(^12181219)
almost carrying the princess off her legs.
“Ah, princess! that was something like!” said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
suddenly appearing in the middle of the crowd and beaming upon
them with a delighted smile. “Capitally, warmly said, wasn’t it? Bravo!
And Sergey Ivanovitch! Why, you ought to have said something—just
a few words, you know, to encourage them; you do that so well,” he
added with a soft, respectful, and discreet smile, moving Sergey
Ivanovitch forward a little by the arm.
“No, I’m just off.”
“Where to?”
“To the country, to my brother’s,” answered Sergey Ivanovitch.
“Then you’ll see my wife. I’ve written to her, but you’ll see her first.
Please tell her that they’ve seen me and that it’s ‘all right,’ as the
English say. She’ll understand. Oh, and be so good as to tell her I’m
appointed secretary of the committee.... But she’ll understand! You
know, les petites miseres de la vie humaine,” he said, as it were apolo-
gizing to the princess. “And Princess Myakaya—not Liza, but Bibish—
is sending a thousand guns and twelve nurses. Did I tell you?”
“Yes, I heard so,” answered Koznishev indifferently.
“It’s a pity you’re going away,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Tomor-
row we’re giving a dinner to two who’re setting off— Dimer-
Bartnyansky from Petersburg and our Veslovsky, Grisha. They’re both
going. Veslovsky’s only lately married. There’s a fine fellow for you!
Eh, princess?” he turned to the lady.
The princess looked at Koznishev without replying. But the fact
that Sergey Ivanovitch and the princess seemed anxious to get rid of
him did not in the least disconcert Stepan Arkadyevitch. Smiling, he
stared at the feather in the princess’s hat, and then about him as though
he were going to pick something up. Seeing a lady approaching with a
collecting box, he beckoned her up and put in a five-rouble note.
“I can never see these collecting boxes unmoved while I’ve money
in my pocket,” he said. “And how about today’s telegram? Fine chaps
those Montenegrins!”
“You don’t say so!” he cried, when the princess told him that Vronsky
was going by this train. For an instant Stepan Arkadyevitch’s face
looked sad, but a minute later, when, stroking his mustaches and swinging
as he walked, he went into the hall where Vronsky was, he had com-
pletely forgotten his own despairing sobs over his sister’s corpse, and
he saw in Vronsky only a hero and an old friend.
“With all his faults one can’t refuse to do him justice,” said the
princess to Sergey Ivanovitch as soon as Stepan Arkadyevitch had left
them. “What a typically Russian, Slav nature! Only, I’m afraid it won’t
be pleasant for Vronsky to see him. Say what you will, I’m touched by
that man’s fate. Do talk to him a little on the way,” said the princess.
“Yes, perhaps, if it happens so.”
“I never liked him. But this atones for a great deal. He’s not merely
going himself, he’s taking a squadron at his own expense.”
“Yes, so I heard.”
A bell sounded. Everyone crowded to the doors.”Here he is!” said
the princess, indicating Vronsky, who with his mother on his arm walked
by, wearing a long overcoat and wide-brimmed black hat. Oblonsky
was walking beside him, talking eagerly of something.
Vronsky was frowning and looking straight before him, as though
he did not hear what Stepan Arkadyevitch was saying.
Probably on Oblonsky’s pointing them out, he looked round in the
direction where the princess and Sergey Ivanovitch were standing, and
without speaking lifted his hat. His face, aged and worn by suffering,
looked stony.
barré
(Barré)
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