There was no answer, except the general answer which life gives to all the most complicated and unanswerable questions. This answer was: one must live by satisfying immediate needs, that is, by seeking oblivion. Seeking oblivion in dreams was no longer possible, at least until night-time; it was no longer possible to go back to the music which the little decanter women had been singing; consequently he had to seek oblivion in the dream of life.
‘We’ll see what transpires,’ Stepan Arkadyich said to himself, and getting up, he put on his grey dressing-gown with the blue silk lining, knotted the tassels, took an ample amount of air into his broad ribcage, and with the usual sprightly step of his turned-out feet, which so nimbly carried his plump frame, walked over to the window, raised the blind, and rang loudly. At the sound of the bell, his old friend the valet Matvey immediately came in, carrying his clothes, his boots, and a telegram. Matvey was followed by the barber with shaving implements.
‘Are there any papers from the office?’ asked Stepan Arkadyich, taking the telegram and sitting down in front of the mirror.
‘They’re on the table,’ replied Matvey. He looked enquiringly and with sympathy at his master, then after a pause added with a sly smile: ‘Someone came from the owner of the livery stable.’
Stepan Arkadyich did not reply and just glanced at Matvey in the mirror; from the look they exchanged in the mirror it was clear how well they understood each other. Stepan Arkadyich’s look seemed to be asking: ‘Why are you saying that? Don’t you know?’
Matvey put his hands into the pockets of his jacket, stuck one foot out slightly, and gazed silently and kind-heartedly at his master with a barely perceptible smile.
‘I told him to come back next Sunday, and not to trouble you or himself needlessly until then,’ he said in an obviously prepared phrase.
Stepan Arkadyich realized that Matvey wanted to joke and draw attention to himself. Tearing open the telegram, he read it, using guesswork to correct the words which were garbled as usual, and his face lit up.
‘Matvey, my sister Anna Arkadyevna is arriving tomorrow,’ he said, stopping for a moment the shiny, chubby hand of the barber, which was clearing a pink path between his long curling whiskers.
‘Thank goodness,’ said Matvey, showing with this answer that he understood as well as his master what this arrival meant, namely that Anna Arkadyevna, Stepan Arkadyich’s beloved sister, might be able to assist in the reconciliation of husband and wife.
‘Alone or with her husband?’ asked Matvey.
Stepan Arkadyich could not speak, as the barber was busy with his upper lip, so he raised one finger. Matvey nodded to him in the mirror.
‘Alone. Should we get a room ready upstairs?’
‘Tell Darya Alexandrovna, wherever she decides.’
‘Darya Alexandrovna?’ Matvey repeated, as if in doubt.
‘Yes, tell her. Here, take the telegram, and let me know what she says.’
‘You want to test the waters,’ Matvey understood, but he said only: ‘Very good, sir.’
Stepan Arkadyich was already washed and combed and about to get dressed when Matvey came back into the room with the telegram in his hand, treading gingerly with his squeaky boots on the soft carpet. The barber had already gone.
‘Darya Alexandrovna told me to inform you that she is going away. Let him, that is you, do as he likes,’ he said, laughing with just his eyes, and putting his hands in his pockets, with his head tilted to one side, he gazed at his master.
Stepan Arkadyich was silent for a moment. Then a kind and rather pathetic smile appeared on his handsome face.
‘Well? Matvey?’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Don’t worry, sir, things will shape up,’ said Matvey.
‘Shape up?’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘You think so? Who is that?’ asked Stepan Arkadyich, hearing the rustle of a woman’s dress behind the door.
‘It’s me, sir,’ said a firm and pleasant female voice, and the stern, pockmarked face of Matryona Filimonovna the nanny peeped round the door.
‘Well, what is it, Matryosha?’ asked Stepan Arkadyich, going up to the door to speak to her.
Despite the fact that Stepan Arkadyich was completely in the wrong with regards to his wife and was conscious of it himself, almost everyone in the house, even the nanny, Darya Alexandrovna’s main ally, was on his side.
‘Well, what is it?’ he said despondently.
‘Go and say sorry again, sir. Maybe God will help. She is suffering ever so much, it’s pitiful to see, and everything in the house is turned upside down. You must take pity on the children, sir. Say sorry, sir. Can’t be helped! After the feast …’*
‘But she won’t see me …’
‘You just do your bit. God is merciful, pray to God, sir, pray to God.’
‘Well, all right, off you go,’ said Stepan Arkadyich, suddenly going red. ‘Well now, let’s get dressed,’ he said, turning to Matvey, and he resolutely threw off his dressing-gown.
Matvey was already holding up the prepared shirt like a yoke, blowing away some invisible speck, and he enveloped his master’s well-groomed body in it with obvious pleasure.
3
ONCE dressed, Stepan Arkadyich sprayed himself with cologne, straightened the sleeves of his shirt, distributed cigarettes, wallet, matches, and watch with two chains and seals* amongst his pockets with a practised gesture, and, after shaking out his handkerchief and feeling clean, fragrant, healthy, and physically spry in spite of his misfortune, walked with a spring in every step into the dining room, where his coffee was ready waiting for him, and next to the coffee, letters and papers from the office.
Stepan Arkadyich sat down and read the letters. One of them was very unpleasant—from the merchant who was buying a wood on his wife’s estate. This wood had to be sold; but there could be no question of that now until there was a reconciliation with his wife. The most unpleasant thing about this was that it introduced a financial consideration into the impending matter of reconciliation with his wife. And the thought that he might be guided by this consideration, that he would seek a reconciliation with his wife so he could sell this wood—this thought offended him.
After finishing the letters, Stepan Arkadyich drew towards him the papers from the office, quickly leafed through two files, made a few notes with a big pencil, then shunted the papers to one side and started on his coffee; while he was drinking he unfolded the still-damp morning paper and started reading it.
Stepan Arkadyich subscribed to and read a liberal newspaper,* which was not extreme, but represented the views of the majority. And despite the fact that neither science, nor art, nor politics actually interested him, he clung to the views on all these subjects held by the majority and by his newspaper, and only changed them when the majority changed them, or to be more precise, he did not change them, as they themselves imperceptibly changed within him.
Stepan Arkadyich did not choose either his tendency or his views, as these tendencies and views came to him by themselves, in just the same way that he did not choose a style of hat or frock-coat, but plumped for the ones which other people wore. And as someone frequenting a certain section of society and in need of a modicum of mental activity, such as usually develops in maturity, it was just as indispensable for him to have views as it was to have a hat. If there was a reason why he preferred the liberal tendency over the conservative one, as did many others in his circle, it was not because he found the liberal tendency made more sense, but because it more closely suited his lifestyle. The liberal party said that everything in Russia was bad, and Stepan Arkadyich did indeed have many debts, and was decidedly short of money. The liberal party said that marriage was an outdated institution, and that it was necessary to reform it, and indeed, family life brought Stepan Arkadyich little pleasure, and obliged him to lie and dissemble, which went so much against his nature. The liberal party said, or rather implied, that religion was simply a means to rein in the barbaric section of the population, and indeed, Stepan Arkadyich could not endure even a short service without his feet aching, nor could he understand the point of all those daunting and high-flown words about the next world, when living in this one could be very jolly. At the same time, Stepan Arkadyich, who was fond of a good joke, also enjoyed taxing the occasional meek soul with the idea that if one is seriously going to take pride in one’s lineage, one shouldn’t stop at Ryurik* and repudiate our original ancestor—the ape.* The liberal tendency thus became a habit for Stepan Arkadyich, and he liked his newspaper, like his after-dinner cigar, for the mild fog it produced in his head. He read the leading article, which explained that it was nowadays completely pointless to raise a commotion about the radicalism supposedly threatening to swallow up all the conservative elements, and the government supposedly needing to take measures to crush the hydra of revolution, and that, on the contrary, ‘in our opinion, the danger lies not in the imaginary hydra of revolution, but in the stubborn traditionalism which holds up progress’, etc. He also read another article, in the financial section, which mentioned Bentham and Mill* and levelled subtle barbs at the Ministry. With his characteristically quick powers of perception he understood the meaning of every barb: by whom, at whom, and the reason it had been launched, and this, as always, afforded him a certain amount of pleasure. But today this pleasure was spoilt by the memory of Matryona Filimonovna’s advice, and the fact that things were so miserable at home. He also read that Count Beust* was rumoured to have travelled to Wiesbaden, that grey hair was a thing of the past, that a light carriage was for sale, and that a young lady offered her services; but these pieces of information did not afford him the same quiet ironic pleasure as before.