Читать книгу Anna Karenina (Maude Translation, Unabridged and Annotated) - Leo Tolstoy - Страница 9

OBLONSKY was truthful with himself. He was incapable of self-deception and could not persuade himself that he repented of his conduct. He could not feel repentant that he, a handsome amorous man of thirty-four, was not in love with his wife, the mother of five living and two dead children and only a year younger than himself. He repented only of not having managed to conceal his conduct from her. Nevertheless he felt his unhappy position and pitied his wife, his children, and himself. He might perhaps have been able to hide things from her had he known that the knowledge would so distress her. He had never clearly considered the matter, but had a vague notion that his wife had long suspected him of being unfaithful and winked at it. He even thought that she, who was nothing but an excellent mother of a family, worn-out, already growing elderly, no longer pretty, and in no way remarkable — in fact, quite an ordinary woman — ought to be lenient to him, if only from a sense of justice. It turned out that the very opposite was the case.

‘How awful! Oh dear, oh dear, how awful!’ Oblonsky kept repeating to himself and could arrive at no conclusion. ‘And how well everything was going on till now — how happily we lived! She was contented, happy in her children; I never interfered with her but left her to fuss over them and the household as she pleased… . Of course it’s not quite nice that she had been a governess in our house. That’s bad! There’s something banal, a want of taste, in carrying on with one’s governess — but then, what a governess!’ (He vividly pictured to himself Mlle Roland’s roguish black eyes, and her smile.) ‘Besides as long as she was in the house I never took any liberties. The worst of the matter is, that she is already … . Why need it all happen at once? Oh dear, dear, dear! What am I to do?’

He could find no answer, except life’s usual answer to the most complex and insoluble questions. That answer is: live in the needs of the day, that is, find forgetfulness. He could no longer find forgetfulness in sleep, at any rate not before night, could not go back to the music and the songs of the little decanter-women, consequently he must seek forgetfulness in the dream of life.

‘We’ll see when the time comes,’ thought Oblonsky, and got up, put on his grey dressing-gown lined with blue silk, tied the cords and drawing a full breath of air into his broad chest went with his usual firm tread toward the window, turning out his feet that carried his stout body so lightly, drew up the blind and rang loudly. The bell was answered immediately by his old friend and valet, Matthew, who brought in his clothes, boots, and a telegram. He was followed by the barber with shaving tackle.

‘Any papers from the Office?’ asked Oblonsky, as he took the telegram and sat down before the looking-glass.

‘They’re on your table,’ answered Matthew with a questioning and sympathizing glance at his master — adding after a pause with a sly smile: ‘Some one has called from the jobmaster’s.’

Oblonsky did not answer, but glanced at Matthew’s face in the looking-glass. From their looks, as they met in the glass, it was evident that they understood one another. Oblonsky’s look seemed to say: ‘Why do you tell me that? As if you don’t know!’

Matthew put his hands into the pocket of his jacket, put out his foot, and looked at his master with a slight, good-humoured smile.

‘I ordered him to come the Sunday after next, and not to trouble you or himself needlessly till then,’ said he, evidently repeating a sentence he had prepared.

Oblonsky understood that Matthew meant to have a joke and draw attention to himself. He tore open the telegram and read it, guessing at the words, which (as so often happens in telegrams) were misspelt, and his face brightened.

‘Matthew, my sister Anna Arkadyevna is coming to-morrow,’ he said, motioning away for a moment the shiny plump hand of the barber, which was shaving a rosy path between his long curly whiskers.

‘The Lord be thanked!’ said Matthew, proving by his answer that he knew just as well as his master the importance of this visit: namely, that Anna Arkadyevna, Stephen Arkadyevich’s favourite sister, might help to reconcile the husband and wife.

‘Is she coming alone, or with Mr. Karenin?’

Oblonsky could not answer as the barber was busy with his upper lip; but he raised one finger, and Matthew nodded to him in the glass.

‘Alone. Would you like one of the upstairs rooms got ready?’

‘Ask Darya Alexandrovna.’

‘Darya Alexandrovna?’ Matthew repeated, as if in doubt.

‘Yes, tell her. Give her the telegram, and see what she says.’

‘You want to have a try at her?’ was what Matthew meant, but he only said: ‘Yes, sir.’

Oblonsky was washed, his hair brushed, and he was about to dress, when Matthew, stepping slowly in his creaking boots, re-entered the room with the telegram in his hand. The barber was no longer there.

‘Darya Alexandrovna told me to say that she is going away. “He may do as he pleases” — that is, as you please, sir,’ he said, laughing with his eyes only; and, putting his hands in his pockets, with his head on one side, he gazed at his master. Oblonsky 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.