The portrait’s sale has awakened Sergei’s childhood demon—jealousy—and he has no desire to rein it in. Anya, along with Vronsky, stole his mother. Nothing, not a thing for her. He hated having to pay for her needs—but he knew that, when it came down to it, she was completely dependent on him because it was his prerogative, a fact he was more keenly aware of than ever, now that he was taking his sweet time to reconcile the accounts. The truth is, it wasn’t in his interest to give Anya “her” money. If he gave her the amount designated in his father’s will, Anya would receive a monthly stipend similar to what she got from Sergei. But he wasn’t about to, and he was under no obligation, because according to the will, she had to marry to receive the stipend. And Anya will never marry.

It both irritates and pleases Sergei to make his sister dependent on him. Anya is financially tied to the Karenins; she’s their household dependent.

32. Vladimir

32. Vladimir

When Vladimir is confronted with Aleksandra’s death, it takes over his whole world. He can’t bear losing his sister. A part of him dies with her. But Clementine saves him, amongst the dead. She takes him on a walk through the cemetery of the Holy Transfiguration Cathedral (at Preobrazhensky on the southeastern outskirts of the city) while she tells him in detail about the demonstration on Bloody Sunday, what the Cossacks did, what happened to Volodin and the others who died that day, and what has happened since. She takes him to the corner of the cemetery, where the police dumped three-dozen cadavers in a mass grave on January 10, no coffins for them, just sacks of cloth, “like hams.”

“If they had taken Aleksandra to the Obukhov Hospital, like most of the seriously wounded and dead, she’d be here, with my friend Volodin. You knew him too. I hear he died because he wanted to look after Aleksandra when that imbecile Father Gapon made her march. These are your brothers, Vladimir, every one of them. We must fight for them. They didn’t take just your only sister—as you told me—they took something more, from all of us. They took away our Russia. They want to devour it. We have to resist, to fight them, seize it from their hands before nothing’s left of it, not even a hint of life. Aleksandra was properly buried and mourned. But they want to take these rights—to be mourned, to have siblings, to live—away from every last one of us, they want to bury us in common graves when we’ve expended our usefulness. Enough! No more! No more!”