Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part One/Chapter 29
CHAPTER XXIX
"Well! all is over, and thank the Lord!" was Anna's first thought after she had said good-by to her brother, who had blocked up the entrance to the railway-carriage, even after the third bell had rung. She sat down on the divanchik next Annushka, her maid, and began to examine the feebly lighted compartment. "Thank the Lord! to-morrow I shall see Serozha and Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, and my good and commonplace life will begin again as of old."
With the same mental preoccupation that had possessed her all that day, Anna found a satisfaction in attending minutely to the arrangements for the journey. With her skillful little hands she opened her red bag, and took out a cushion, placed it on her knees, wrapped her feet warmly, and composed herself comfortably.
A lady, who seemed to be an invalid, had already gone to sleep. Two other ladies entered into conversation with Anna; and a fat, elderly dame, well wrapped up, expressed her opinion on the temperature. Anna exchanged a few words with the ladies, but, not taking any interest in their conversation, asked Annushka for her traveling-lamp, placed it on the back of her seat, and took from her bag a paper-cutter and an English novel. At first she could not read; the going and coming and the general bustle disturbed her; when once the train had started, she could not help listening to the noises: the snow striking against the window, and sticking to the glass; the conductor, as he passed with the snowflakes melting on his coat; the remarks about the terrible storm,—all distracted her attention.
Afterwards it became more monotonous: always the same jolting and jarring, the same snow on the window, the same sudden changes from warmth to cold, and back to warmth again, the same faces in the dim light, and the same voices. And Anna began to read, and to follow what she was reading.
Annushka was already asleep, holding the little red bag on her knees with great, clumsy hands, clad in gloves, one of which was torn.
Anna read, and understood what she read; but it was not pleasant to her to read, in other words to enter into the lives of other people. She had too keen a desire to live herself. If she read how the heroine of her story took care of the sick, she would have liked to go with noiseless steps into the sick-room. If she read how a member of Parliament made a speech, she would have liked to make that speech. If she read how Lady Mary rode after the hounds, and made sport of her sister-in-law, and astonished every one by her audacity, she would have liked to do the same. But she could do nothing; and with her little hands she clutched the paper-cutter, and forced herself to read calmly.
The hero of her novel had reached the summit of his English ambition,—a baronetcy and an estate; and Anna felt a desire to go with him to this estate, when suddenly it seemed to her that he ought to feel a sense of shame, and that she ought to share it. But why should he feel ashamed?" Why should I feel ashamed?" she asked herself with astonishment and discontent. She closed the book, and, leaning back against the chair, held the paper-cutter tightly in both hands.
There was nothing to be ashamed of: she reviewed all her memories of her visit to Moscow; they were all pleasant and good. She remembered the ball, she remembered Vronsky and his humble and passionate face, she recalled all her relations with him; there was nothing to be ashamed of. But at the same time in these reminiscences the sense of shame kept growing stronger and stronger; and it seemed to her that inward voice, whenever she thought of Vronsky, seemed to say, "Warmly, very warmly, passionately."....
"Well! what is this?" she asked herself resolutely, as she changed her position in the seat. "What does this mean? Am I afraid to face these memories? Well! what is it? Is there, can there be, any relationship between that boy-officer and me beyond what exists between all acquaintances?"
She smiled disdainfully, and again took up her book; but now she really could not any longer comprehend what she was reading. She rubbed her paper-cutter over the pane, and then pressed its cool, smooth surface to her cheek, and then she almost laughed out loud with the joy that unreasonably took possession of her. She felt her nerves grow more and more tense like the strings on some musical instrument screwed up to the last degree; she felt her eyes open wider and wider, her fingers and her toes twitched nervously, something seemed to choke her, and all objects and sounds in the wavering semi-darkness surprised her by their exaggerated proportions. She kept having moments of doubt as to whether they were going backwards or forwards, or if the train had come to a stop. Was it Annushka there, sitting next her, or was it a stranger?
"What is that on the hook?—my fur shuba or an animal? And what am I doing here? Am I myself, or some one else?"
It was terrible to her to yield to these hallucinations; but something kept attracting her to them and she could by her own will either yield to them or withdraw from them. In order to regain possession of herself, Anna arose, took off her plaid and laid aside her pelerine of thick cloth. For a moment she thought that she had conquered herself, for when a tall, thin muzhik, dressed in a long nankeen overcoat, which lacked a button, came in, she recognized in him the stove-tender. She saw him look at the thermometer, and noticed how the wind and the snow came blowing in as he opened the door; and then everything became confused again.
The tall peasant began to draw fantastic figures on the wall; the old lady seemed to stretch out her legs, and fill the whole carriage as with a black cloud; then she thought she heard a terrible thumping and rapping, a noise like something tearing; then a red and blinding fire flashed in her eyes, and then all vanished in darkness. Anna felt as if she was falling. But this was not at all alarming, but rather pleasant.
The voice of a man all wrapped up, and covered with snow, shouted something in her ear. She started up, recovered her wits, and perceived that they were approaching a station, and the man was the conductor. She bade Annushka give her the pelerine which she had laid aside and her handkerchief, and, having put them on, she went to the door.
"Do you wish to go out?" asked Annushka.
"Yes; I want to get a breath of fresh air. It is very hot here."
And she opened the door. The snow-storm and the wind rushed in to meet her and disputed the door with her. And this seemed to her very jolly. The storm seemed to be waiting for her, it gayly whistled and was eager to carry her away; but she clung to the cold railing with one hand, and, holding her dress, she stepped out on the platform, and left the car. The wind was fierce on the steps, but on the platform, under the shelter of the station, it was calmer, and she found a genuine pleasure in filling her lungs with the frosty air. Standing near the car she watched the platform and the station gleaming with lights.