not on any paper, party leaders without followers. He saw that there was a
great deal in it that was frivolous and absurd. But he saw and recognized an
unmistakable growing enthusiasm, uniting all classes, with which it was
impossible not to sympathize. The massacre of men who were fellow
Christians, and of the same Slavonic race, excited sympathy for the
sufferers and indignation against the oppressors. And the heroism of the
Servians and Montenegrins struggling for a great cause begot in the whole
people a longing to help their brothers not in word but in deed.
But in this there was another aspect that rejoiced Sergey Ivanovitch. That
was the manifestation of public opinion. The public had definitely
expressed its desire. The soul of the people had, as Sergey Ivanovitch said,
found expression. And the more he worked in this cause, the more
incontestable it seemed to him that it was a cause destined to assume vast
dimensions, to create an epoch.
He threw himself heart and soul into the service of this great cause, and
forgot to think about his book. His whole time now was engrossed by it, so
that he could scarcely manage to answer all the letters and appeals
addressed to him. He worked the whole spring and part of the summer, and
it was only in July that he prepared to go away to his brother’s in the
country.
He was going both to rest for a fortnight, and in the very heart of the
people, in the farthest wilds of the country, to enjoy the sight of that
uplifting of the spirit of the people, of which, like all residents in the capital
and big towns, he was fully persuaded. Katavasov had long been meaning
to carry out his promise to stay with Levin, and so he was going with him.
Chapter 2
Sergey Ivanovitch and Katavasov had only just reached the station of the
Kursk line, which was particularly busy and full of people that day, when,
looking round for the groom who was following with their things, they saw
a party of volunteers driving up in four cabs. Ladies met them with
bouquets of flowers, and followed by the rushing crowd they went into the
station.
One of the ladies, who had met the volunteers, came out of the hall and
addressed Sergey Ivanovitch.
“You too come to see them off?” she asked in French.
“No, I’m going away myself, princess. To my brother’s for a holiday. Do
you always see them off?” said Sergey Ivanovitch with a hardly perceptible
smile.
“Oh, that would be impossible!” answered the princess. “Is it true that
eight hundred have been sent from us already? Malvinsky wouldn’t believe
me.”
“More than eight hundred. If you reckon those who have been sent not
directly from Moscow, over a thousand,” answered Sergey Ivanovitch.
“There! That’s just what I said!” exclaimed the lady. “And it’s true too, I
suppose, that more than a million has been subscribed?”
“Yes, princess.”
“What do you say to today’s telegram? Beaten the Turks again.”
“Yes, so I saw,” answered Sergey Ivanovitch. They were speaking of the
last telegram stating that the Turks had been for three days in succession
beaten at all points and put to flight, and that tomorrow a decisive
engagement was expected.
“Ah, by the way, a splendid young fellow has asked leave to go, and
they’ve made some difficulty, I don’t know why. I meant to ask you; I know
him; please write a note about his case. He’s being sent by Countess Lidia
Ivanovna.”
Sergey Ivanovitch asked for all the details the princess knew about the
young man, and going into the first-class waiting-room, wrote a note to the
person on whom the granting of leave of absence depended, and handed it
to the princess.
“You know Count Vronsky, the notorious one … is going by this train?”
said the princess with a smile full of triumph and meaning, when he found
her again and gave her the letter.
“I had heard he was going, but I did not know when. By this train?”
“I’ve seen him. He’s here: there’s only his mother seeing him off. It’s the
best thing, anyway, that he could do.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
While they were talking the crowd streamed by them into the dining-
room. They went forward too, and heard a gentleman with a glass in his
hand delivering a loud discourse to the volunteers. “In the service of
religion, humanity, and our brothers,” the gentleman said, his voice growing
louder and louder; “to this great cause mother Moscow dedicates you with
her blessing. Jivio!” he concluded, loudly and tearfully.
Everyone shouted Jivio! and a fresh crowd dashed into the hall, almost
carrying the princess off her legs.
“Ah, princess! that was something like!” said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
suddenly appearing in the middle of the crowd and beaming upon them
with a delighted smile. “Capitally, warmly said, wasn’t it? Bravo! And
Sergey Ivanovitch! Why, you ought to have said something—just a few
words, you know, to encourage them; you do that so well,” he added with a
soft, respectful, and discreet smile, moving Sergey Ivanovitch forward a
little by the arm.
“No, I’m just off.”
“Where to?”
“To the country, to my brother’s,” answered Sergey Ivanovitch.
“Then you’ll see my wife. I’ve written to her, but you’ll see her first.
Please tell her that they’ve seen me and that it’s ‘all right,’ as the English
say. She’ll understand. Oh, and be so good as to tell her I’m appointed
secretary of the committee…. But she’ll understand! You know, les petites
misères de la vie humaine,” he said, as it were apologizing to the princess.
“And Princess Myakaya—not Liza, but Bibish—is sending a thousand guns
and twelve nurses. Did I tell you?”
“Yes, I heard so,” answered Koznishev indifferently.
“It’s a pity you’re going away,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Tomorrow
we’re giving a dinner to two who’re setting off—Dimer-Bartnyansky from
Petersburg and our Veslovsky, Grisha. They’re both going. Veslovsky’s only
lately married. There’s a fine fellow for you! Eh, princess?” he turned to the
lady.
The princess looked at Koznishev without replying. But the fact that
Sergey Ivanovitch and the princess seemed anxious to get rid of him did not
in the least disconcert Stepan Arkadyevitch. Smiling, he stared at the feather
in the princess’s hat, and then about him as though he were going to pick
something up. Seeing a lady approaching with a collecting box, he
beckoned her up and put in a five-rouble note.
“I can never see these collecting boxes unmoved while I’ve money in my
pocket,” he said. “And how about today’s telegram? Fine chaps those
Montenegrins!”
“You don’t say so!” he cried, when the princess told him that Vronsky
was going by this train. For an instant Stepan Arkadyevitch’s face looked
sad, but a minute later, when, stroking his mustaches and swinging as he
walked, he went into the hall where Vronsky was, he had completely
forgotten his own despairing sobs over his sister’s corpse, and he saw in
Vronsky only a hero and an old friend.
“With all his faults one can’t refuse to do him justice,” said the princess
to Sergey Ivanovitch as soon as Stepan Arkadyevitch had left them. “What
a typically Russian, Slav nature! Only, I’m afraid it won’t be pleasant for
Vronsky to see him. Say what you will, I’m touched by that man’s fate. Do
talk to him a little on the way,” said the princess.
“Yes, perhaps, if it happens so.”
“I never liked him. But this atones for a great deal. He’s not merely going
himself, he’s taking a squadron at his own expense.”
“Yes, so I heard.”
A bell sounded. Everyone crowded to the doors. “Here he is!” said the
princess, indicating Vronsky, who with his mother on his arm walked by,
wearing a long overcoat and wide-brimmed black hat. Oblonsky was
walking beside him, talking eagerly of something.
Vronsky was frowning and looking straight before him, as though he did
not hear what Stepan Arkadyevitch was saying.
Probably on Oblonsky’s pointing them out, he looked round in the
direction where the princess and Sergey Ivanovitch were standing, and
without speaking lifted his hat. His face, aged and worn by suffering,
looked stony.
Going onto the platform, Vronsky left his mother and disappeared into a
compartment.
On the platform there rang out “God save the Tsar,” then shouts of
“hurrah!” and “jivio!” One of the volunteers, a tall, very young man with a
hollow chest, was particularly conspicuous, bowing and waving his felt hat
