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

out.

      ‘I’ll see… . Oh, and here’s some money,’ said he, taking a ten-rouble note out of his pocket-book. ‘Will it be enough?’

      ‘Enough or not, we shall have to manage, that’s clear,’ said Matthew, closing the carriage door and stepping back into the porch.

      Meanwhile Darya Alexandrovna after soothing the child, knowing from the sound of the carriage wheels that her husband had gone, returned to her bedroom. It was her only place of refuge from household cares. Even now, during the few minutes she had spent in the nursery, the English governess and Matrena Filimonovna had found time to ask some questions that could not be put off and which she alone could answer. ‘What should the children wear when they went out? Ought they to have milk? Should not a new cook be sent for?’

      ‘Oh, do leave me alone!’ she cried; and returning to her bedroom she sat down where she had sat when talking with her husband. Locking together her thin fingers, on which her rings hung loosely, she went over in her mind the whole of their conversation.

      ‘Gone! But how did he finish with her?’ she thought. ‘Is it possible that he still sees her? Why didn’t I ask him? No, no! It’s impossible to be reunited… . Even if we go on living in the same house, we are strangers — strangers for ever!’ she repeated, specially emphasizing the word that was so dreadful to her. ‘And how I loved him! Oh God, how I loved him! … How I loved — and don’t I love him now? Don’t I love him more than ever? The most terrible thing …’ She did not finish the thought, because Matrena Filimonovna thrust her head in at the door.

      ‘Hadn’t I better send for my brother?’ she said. ‘After all, he can cook a dinner; — or else the children will go without food till six o’clock, as they did yesterday.’

      ‘All right! I’ll come and see about it in a moment… . Has the milk been sent for?’ and Darya Alexandrovna plunged into her daily cares, and for a time drowned her grief in them.

      Chapter 5

      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