‘Ah, terrible! Ay, ay, ay! terrible!’ Stepan Arkadyich repeated to himself and could come up with nothing. ‘And how nice it all was before that, what a nice life we had! She was content, happy with the children, I didn’t hinder her in anything, left her to fuss over them and the household however she liked. True, it’s not nice that she used to be a governess in our house. Not nice! There’s something trivial, banal, in courting one’s own governess. But what a governess!’ (He vividly recalled Mlle Roland’s dark, roguish eyes and her smile.) ‘But while she was in our house, I never allowed myself anything. And the worst of it is that she’s already ... It all had to happen at once! Ay, ay, ay! But what to do, what to do?’
There was no answer, except the general answer life gives to all the most complex and insoluble questions. That answer is: one must live for the needs of the day, in other words, become oblivious. To become oblivious in dreams was impossible now, at least till night-time; it was impossible to return to that music sung by carafe-women; and so one had to become oblivious in the dream of life.
‘We’ll see later on,’ Stepan Arkadyich said to himself and, getting up, he put on his grey dressing gown with the light-blue silk lining, threw the tasselled cord into a knot, and, drawing a goodly amount of air into the broad box of his chest, went up to the window with the customary brisk step of his splayed feet, which so easily carried his full body, raised the blind and rang loudly. In response to the bell his old friend, the valet Matvei, came at once, bringing clothes, boots, and a telegram. Behind Matvei came the barber with the shaving things.
‘Any papers from the office?’ Stepan Arkadyich asked, taking the telegram and sitting down in front of the mirror.
‘On the table,’ Matvei replied, glancing inquiringly, with sympathy, at his master, and, after waiting a little, he added with a sly smile: ‘Someone came from the owner of the livery stable.’
Stepan Arkadyich said nothing in reply and only glanced at Matvei in the mirror; from their eyes, which met in the mirror, one could see how well they understood each other. Stepan Arkadyich’s eyes seemed to ask: ‘Why are you saying that? as if you didn’t know?’
Matvei put his hands in his jacket pockets, thrust one foot out and looked at his master silently, good-naturedly, with a slight smile.
‘I told them to come next Sunday and till then not to trouble you or themselves needlessly.’ He uttered an obviously prepared phrase.
Stepan Arkadyich understood that Matvei wanted to joke and attract attention to himself. Tearing open the telegram, he read it, guessing at the right sense of the words, which were garbled as usual, and his face brightened.
‘Matvei, my sister Anna Arkadyevna is coming tomorrow,’ he said, stopping for a moment the glossy, plump little hand of the barber, who was clearing a pink path between his long, curly side-whiskers.
‘Thank God,’ said Matvei, showing by this answer that he understood the significance of this arrival in the same way as his master, that is, that Anna Arkadyevna, Stepan Arkadyich’s beloved sister, might contribute to the reconciliation of husband and wife.
‘Alone or with her spouse?’ asked Matvei.
Stepan Arkadyich, unable to speak because the barber was occupied with his upper lip, raised one finger. Matvei nodded in the mirror.
‘Alone. Shall I prepare the rooms upstairs?’
‘Tell Darya Alexandrovna, wherever she decides.’
‘Darya Alexandrovna?’ Matvei repeated, as if in doubt.
‘Yes, tell her. And here, take the telegram, let me know what she says.’
‘Testing her out,’ Matvei understood, but he said only: ‘Very well, sir.’
Stepan Arkadyich was already washed and combed and was about to start dressing, when Matvei, stepping slowly over the soft rug in his creaking boots, telegram in hand, came back into the room. The barber was no longer there.
‘Darya Alexandrovna told me to inform you that she is leaving. Let him do as he - that is, you - pleases,’ he said, laughing with his eyes only, and, putting his hands in his pockets and cocking his head to one side, he looked fixedly at his master.
Stepan Arkadyich said nothing. Then a kind and somewhat pathetic smile appeared on his handsome face.
‘Eh? Matvei?’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Never mind, sir, it’ll shape up,’ said Matvei.
‘Shape up?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘You think so? Who’s there?’ Stepan Arkadyich asked, hearing the rustle of a woman’s dress outside the door.
‘It’s me, sir,’ said a firm and pleasant female voice, and through the door peeked the stern, pock-marked face of Matryona Filimonovna, the nanny.
‘What is it, Matryosha?’ Stepan Arkadyich asked, going out of the door to her.
Although Stepan Arkadyich was roundly guilty before his wife and felt it himself, almost everyone in the house, even the nanny, Darya Alexandrovna’s chief friend, was on his side.
‘Well, what is it?’ he said dejectedly.
‘You should go to her, sir, apologize again. Maybe God will help. She’s suffering very much, it’s a pity to see, and everything in the house has gone topsy-turvy. The children should be pitied. Apologize, sir. No help for it! After the dance, you must pay the ...’
‘But she won’t receive me ...’
‘Still, you do your part. God is merciful, pray to God, sir, pray to God.’
‘Well, all right, go now,’ said Stepan Arkadyich, suddenly blushing. ‘Let’s get me dressed.’ He turned to Matvei and resolutely threw off his dressing gown.
Matvei was already holding the shirt like a horse collar, blowing away something invisible, and with obvious pleasure he clothed the pampered body of his master in it.
III
After dressing, Stepan Arkadyich sprayed himself with scent, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, put cigarettes, wallet, matches, a watch with a double chain and seals into his pockets with an accustomed gesture, and, having shaken out his handkerchief, feeling himself clean, fragrant, healthy, and physically cheerful despite his misfortune, went out, springing lightly at each step, to the dining room, where coffee was already waiting for him, and, next to the coffee, letters and papers from the office.
He sat down and read the letters. One was very unpleasant - from a merchant who was buying a wood on his wife’s estate. This wood had to be sold; but now, before his reconciliation with his wife, it was out of the question. The most unpleasant thing here was that it mixed financial interests into the impending matter of their reconciliation. And the thought that he might be guided by those interests, that he might seek a reconciliation with his wife in order to sell the wood, was offensive to him.
Having finished the letters, Stepan Arkadyich drew the office papers to him, quickly leafed through two files, made a few marks with a big pencil, then pushed the files away and started on his coffee. Over coffee he unfolded the still damp morning newspaper and began to read it.