woman, of no religious feeling. God forgive me, but I can’t help hating the
memory of her, when I look at my son’s misery!”
“But how is he now?”
“It was a blessing from Providence for us—this Servian war. I’m old, and
I don’t understand the rights and wrongs of it, but it’s come as a
providential blessing to him. Of course for me, as his mother, it’s terrible;
and what’s worse, they say, ce n’est pas très bien vu à Pétersbourg. But it
can’t be helped! It was the one thing that could rouse him. Yashvin—a
friend of his—he had lost all he had at cards and he was going to Servia. He
came to see him and persuaded him to go. Now it’s an interest for him. Do
please talk to him a little. I want to distract his mind. He’s so low-spirited.
And as bad luck would have it, he has toothache too. But he’ll be delighted
to see you. Please do talk to him; he’s walking up and down on that side.”
Sergey Ivanovitch said he would be very glad to, and crossed over to the
other side of the station.
Chapter 5
In the slanting evening shadows cast by the baggage piled up on the
platform, Vronsky in his long overcoat and slouch hat, with his hands in his
pockets, strode up and down, like a wild beast in a cage, turning sharply
after twenty paces. Sergey Ivanovitch fancied, as he approached him, that
Vronsky saw him but was pretending not to see. This did not affect Sergey
Ivanovitch in the slightest. He was above all personal considerations with
Vronsky.
At that moment Sergey Ivanovitch looked upon Vronsky as a man taking
an important part in a great cause, and Koznishev thought it his duty to
encourage him and express his approval. He went up to him.
Vronsky stood still, looked intently at him, recognized him, and going a
few steps forward to meet him, shook hands with him very warmly.
“Possibly you didn’t wish to see me,” said Sergey Ivanovitch, “but
couldn’t I be of use to you?”
“There’s no one I should less dislike seeing than you,” said Vronsky.
“Excuse me; and there’s nothing in life for me to like.”
“I quite understand, and I merely meant to offer you my services,” said
Sergey Ivanovitch, scanning Vronsky’s face, full of unmistakable suffering.
“Wouldn’t it be of use to you to have a letter to Ristitch—to Milan?”
“Oh, no!” Vronsky said, seeming to understand him with difficulty. “If
you don’t mind, let’s walk on. It’s so stuffy among the carriages. A letter?
No, thank you; to meet death one needs no letters of introduction. Nor for
the Turks….” he said, with a smile that was merely of the lips. His eyes still
kept their look of angry suffering.
“Yes; but you might find it easier to get into relations, which are after all
essential, with anyone prepared to see you. But that’s as you like. I was very
glad to hear of your intention. There have been so many attacks made on
the volunteers, and a man like you raises them in public estimation.”
“My use as a man,” said Vronsky, “is that life’s worth nothing to me. And
that I’ve enough bodily energy to cut my way into their ranks, and to
trample on them or fall—I know that. I’m glad there’s something to give
my life for, for it’s not simply useless but loathsome to me. Anyone’s
welcome to it.” And his jaw twitched impatiently from the incessant
gnawing toothache, that prevented him from even speaking with a natural
expression.
“You will become another man, I predict,” said Sergey Ivanovitch,
feeling touched. “To deliver one’s brother-men from bondage is an aim
worth death and life. God grant you success outwardly—and inwardly
peace,” he added, and he held out his hand. Vronsky warmly pressed his
outstretched hand.
“Yes, as a weapon I may be of some use. But as a man, I’m a wreck,” he
jerked out.
He could hardly speak for the throbbing ache in his strong teeth, that
were like rows of ivory in his mouth. He was silent, and his eyes rested on
the wheels of the tender, slowly and smoothly rolling along the rails.
And all at once a different pain, not an ache, but an inner trouble, that set
his whole being in anguish, made him for an instant forget his toothache. As
he glanced at the tender and the rails, under the influence of the
conversation with a friend he had not met since his misfortune, he suddenly
recalled her—that is, what was left of her when he had run like one
distraught into the cloak room of the railway station—on the table,
shamelessly sprawling out among strangers, the bloodstained body so lately
