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“Yes, that’s true, it is so,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing good-
humoredly.
“Will the train soon be in?” Vronsky asked a railway official.
“The train’s signaled,” answered the man.
The approach of the train was more and more evident by the
preparatory bustle in the station, the rush of porters, the movement of
policemen and attendants, and people meeting the train. Through the
frosty vapor could be seen workmen in short sheepskins and soft felt
boots crossing the rails of the curving line. The hiss of the boiler could
be heard on the distant rails, and the rumble of something heavy.
“No,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who felt a great inclination to tell
Vronsky of Levin’s intentions in regard to Kitty. “No, you’ve not got a
true impression of Levin. He’s a very nervous man, and is sometimes
out of humor, it’s true, but then he is often very nice. He’s such a true,
honest nature, and a heart of gold. But yesterday there were special
reasons,” pursued Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a meaning smile, totally
oblivious of the genuine sympathy he had felt the day before for his
friend, and feeling the same sympathy now, only for Vronsky. “Yes,
there were reasons why he could not help being either particularly
happy or particularly unhappy.”
Vronsky stood still and asked directly: “How so? Do you mean he
made your belle-soeur an offer yesterday?”
“Maybe,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “I fancied something of the
sort yesterday. Yes, if he went away early, and was out of humor too, it
must mean it.... He’s been so long in love, and I’m very sorry for him.”
“So that’s it! I should imagine, though, she might reckon on a better
match,” said Vronsky, drawing himself up and walking about again,
“though I don’t know him, of course,” he added. “Yes, that is a hateful
position! That’s why most fellows prefer to have to do with Klaras. If
you don’t succeed with them it only proves that you’ve not enough
cash, but in this case one’s dignity’s at stake. But here’s the train.”
The engine had already whistled in the distance. A few instants
later the platform was quivering, and with puffs of steam hanging low
in the air from the frost, the engine rolled up, with the lever of the
middle wheel rhythmically moving up and down, and the stooping
figure of the engine-driver covered with frost. Behind the tender, set-
ting the platform more and more slowly swaying, came the luggage van
with a dog whining in it. At last the passenger carriages rolled in,
oscillating before coming to a standstill.
A smart guard jumped out, giving a whistle, and after him one by
one the impatient passengers began to get down: an officer of the
guards, holding himself erect, and looking severely about him; a nimble
little merchant with a satchel, smiling gaily; a peasant with a sack over
his shoulder.
Vronsky, standing beside Oblonsky, watched the carriages and the
passengers, totally oblivious of his mother. What he had just heard
about Kitty excited and delighted him. Unconsciously he arched his
chest, and his eyes flashed. He felt himself a conqueror.
“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 be-
havior 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.