Читать книгу Anna Karenina (Maude Translation, Unabridged and Annotated) - Leo Tolstoy - Страница 12

OBLONSKY’S natural ability had helped him to do well at school, but mischief and laziness had caused him to finish very low in his year’s class. Yet in spite of his dissipated life, his unimportant service rank, and his comparative youth, he occupied a distinguished and well-paid post as Head of one of the Government Boards in Moscow. This post he had obtained through Alexis Alexandrovich Karenin, his sister Anna’s husband, who held one of the most important positions in the Ministry to which that Moscow Board belonged. But even if Karenin had not nominated his brother-in-law for that post, Stiva Oblonsky, through one of a hundred other persons — brothers, sisters, relations, cousins, uncles or aunts — would have obtained this or a similar post with a salary of some 6000 roubles a year, which he needed because in spite of his wife’s substantial means his affairs were in a bad way.

Half Moscow and half Petersburg were his relations or friends. He was born among those who were or who became the great ones of this world. One third of the official world, the older men, were his father’s friends and had known him in petticoats, he was on intimate terms with another third, and was well acquainted with the last third. Consequently the distributors of earthly blessings, such as government posts, grants, concessions, and the like, were all his friends. They could not overlook one who belonged to them, so that Oblonsky had no special difficulty in obtaining a lucrative post; he had only not to raise any objections, not to be envious, not to quarrel, and not to take offence — all things which, being naturally good-tempered, he never did. It would have seemed to him ridiculous had he been told that he would not get a post with the salary he required; especially as he did not demand anything extraordinary. He only wanted what other men of his age and set were getting; and he could fill such an office as well as anybody else.

Oblonsky was not only liked by every one who knew him for his kind and joyous nature and his undoubted honesty, but there was something in him — in his handsome and bright appearance, his beaming eyes, black hair and eyebrows, and his white-and-rosy complexion, that had a physical effect on those he met, making them feel friendly and cheerful. ‘Ah! Stiva Oblonsky! Here he is!’ said almost every one he met, smilingly. Even if conversation with him sometimes caused no special delight, still the next day, or the next, every one was as pleased as ever to meet him.

It was the third year that Oblonsky had been Head of that Government Board in Moscow, and he had won not only the affection but also the respect of his fellow-officials, subordinates, chiefs, and all who had anything to do with him. The chief qualities that had won him this general respect in his Office were, first, his extreme leniency, founded on a consciousness of his own defects; secondly, his true Liberalism — not that of which he read in his paper, but that which was in his blood and made him treat all men alike whatever their rank or official position; thirdly and chiefly, his complete indifference to the business he was engaged on, in consequence of which he was never carried away by enthusiasm and never made mistakes.

Having arrived at his destination, Oblonsky, respectfully followed by the doorkeeper bearing his portfolio, entered his little private room, put on his uniform, and came out into the Office. The clerks and attendants all rose and bowed cheerfully and respectfully. Oblonsky walked quickly, as was his wont, to his place, shook hands with the Members, and sat down. He chatted and joked just as much as was proper and then turned to business. No one could determine better than he the limits of freedom, simplicity, and formality, necessary for the pleasant transaction of business. The Secretary came up with the papers, cheerfully and respectfully like everybody in Oblonsky’s Office, and remarked in the familiarly Liberal tone introduced by Oblonsky:

‘After all, we’ve managed to get that information from the Penza Provincial Office. Here — will you please… .’

‘Got it at last?’ said Oblonsky, holding this paper down with his finger. ‘Well, gentlemen …’ and the sitting commenced.

‘If they only knew,’ he thought, bowing his head gravely as he listened to a Report, ‘how like a guilty little boy their President was half-an-hour ago! …’ and his eyes sparkled while the Report was being read. Till two o’clock the business was to continue uninterruptedly, but at two there was to be an adjournment for lunch.

It was not quite two when the large glass doors suddenly swung open and some one came in. All the Members from beneath the Emperor’s portrait and from behind the Mirror of Justice, glad of some distraction, looked toward the door; but the doorkeeper at once turned out the intruder and closed the glass doors behind him.

When the Report had been read, Oblonsky rose, stretching himself, and, paying tribute to the Liberalism of the times, took out a cigarette before leaving the Office to go to his private room. Two of his colleagues — Nikitin, an old hardworking official, and Grinevich, a Gentleman of the Bedchamber — followed him out.

‘We shall have time to finish after lunch,’ said Oblonsky.

‘Plenty of time,’ said Nikitin.

‘He must be a precious rogue, that Fomin,’ said Grinevich, referring to one of those concerned in the case under consideration.

Oblonsky made a face at these words, thereby indicating that it is not right to form an opinion prematurely, and did not reply.

‘Who was it came in?’ he asked the doorkeeper.

‘Some man came in without permission, your Excellency, when I wasn’t looking. He asked for you. I told him, “When the Members come out, then… .” ’

‘Where is he?’

‘Perhaps he has gone out into the hall; he was walking about there just now. That’s him,’ 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 quickly up the worn steps of the stone staircase. A lanky official, going down with a portfolio, stopped, with a disapproving look at the feet of the man running upstairs, and then glanced inquiringly at Oblonsky, who was standing at the top of the stairs. His kindly face, beaming over the gold-embroidered collar of his uniform, grew still more radiant when he recognized the man who was coming up.

‘Yes, it’s he! Levin, at last!’ he said, scrutinizing the approaching Levin with a friendly mocking smile. ‘How is it you deign to look me up in this den?’ he asked; and not contented with pressing his friend’s hand, he kissed him. ‘Been here long?’

‘I’ve only just arrived, and am very anxious to see you,’ answered Levin, looking round with constraint, and yet crossly and uneasily.

‘Well then, come into my room,’ said Oblonsky, who knew his friend’s self-conscious and irritable shyness; and seizing him by the arm he led him along as if past some danger.

Oblonsky was on intimate terms with almost all his acquaintances, men of sixty and lads of twenty, actors, Ministers of State, tradesmen, and Lords in Waiting, so that a great many people on familiar terms with him stood at the two extremes of the social ladder and would have been much surprised to know that they had something in common through Oblonsky. He was on familiar terms with everybody he drank champagne with, and he drank champagne with everybody. But when in the presence of his subordinates he happened to meet any of his ‘disreputable pals’, as he jocularly called them, he was able, with his innate tact, to minimize the impression such a meeting might leave on their minds. Levin was not a ‘disreputable pal’, but Oblonsky felt that Levin imagined he might not care to show their intimacy in the presence of the subordinates, and that was why he hurried him into his private room.

Levin and Oblonsky were almost of the same age; and with Levin, Oblonsky was on familiar terms not through champagne only. Levin had been his comrade and friend in early youth, and they were fond of one another as friends who have come together in early youth often are, in spite of the difference in their characters and tastes. Yet, as often happens between men who have chosen different pursuits, each, while in argument justifying the other’s activity, despised it in the depth of his heart. Each thought that his own way of living was real life, and that the life of his friend was — illusion. Oblonsky could not repress a slightly sarcastic smile at the sight of Levin. How many times he had already seen him arriving in Moscow from the country, where he did something, though what it was Oblonsky could never quite understand or feel any interest in. Levin came to Moscow always excited, always in a hurry, rather shy and irritated by his own shyness, and usually with totally new and unexpected views about things. Oblonsky laughed at all this, and yet liked it. Similarly, Levin in his heart despised the town life his friend was leading, and his official duties which he considered futile and ridiculed. But the difference was that Oblonsky, doing as every one else did, laughed with confidence and good-humour, while Levin laughed uncertainly and sometimes angrily.

‘We have long been expecting you,’ said Oblonsky entering his private room and releasing Levin’s arm, as if to show that here all danger was past. ‘I’m very, very glad to see you!’ continued he. ‘Well, how are you, eh? When did you arrive?’

Levin looked silently at the faces of the two strangers, Oblonsky’s colleagues, and especially at the hands of the elegant Grinevich, who had such long white fingers and such long yellowish nails curving at the points, and such large glittering sleeve-links, that evidently his hands occupied his whole attention and deprived him of freedom of thought. Oblonsky at once noticed Levin’s look and smiled.

‘Oh, of course! Let me introduce you,’ he said. ‘My colleagues: Philip Ivanich Nikitin; Michael Stanislavich Grinevich,’ then turning to Levin, ‘Constantine Dmitrich Levin, an active member of the Zemstvo, one of the new sort — a gymnast who lifts a hundredweight and a half with one hand, a cattle-breeder, a sportsman, — my friend and a brother of Sergius Ivanich Koznyshev.’

‘Very pleased …’ said the old official.

‘I have the honour of knowing your brother, Sergius Ivanich,’ said Grinevich, holding out his narrow hand with the long fingernails.

Levin frowned, shook hands coldly, and immediately turned to Oblonsky. Though Levin had great respect for his stepbrother, an author known throughout Russia, he hated to be regarded not as Constantine Levin but as a brother of the famous Koznyshev.

‘No, I am no longer on the Zemstvo — I have quarrelled with the lot of them, and don’t attend their meetings any more,’ said he, addressing his friend.

‘Quick work!’ said Oblonsky, with a smile. ‘What was it all about?’

‘It’s a long story — I’ll tell you some other time,’ said Levin, but at once began telling it. ‘To put it in a nutshell, I have come to the conclusion that there is and can be no such thing as Zemstvo work,’ he said, speaking as if some one had just offended him. ‘On the one hand it’s simply playing! They play at being a parliament, and I am neither young enough nor old enough to amuse myself with toys. On the other hand …’ he hesitated, ‘it is a means of getting pelf for the provincial coterie! We used to have guardianships and judgeships as soft jobs, and now we’ve Zemstvos — not bribes, but unearned salaries!’ he went on as warmly as if he had just been contradicted.

‘Aha! I see you’ve reached another new phase — a Conservative one this time!’ said Oblonsky. ‘However, we’ll talk about that later.’

‘Yes, later! … But I want to see you,’ said Levin, gazing with aversion at Grinevich’s hand.

Oblonsky’s smile was hardly perceptible.

‘Didn’t you tell me you would never again put on Western European clothes?’ he asked, surveying Levin’s new suit, evidently made by a French tailor. ‘That’s it! You’re in a new phase.’

Levin suddenly blushed, not as grown-up people blush who hardly notice it themselves, but as boys blush who are aware that their shyness is ridiculous and therefore feel ashamed of it and blush still more, almost to tears. It was so strange to see that intelligent manly face in such a childish condition that Oblonsky left off looking at him.

‘Where shall we see one another? You know it is very, very important for me to have a talk with you,’ said Levin.

Oblonsky seemed to consider: ‘Well — suppose we go to lunch at Gurin’s and have a talk there? I am free till three.’

‘No,’ said Levin, after a moment’s consideration; ‘I have to go somewhere else.’

‘Well then, let’s dine together.’

‘Dine? But I’ve nothing particular to say — only a word or two … to ask you something! We can have a talk some other time.’

‘Well, tell me the word or two now, and we’ll talk at dinner.’

‘The two words are … however, it’s nothing particular,’ said Levin, and his face became almost vicious in his efforts to overcome his shyness.

‘What are the Shcherbatskys doing? All going on as usual?’

Oblonsky, who had long known that Levin was in love with his, Oblonsky’s, sister-in-law Kitty, smiled very slightly and his eyes sparkled merrily.

‘You spoke of two words, but I can’t answer in two because… . Excuse me a moment… .’

The Secretary came in, familiarly respectful, though with a certain modest consciousness (common to all secretaries) of his superiority to his chief in knowledge of business affairs, approached Oblonsky with some papers, and on the plea of asking a question began to explain some difficulty. Oblonsky, without hearing him to the end, put his hand in a kindly way on the Secretary’s sleeve and, softening his remark with a smile, said:

‘No; please do it as I said,’ and, having in a few words explained his view of the matter, he pushed the paper away and said finally: ‘Yes, please do it that way, Zachary Nikitich!’

The Secretary went out, abashed. Levin, who during Oblonsky’s talk with the Secretary had quite overcome his shyness, stood leaning both arms on the back of a chair and listening with ironical attention.

‘I don’t understand it at all!’ he remarked.

‘What don’t you understand?’ asked Oblonsky with his usual merry smile, as he took out a cigarette. He expected Levin to say something eccentric.

‘I don’t understand what you’re doing,’ said Levin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘How can you do it seriously?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because there’s nothing to do!’

‘That’s how it seems to you, but really we’re overwhelmed with work.’

‘ — On paper! Ah well! you’ve a gift for that sort of thing,’ added Levin.

‘You mean I’m deficient in something?’

‘Perhaps!’ said Levin. ‘But all the same I admire your dignity and am proud that my friend is such a great man! But all the same you’ve not answered my question,’ he added, making a desperate effort to look Oblonsky straight in the face.

‘All right! All right! Wait a bit, and you’ll be in the same position yourself. It’s all very well for you, who have three thousand desyatins [about eight thousand acres] in the Karazin District, and such muscles, and are as fresh as a twelve-year-old girl! But still, you’ll be joining us yourself some day! … Now, about what you were asking: nothing has changed, but it’s a pity you’ve stopped away so long.’

‘Why?’ asked Levin in alarm.

‘Oh, nothing — ’ answered Oblonsky. ‘We’ll talk it over later on. But what has brought you here specially?’

‘We’ll talk about that too later on,’ said Levin and again blushed to his very ears.

‘All right, that’s natural enough!’ said Oblonsky. ‘Well, you know, I’d ask you to come to us, but my wife is not very well. Let’s see, — if you want to meet them, you’ll be sure to find them in the Zoological Gardens from four to five. Kitty skates there. Go there, and I’ll call for you and we’ll dine somewhere together.’

‘Splendid! Well then, au revoir!’

‘Mind you don’t forget! I know you — you may rush off back to the country!’ shouted Oblonsky after him.

‘That’ll be all right!’ said Levin and left the room, only recollecting when already at the door that he had not taken leave of Oblonsky’s colleagues.

‘He seems a very energetic man,’ said Grinevich when Levin was gone.

‘Yes, my dear fellow,’ said Oblonsky, shaking his head, ‘and he’s a lucky man! Three thousand desyatins in the Karazin District, his life before him, and such freshness! Not like some of us!’

‘What have you to complain of, Stephen Arkadyevich?’

‘Oh, things are wretched, miserable!’ said Oblonsky, and sighed heavily.