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