragging something along, and had upset it.
‘I told you not to put passengers on the roof,’ the girl shouted in English. ‘Now pick them up!’
‘Everything is disorganized,’ thought Oblonsky; ‘here are the children running wild — ’ and going to the door he called them in. They left the box, which represented a train, and came to their father.
The girl, her father’s pet, ran boldly in, embraced him, and hung laughing on his neck, pleased, as she always was, to smell the familiar scent of his whiskers. Having kissed his face, flushed by stooping and lit up by tenderness, the girl unclasped her hands and was going to run away, but he held her back.
‘How’s Mama?’ he asked, passing his hand over his daughter’s smooth delicate little neck, as he smilingly said ‘Good morning’ in answer to the little boy’s greeting.
He was conscious of not caring as much for the boy as for the girl but did his best to treat them both alike. The boy felt this and did not respond to his father’s cold smile.
‘Mama? She’s up,’ said the girl.
Oblonsky sighed.
‘That means that she has again not slept all night,’ he thought.
‘Yes, but is she cheerful?’ he added.
The girl knew that her father and mother had quarrelled, and that her mother could not be cheerful, and also