Anna Karenina (Louise Maude's Translation). Leo Tolstoy

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 that her father must know this, so that his putting the question to her so lightly was all pretence, and she blushed for him. He noticed this and blushed too.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘She said we were not to have any lessons, but must walk with Miss Hull to Grandmamma’s.’

      ‘Well, you may go, my little Tanyakin… . Oh, wait!’ he said, still holding her and stroking her delicate little hand.

      Taking a box of sweets from the mantelpiece where he had put it the day before, he chose two sweets which he knew she liked best, a chocolate and a coloured cream.

      ‘For Grisha?’ she asked, holding out the chocolate.

      ‘Yes, yes,’ and stroking her shoulder he kissed her hair at the roots and her neck, and let her go.

      ‘The carriage is ready,’ said Matthew, ‘and there is a woman on business waiting for you.’

      ‘Been here long?’

      ‘About half an hour.’

      ‘How often must I tell you to let me know at once when anyone is here?’

      ‘But I must give you time to finish your coffee,’ answered Matthew in his friendly rude tone, with which it was impossible to be angry.

      ‘Well ask her in at once,’ said Oblonsky, his face wrinkling with vexation.

      The woman, widow of a petty official named Kalinin, was petitioning for something impossible and absurd, but nevertheless Oblonsky with his usual politeness asked her to sit down and heard her attentively to the end, gave her full instructions how and to whom to apply and even wrote briskly and fluently in his large, graceful and legible hand a little note to a personage who might be of use to her. Having dismissed her, he took his hat and paused to consider whether he had forgotten anything. He found he had forgotten nothing but what he wanted to forget: his wife.

      ‘Oh yes!’ His head dropped, and his handsome face became worried.

      ‘To go, or not to go?’ he asked himself; and his inner consciousness answered that he ought not to go: that it could only result in hypocrisy; that it was impossible to restore their relations because it was impossible to render her attractive and capable of exciting love, or to turn him into an old man incapable of love. Nothing except hypocrisy and falsehood could now result — and these were repugnant to his nature.

      ‘Nevertheless it will have to be done sooner or later. After all, things can’t remain as they are,’ he said, trying to brace himself. He expanded his chest, took out a cigarette, lit it, took two whiffs,