Anna Karenina
carriage, talking loudly and obviously aware that the attention of the
passengers and Katavasov as he got in was concentrated upon them. More
loudly than all talked the tall, hollow-chested young man. He was
unmistakably tipsy, and was relating some story that had occurred at
his school. Facing him sat a middle-aged officer in the Austrian
military jacket of the Guards uniform. He was listening with a smile to
the hollow-chested youth, and occasionally pulling him up. The third,
in an artillery uniform, was sitting on a box beside them. A fourth was
asleep.
Entering into conversation with the youth, Katavasov learned that he
was a wealthy Moscow merchant who had run through a large fortune
before he was two-and-twenty. Katavasov did not like him, because he
was unmanly and effeminate and sickly. He was obviously convinced,
especially now after drinking, that he was performing a heroic action,
and he bragged of it in the most unpleasant way.
The second, the retired officer, made an unpleasant impression too upon
Katavasov. He was, it seemed, a man who had tried everything. He had
been on a railway, had been a land-steward, and had started factories,
and he talked, quite without necessity, of all he had done, and used
learned expressions quite inappropriately.
The third, the artilleryman, on the contrary, struck Katavasov very
favorably. He was a quiet, modest fellow, unmistakably impressed by the
knowledge of the officer and the heroic self-sacrifice of the merchant
and saying nothing about himself. When Katavasov asked him what had
impelled him to go to Servia, he answered modestly:
“Oh, well, everyone’s going. The Servians want help, too. I’m sorry for
them.”
“Yes, you artillerymen especially are scarce there,” said Katavasov.
“Oh, I wasn’t long in the artillery, maybe they’ll put me into the
infantry or the cavalry.”
“Into the infantry when they need artillery more than anything?” said
Katavasov, fancying from the artilleryman’s apparent age that he must
have reached a fairly high grade.
“I wasn’t long in the artillery; I’m a cadet retired,” he said, and he
began to explain how he had failed in his examination.
All of this together made a disagreeable impression on Katavasov, and
when the volunteers got out at a station for a drink, Katavasov would
have liked to compare his unfavorable impression in conversation with
someone. There was an old man in the carriage, wearing a military
overcoat, who had been listening all the while to Katavasov’s
conversation with the volunteers. When they were left alone, Katavasov
addressed him.
“What different positions they come from, all those fellows who are
going off there,” Katavasov said vaguely, not wishing to express his
own opinion, and at the same time anxious to find out the old man’s
views.
The old man was an officer who had served on two campaigns. He knew
what makes a soldier, and judging by the appearance and the talk of
those persons, by the swagger with which they had recourse to the
bottle on the journey, he considered them poor soldiers. Moreover, he
lived in a district town, and he was longing to tell how one soldier
had volunteered from his town, a drunkard and a thief whom no one would
employ as a laborer. But knowing by experience that in the present
condition of the public temper it was dangerous to express an opinion
opposed to the general one, and especially to criticize the volunteers
unfavorably, he too watched Katavasov without committing himself.
“Well, men are wanted there,” he said, laughing with his eyes. And they
fell to talking of the last war news, and each concealed from the other
his perplexity as to the engagement expected next day, since the Turks
had been beaten, according to the latest news, at all points. And so
they parted, neither giving expression to his opinion.
Katavasov went back to his own carriage, and with reluctant hypocrisy
reported to Sergey Ivanovitch his observations of the volunteers, from
which it would appear that they were capital fellows.
At a big station at a town the volunteers were again greeted with
shouts and singing, again men and women with collecting boxes appeared,
and provincial ladies brought bouquets to the volunteers and followed
them into the refreshment room; but all this was on a much smaller and
feebler scale than in Moscow.
Chapter 4
While the train was stopping at the provincial town, Sergey Ivanovitch
did not go to the refreshment room, but walked up and down the
platform.
The first time he passed Vronsky’s compartment he noticed that the
curtain was drawn over the window; but as he passed it the second time
he saw the old countess at the window. She beckoned to Koznishev.
“I’m going, you see, taking him as far as Kursk,” she said.
“Yes, so I heard,” said Sergey Ivanovitch, standing at her window and
peeping in. “What a noble act on his part!” he added, noticing that
Vronsky was not in the compartment.
“Yes, after his misfortune, what was there for him to do?”
“What a terrible thing it was!” said Sergey Ivanovitch.
“Ah, what I have been through! But do get in.... Ah, what I have been
through!” she repeated, when Sergey Ivanovitch had got in and sat down
beside her. “You can’t conceive it! For six weeks he did not speak to
anyone, and would not touch food except when I implored him. And not
for one minute could we leave him alone. We took away everything he
could have used against himself. We lived on the ground floor, but
there was no reckoning on anything. You know, of course, that he had
shot himself once already on her account,” she said, and the old lady’s
eyelashes twitched at the recollection. “Yes, hers was the fitting end
for such a woman. Even the death she chose was low and vulgar.”
“It’s not for us to judge, countess,” said Sergey Ivanovitch; “but I
can understand that it has been very hard for you.”
“Ah, don’t speak of it! I was staying on my estate, and he was with me.
A note was brought him. He wrote an answer and sent it off. We hadn’t
an idea that she was close by at the station. In the evening I had only
just gone to my room, when my Mary told me a lady had thrown herself
under the train. Something seemed to strike me at once. I knew it was
she. The first thing I said was, he was not to be told. But they’d told
him already. His coachman was there and saw it all. When I ran into his
room, he was beside himself—it was fearful to see him. He didn’t say a
word, but galloped off there. I don’t know to this day what happened
there, but he was brought back at death’s door. I shouldn’t have known
him. _Prostration complète,_ the doctor said. And that was followed
almost by madness. Oh, why talk of it!” said the countess with a wave
of her hand. “It was an awful time! No, say what you will, she was a
bad woman. Why, what is the meaning of such desperate passions? It was
all to show herself something out of the way. Well, and that she did
do. She brought herself to ruin and two good men—her husband and my
unhappy son.”
“And what did her husband do?” asked Sergey Ivanovitch.
“He has taken her daughter. Alexey was ready to agree to anything at
first. Now it worries him terribly that he should have given his own
child away to another man. But he can’t take back his word. Karenin
came to the funeral. But we tried to prevent his meeting Alexey. For
him, for her husband, it was easier, anyway. She had set him free. But
my poor son was utterly given up to her. He had thrown up everything,
his career, me, and even then she had no mercy on him, but of set
purpose she made his ruin complete. No, say what you will, her very
death was the death of a vile 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