Anna Karenina - The Unabridged Garnett Translation. Leo Tolstoy

      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