Darya Alexandrovna meanwhile having pacified the child, and knowing
from the sound of the carriage that he had gone off, went back again to her
bedroom. It was her solitary refuge from the household cares which
crowded upon her directly she went out from it. Even now, in the short time
she had been in the nursery, the English governess and Matrona
Philimonovna had succeeded in putting several questions to her, which did
not admit of delay, and which only she could answer: “What were the
children to put on for their walk? Should they have any milk? Should not a
new cook be sent for?”
“Ah, let me alone, let me alone!” she said, and going back to her
bedroom she sat down in the same place as she had sat when talking to her
husband, clasping tightly her thin hands with the rings that slipped down on
her bony fingers, and fell to going over in her memory all the conversation.
“He has gone! But has he broken it off with her?” she thought. “Can it be he
sees her? Why didn’t I ask him! No, no, reconciliation is impossible. Even
if we remain in the same house, we are strangers—strangers forever!” She
repeated again with special significance the word so dreadful to her. “And
how I loved him! my God, how I loved him!… How I loved him! And now
don’t I love him? Don’t I love him more than before? The most horrible
thing is,” she began, but did not finish her thought, because Matrona
Philimonovna put her head in at the door.
“Let us send for my brother,” she said; “he can get a dinner anyway, or
we shall have the children getting nothing to eat till six again, like
yesterday.”
“Very well, I will come directly and see about it. But did you send for
some new milk?”
And Darya Alexandrovna plunged into the duties of the day, and
drowned her grief in them for a time.
Chapter 5
Stepan Arkadyevitch had learned easily at school, thanks to his excellent
abilities, but he had been idle and mischievous, and therefore was one of the
lowest in his class. But in spite of his habitually dissipated mode of life, his
inferior grade in the service, and his comparative youth, he occupied the
honorable and lucrative position of president of one of the government
boards at Moscow. This post he had received through his sister Anna’s
husband, Alexey Alexandrovitch Karenin, who held one of the most
important positions in the ministry to whose department the Moscow office
belonged. But if Karenin had not got his brother-in-law this berth, then
through a hundred other personages—brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, and
aunts—Stiva Oblonsky would have received this post, or some other similar
one, together with the salary of six thousand absolutely needful for him, as
his affairs, in spite of his wife’s considerable property, were in an
embarrassed condition.
Half Moscow and Petersburg were friends and relations of Stepan
Arkadyevitch. He was born in the midst of those who had been and are the
powerful ones of this world. One-third of the men in the government, the
older men, had been friends of his father’s, and had known him in
petticoats; another third were his intimate chums, and the remainder were
friendly acquaintances. Consequently the distributors of earthly blessings in
the shape of places, rents, shares, and such, were all his friends, and could
not overlook one of their own set; and Oblonsky had no need to make any
special exertion to get a lucrative post. He had only not to refuse things, not
to show jealousy, not to be quarrelsome or take offense, all of which from
his characteristic good nature he never did. It would have struck him as
absurd if he had been told that he would not get a position with the salary
he required, especially as he expected nothing out of the way; he only
wanted what the men of his own age and standing did get, and he was no
worse qualified for performing duties of the kind than any other man.
Stepan Arkadyevitch was not merely liked by all who knew him for his
good humor, but for his bright disposition, and his unquestionable honesty.
In him, in his handsome, radiant figure, his sparkling eyes, black hair and
eyebrows, and the white and red of his face, there was something which
produced a physical effect of kindliness and good humor on the people who
met him. “Aha! Stiva! Oblonsky! Here he is!” was almost always said with
a smile of delight on meeting him. Even though it happened at times that
after a conversation with him it seemed that nothing particularly delightful
had happened, the next day, and the next, everyone was just as delighted at
meeting him again.
After filling for three years the post of president of one of the
government boards at Moscow, Stepan Arkadyevitch had won the respect,
as well as the liking, of his fellow-officials, subordinates, and superiors, and
all who had had business with him. The principal qualities in Stepan
Arkadyevitch which had gained him this universal respect in the service
consisted, in the first place, of his extreme indulgence for others, founded
on a consciousness of his own shortcomings; secondly, of his perfect
liberalism—not the liberalism he read of in the papers, but the liberalism
that was in his blood, in virtue of which he treated all men perfectly equally
and exactly the same, whatever their fortune or calling might be; and thirdly
—the most important point—his complete indifference to the business in
which he was engaged, in consequence of which he was never carried away,
and never made mistakes.
On reaching the offices of the board, Stepan Arkadyevitch, escorted by a
deferential porter with a portfolio, went into his little private room, put on
his uniform, and went into the boardroom. The clerks and copyists all rose,
greeting him with good-humored deference. Stepan Arkadyevitch moved
quickly, as ever, to his place, shook hands with his colleagues, and sat
down. He made a joke or two, and talked just as much as was consistent
with due decorum, and began work. No one knew better than Stepan
Arkadyevitch how to hit on the exact line between freedom, simplicity, and
official stiffness necessary for the agreeable conduct of business. A
secretary, with the good-humored deference common to everyone in Stepan
Arkadyevitch’s office, came up with papers, and began to speak in the
familiar and easy tone which had been introduced by Stepan Arkadyevitch.
“We have succeeded in getting the information from the government
department of Penza. Here, would you care?…”
“You’ve got them at last?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laying his finger on
the paper. “Now, gentlemen….”
And the sitting of the board began.
“If they knew,” he thought, bending his head with a significant air as he
listened to the report, “what a guilty little boy their president was half an
hour ago.” And his eyes were laughing during the reading of the report. Till
two o’clock the sitting would go on without a break, and at two o’clock
there would be an interval and luncheon.
It was not yet two, when the large glass doors of the boardroom suddenly
opened and someone came in.
All the officials sitting on the further side under the portrait of the Tsar
and the eagle, delighted at any distraction, looked round at the door; but the
doorkeeper standing at the door at once drove out the intruder, and closed
the glass door after him.
When the case had been read through, Stepan Arkadyevitch got up and
stretched, and by way of tribute to the liberalism of the times took out a
cigarette in the boardroom and went into his private room. Two of the
members of the board, the old veteran in the service, Nikitin, and the
Kammerjunker Grinevitch, went in with him.
“We shall have time to finish after lunch,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch.
“To be sure we shall!” said Nikitin.
“A pretty sharp fellow this Fomin must be,” said Grinevitch of one of the
persons taking part in the case they were examining.
Stepan Arkadyevitch frowned at Grinevitch’s words, giving him thereby
to understand that it was improper to pass judgment prematurely, and made
him no reply.
“Who was that came in?” he asked the doorkeeper.
“Someone, your excellency, crept in without permission directly my back
was turned. He was asking for you. I told him: when the members come
out, then….”
“Where is he?”
“Maybe he’s gone into the passage, but here he comes anyway. That is
he,” said the doorkeeper, pointing to a strongly built, broad-shouldered man
with a curly beard, who, without taking off his sheepskin cap, was running
lightly and rapidly up the worn steps of the stone staircase. One of the
members going down—a lean official with a portfolio—stood out of his
way and looked disapprovingly at the legs of the stranger, then glanced
inquiringly at Oblonsky.
Stepan Arkadyevitch was standing at the top of the stairs. His good-
naturedly beaming face above the embroidered collar of his uniform
beamed more than ever when he recognized the man coming up.
“Why, it’s actually you, Levin, at last!” he said with a friendly mocking
smile, scanning Levin as he approached. “How is it you have deigned to
look me up in this den?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, and not content with
shaking hands, he kissed his friend. “Have you been here long?”
“I have just come, and very much wanted to see you,” said Levin,
looking shyly and at the same time angrily and uneasily around.
“Well, let’s go into my room,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who knew his
friend’s sensitive and irritable shyness, and, taking his arm, he drew him
along, as though guiding him through dangers.
Stepan Arkadyevitch was on familiar terms with almost all his
acquaintances, and called almost all of them by their Christian names: old
men of sixty, boys of twenty, actors, ministers, merchants, and adjutant-
generals, so that many of his intimate chums were to be found at the
extreme ends of the social ladder, and would have been very much surprised
to learn that they had, through the medium of Oblonsky, something in
common. He was the familiar friend of everyone with whom he took a glass
of champagne, and he took a glass of champagne with everyone, and when
in consequence he met any of his disreputable chums, as he used in joke to
call many of his friends, in the presence of his subordinates, he well knew
how, with his characteristic tact, to diminish the disagreeable impression
made on them. Levin was not a disreputable chum, but Oblonsky, with his
ready tact, felt that Levin fancied he might not care to show his intimacy
with him before his subordinates, and so he made haste to take him off into
his room.
Levin was almost of the same age as Oblonsky; their intimacy did not
rest merely on champagne. Levin had been the friend and companion of his
early youth. They were fond of one another in spite of the difference of their
characters and tastes, as friends are fond of one another who have been
together in early youth. But in spite of this, each of them—as is often the
way with men who have selected careers of different kinds—though in
discussion he would even justify the other’s career, in his heart despised it.
It seemed to each of them that the life he led himself was the only real life,
and the life led by his friend was a mere phantasm. Oblonsky could not
restrain a slight mocking smile at the sight of Levin. How often he had seen
him come up to Moscow from the country where he was doing something,
but what precisely Stepan Arkadyevitch could never quite make out, and
indeed he took no interest in the matter. Levin arrived in Moscow always
excited and in a hurry, rather ill at ease and irritated by his own want of
ease, and for the most part with a perfectly new, unexpected view of things.
Stepan Arkadyevitch laughed at this, and liked it. In the same way Levin in
his heart despised the town mode of life of his friend, and his official duties,
which he laughed at, and regarded as trifling. But the difference was that
Oblonsky, as he was doing the same as everyone did, laughed complacently
and good-humoredly, while Levin laughed without complacency and
sometimes angrily.
“We have long been expecting you,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, going
into his room and letting Levin’s hand go as though to show that here all
danger was over. “I am very, very glad to see you,” he went on. “Well, how
are you? Eh? When did you come?”
Levin was silent, looking at the unknown faces of Oblonsky’s two
companions, and especially at the hand of the elegant Grinevitch, which had
such long white fingers, such long yellow filbert-shaped nails, and such
huge shining studs on the shirt-cuff, that apparently they absorbed all his
attention, and allowed him no freedom of thought. Oblonsky noticed this at
once, and smiled.
“Ah, to be sure, let me introduce you,” he said. “My colleagues: Philip
Ivanitch Nikitin, Mihail Stanislavitch Grinevitch”—and turning to Levin
—“a district councilor, a modern district councilman, a gymnast who lifts
thirteen stone with one hand, a cattle-breeder and sportsman, and my friend,
Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin, the brother of Sergey Ivanovitch
Koznishev.”
“Delighted,” said the veteran.
“I have the honor of knowing your brother, Sergey Ivanovitch,” said
Grinevitch, holding out his slender hand with its long nails.
Levin frowned, shook hands coldly, and at once turned to Oblonsky.
Though he had a great respect for his half-brother, an author well known to
all Russia, he could not endure it when people treated him not as Konstantin
Levin, but as the brother of the celebrated Koznishev.
“No, I am no longer a district councilor. I have quarreled with them all,
and don’t go to the meetings any more,” he said, turning to Oblonsky.
“You’ve been quick about it!” said Oblonsky with a smile. “But how?
why?”
“It’s a long story. I will tell you some time,” said Levin, but he began
telling him at once. “Well, to put it shortly, I was convinced that nothing
was really done by the district councils, or ever could be,” he began, as
though someone had just insulted him. “On one side it’s a plaything; they
play at being a parliament, and I’m neither young enough nor old enough to
find amusement in playthings; and on the other side” (he stammered) “it’s a
means for the coterie of the district to make money. Formerly they had
wardships, courts of justice, now they have the district council—not in the
form of bribes, but in the form of unearned salary,” he said, as hotly as
though someone of those present had opposed his opinion.
“Aha! You’re in a new phase again, I see—a conservative,” said Stepan
Arkadyevitch. “However, we can go into that later.”
“Yes, later. But I wanted to see you,” said Levin, looking with hatred at
Grinevitch’s hand.
Stepan Arkadyevitch gave a scarcely perceptible smile.
“How was it you used to say you would never wear European dress
again?” he said, scanning his new suit, obviously cut by a French tailor.
“Ah! I see: a new phase.”
Levin suddenly blushed, not as grown men blush, slightly, without being
themselves aware of it, but as boys blush, feeling that they are ridiculous
through their shyness, and consequently ashamed of it and blushing still
more, almost to the point of tears. And it was so strange to see this sensible,
manly face in such a childish plight, that Oblonsky left off looking at him.
“Oh, where shall we meet? You know I want very much to talk to you,”
said Levin.
Oblonsky seemed to ponder.
“I’ll tell you what: let’s go to Gurin’s to lunch, and there we can talk. I
am free till three.”
“No,” answered Levin, after an instant’s thought, “I have got to go on
somewhere else.”
“All right, then, let’s dine together.”
“Dine together? But I have nothing very particular, only a few words to
say, and a question I want to ask you, and we can have a talk afterwards.”
“Well, say the few words, then, at once, and we’ll gossip after dinner.”
“Well, it’s this,” said Levin; “but it’s of no importance, though.”
His face all at once took an expression of anger from the effort he was
making to surmount his shyness.
“What are the Shtcherbatskys doing? Everything as it used to be?” he
said.
Stepan Arkadyevitch, who had long known that Levin was in love with
his sister-in-law, Kitty, gave a hardly perceptible smile, and his eyes
sparkled merrily.
“You said a few words, but I can’t answer in a few words, because….
Excuse me a minute….”
A secretary came in, with respectful familiarity and the modest
consciousness, characteristic of every secretary, of superiority to his chief in
the knowledge of their business; he went up to Oblonsky with some papers,
and began, under pretense of asking a question, to explain some objection.
Stepan Arkadyevitch, without hearing him out, laid his hand genially on the
secretary’s sleeve.
“No, you do as I told you,” he said, softening his words with a smile, and
with a brief explanation of his view of the matter he turned away from the
papers, and said: “So do it that way, if you please, Zahar Nikititch.”
The secretary retired in confusion. During the consultation with the
secretary Levin had completely recovered from his embarrassment. He was
standing with his elbows on the back of a chair, and on his face was a look
of ironical attention.
“I don’t understand it, I don’t understand it,” he said.
“What don’t you understand?” said Oblonsky, smiling as brightly as ever,
and picking up a cigarette. He expected some queer outburst from Levin.
“I don’t understand what you are doing,” said Levin, shrugging his
shoulders. “How can you do it seriously?”
“Why not?”
“Why, because there’s nothing in it.”
“You think so, but we’re overwhelmed with work.”
“On paper. But, there, you’ve a gift for it,” added Levin.
“That’s to say, you think there’s a lack of something in me?”
“Perhaps so,” said Levin. “But all the same I admire your grandeur, and
am proud that I’ve a friend in such a great person. You’ve not answered my
question, though,” he went on, with a desperate effort looking Oblonsky
straight in the face.
“Oh, that’s all very well. You wait a bit, and you’ll come to this yourself.
It’s very nice for you to have over six thousand acres in the Karazinsky
district, and such muscles, and the freshness of a girl of twelve; still you’ll
be one of us one day. Yes, as to your question, there is no change, but it’s a
pity you’ve been away so long.”
“Oh, why so?” Levin queried, panic-stricken.
“Oh, nothing,” responded Oblonsky. “We’ll talk it over. But what’s
brought you up to town?”
“Oh, we’ll talk about that, too, later on,” said Levin, reddening again up
to his ears.
“All right. I see,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “I should ask you to come to
us, you know, but my wife’s not quite the thing. But I tell you what; if you
want to see them, they’re sure now to be at the Zoological Gardens from
four to five. Kitty skates. You drive along there, and I’ll come and fetch
you, and we’ll go and dine somewhere together.”
“Capital. So good-bye till then.”
“Now mind, you’ll forget, I know you, or rush off home to the country!”
Stepan Arkadyevitch called out laughing.
“No, truly!”
And Levin went out of the room, only when he was in the doorway
remembering that he had forgotten to take leave of Oblonsky’s colleagues.
“That gentleman must be a man of great energy,” said Grinevitch, when
Levin had gone away.
“Yes, my dear boy,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, nodding his head, “he’s a
lucky fellow! Over six thousand acres in the Karazinsky district; everything
before him; and what youth and vigor! Not like some of us.”
“You have a great deal to complain of, haven’t you, Stepan
Arkadyevitch?”
