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Chapter 18.
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 get-
ting 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 soci-
ety. 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 atten-
tion 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!”