“Countess Vronskaya is in that compartment,” said the smart guard,
going up to Vronsky.
The guard’s words roused him, and forced him to think of his mother and
his approaching meeting with her. He did not in his heart respect his
mother, and without acknowledging it to himself, he did not love her,
though in accordance with the ideas of the set in which he lived, and with
his own education, he could not have conceived of any behavior to his
mother not in the highest degree respectful and obedient, and the more
externally obedient and respectful his behavior, the less in his heart he
respected and loved her.
Chapter 18
Vronsky followed the guard to the carriage, and at the door of the
compartment he stopped short to make room for a lady who was getting
out.
With the insight of a man of the world, from one glance at this lady’s
appearance Vronsky classified her as belonging to the best society. He
begged pardon, and was getting into the carriage, but felt he must glance at
her once more; not that she was very beautiful, not on account of the
elegance and modest grace which were apparent in her whole figure, but
because in the expression of her charming face, as she passed close by him,
there was something peculiarly caressing and soft. As he looked round, she
too turned her head. Her shining gray eyes, that looked dark from the thick
lashes, rested with friendly attention on his face, as though she were
recognizing him, and then promptly turned away to the passing crowd, as
though seeking someone. In that brief look Vronsky had time to notice the
suppressed eagerness which played over her face, and flitted between the
brilliant eyes and the faint smile that curved her red lips. It was as though
her nature were so brimming over with something that against her will it
showed itself now in the flash of her eyes, and now in her smile.
Deliberately she shrouded the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will
in the faintly perceptible smile.
Vronsky stepped into the carriage. His mother, a dried-up old lady with
black eyes and ringlets, screwed up her eyes, scanning her son, and smiled
slightly with her thin lips. Getting up from the seat and handing her maid a
bag, she gave her little wrinkled hand to her son to kiss, and lifting his head
from her hand, kissed him on the cheek.
“You got my telegram? Quite well? Thank God.”
“You had a good journey?” said her son, sitting down beside her, and
involuntarily listening to a woman’s voice outside the door. He knew it was
the voice of the lady he had met at the door.
“All the same I don’t agree with you,” said the lady’s voice.
“It’s the Petersburg view, madame.”
“Not Petersburg, but simply feminine,” she responded.
“Well, well, allow me to kiss your hand.”
“Good-bye, Ivan Petrovitch. And could you see if my brother is here, and
send him to me?” said the lady in the doorway, and stepped back again into
the compartment.
“Well, have you found your brother?” said Countess Vronskaya,
addressing the lady.
Vronsky understood now that this was Madame Karenina.
“Your brother is here,” he said, standing up. “Excuse me, I did not know
you, and, indeed, our acquaintance was so slight,” said Vronsky, bowing,
“that no doubt you do not remember me.”
“Oh, no,” said she, “I should have known you because your mother and I
have been talking, I think, of nothing but you all the way.” As she spoke she
let the eagerness that would insist on coming out show itself in her smile.
“And still no sign of my brother.”
“Do call him, Alexey,” said the old countess. Vronsky stepped out onto
the platform and shouted:
“Oblonsky! Here!”
Madame Karenina, however, did not wait for her brother, but catching
sight of him she stepped out with her light, resolute step. And as soon as her
brother had reached her, with a gesture that struck Vronsky by its decision
and its grace, she flung her left arm around his neck, drew him rapidly to
her, and kissed him warmly. Vronsky gazed, never taking his eyes from her,
and smiled, he could not have said why. But recollecting that his mother
was waiting for him, he went back again into the carriage.
“She’s very sweet, isn’t she?” said the countess of Madame Karenina.
“Her husband put her with me, and I was delighted to have her. We’ve been
talking all the way. And so you, I hear … vous filez le parfait amour. Tant
mieux, mon cher, tant mieux.”
“I don’t know what you are referring to, maman,” he answered coldly.
“Come, maman, let us go.”
Madame Karenina entered the carriage again to say good-bye to the
countess.
“Well, countess, you have met your son, and I my brother,” she said.
“And all my gossip is exhausted. I should have nothing more to tell you.”
“Oh, no,” said the countess, taking her hand. “I could go all around the
world with you and never be dull. You are one of those delightful women in
whose company it’s sweet to be silent as well as to talk. Now please don’t
fret over your son; you can’t expect never to be parted.”
Madame Karenina stood quite still, holding herself very erect, and her
eyes were smiling.
“Anna Arkadyevna,” the countess said in explanation to her son, “has a
little son eight years old, I believe, and she has never been parted from him
before, and she keeps fretting over leaving him.”
“Yes, the countess and I have been talking all the time, I of my son and
she of hers,” said Madame Karenina, and again a smile lighted up her face,
a caressing smile intended for him.
“I am afraid that you must have been dreadfully bored,” he said,
promptly catching the ball of coquetry she had flung him. But apparently
she did not care to pursue the conversation in that strain, and she turned to
the old countess.
“Thank you so much. The time has passed so quickly. Good-bye,
countess.”
“Good-bye, my love,” answered the countess. “Let me have a kiss of
your pretty face. I speak plainly, at my age, and I tell you simply that I’ve
lost my heart to you.”
Stereotyped as the phrase was, Madame Karenina obviously believed it
and was delighted by it. She flushed, bent down slightly, and put her cheek
to the countess’s lips, drew herself up again, and with the same smile
fluttering between her lips and her eyes, she gave her hand to Vronsky. He
pressed the little hand she gave him, and was delighted, as though at
something special, by the energetic squeeze with which she freely and
vigorously shook his hand. She went out with the rapid step which bore her
rather fully-developed figure with such strange lightness.
“Very charming,” said the countess.
That was just what her son was thinking. His eyes followed her till her
graceful figure was out of sight, and then the smile remained on his face.
He saw out of the window how she went up to her brother, put her arm in
his, and began telling him something eagerly, obviously something that had
nothing to do with him, Vronsky, and at that he felt annoyed.
“Well, maman, are you perfectly well?” he repeated, turning to his
mother.
“Everything has been delightful. Alexander has been very good, and
Marie has grown very pretty. She’s very interesting.”
And she began telling him again of what interested her most—the
christening of her grandson, for which she had been staying in Petersburg,
and the special favor shown her elder son by the Tsar.
“Here’s Lavrenty,” said Vronsky, looking out of the window; “now we
can go, if you like.”
The old butler, who had traveled with the countess, came to the carriage
to announce that everything was ready, and the countess got up to go.
“Come; there’s not such a crowd now,” said Vronsky.
The maid took a handbag and the lap dog, the butler and a porter the
other baggage. Vronsky gave his mother his arm; but just as they were
getting out of the carriage several men ran suddenly by with panic-stricken
faces. The station-master, too, ran by in his extraordinary colored cap.
Obviously something unusual had happened. The crowd who had left the
train were running back again.
“What?… What?… Where?… Flung himself!… Crushed!…” was heard
among the crowd. Stepan Arkadyevitch, with his sister on his arm, turned
back. They too looked scared, and stopped at the carriage door to avoid the
crowd.
The ladies got in, while Vronsky and Stepan Arkadyevitch followed the
crowd to find out details of the disaster.
A guard, either drunk or too much muffled up in the bitter frost, had not
heard the train moving back, and had been crushed.
Before Vronsky and Oblonsky came back the ladies heard the facts from
the butler.
Oblonsky and Vronsky had both seen the mutilated corpse. Oblonsky was
evidently upset. He frowned and seemed ready to cry.
“Ah, how awful! Ah, Anna, if you had seen it! Ah, how awful!” he said.
Vronsky did not speak; his handsome face was serious, but perfectly
composed.
“Oh, if you had seen it, countess,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “And his
wife was there…. It was awful to see her!… She flung herself on the body.
They say he was the only support of an immense family. How awful!”
“Couldn’t one do anything for her?” said Madame Karenina in an
agitated whisper.
Vronsky glanced at her, and immediately got out of the carriage.
“I’ll be back directly, maman,” he remarked, turning round in the
doorway.
When he came back a few minutes later, Stepan Arkadyevitch was
already in conversation with the countess about the new singer, while the
countess was impatiently looking towards the door, waiting for her son.
“Now let us be off,” said Vronsky, coming in. They went out together.
Vronsky was in front with his mother. Behind walked Madame Karenina
with her brother. Just as they were going out of the station the station-
master overtook Vronsky.
“You gave my assistant two hundred roubles. Would you kindly explain
for whose benefit you intend them?”
“For the widow,” said Vronsky, shrugging his shoulders. “I should have
thought there was no need to ask.”
“You gave that?” cried Oblonsky, behind, and, pressing his sister’s hand,
he added: “Very nice, very nice! Isn’t he a splendid fellow? Good-bye,
