TWELVE

 

 

Chapter 28

 

 

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EARLY in the morning after the ball Anna sent a telegram to her husband to say that she was leaving Moscow that same evening.

 

‘Really I must, I must go,’ she said, explaining her altered plans to her sister-in-law in a tone suggesting that she had suddenly remembered so many things she had to do that it was not even possible to enumerate them all. ‘Really I had better go to-day.’

 

Stephen Oblonsky was not dining at home, but promised to be back at seven to see his sister off.

 

Kitty also had not come, but had sent a note to say that she had a headache. Dolly and Anna dined alone with the children and their English governess. Whether it is that children are inconstant or that they are sensitive and felt that Anna was not the same person to-day as she had been that other day when they had been so fond of her, and that she no longer took any interest in them, at any rate they suddenly left off playing with their aunt and loving her, and were not at all concerned about her leaving. Anna spent the whole morning preparing for her departure: writing notes to her Moscow acquaintances, making up accounts, and packing. It seemed to Dolly that Anna was not at ease in her mind, but in a state of anxiety that Dolly knew well from her own experience, a state which does not come on without a cause, but generally hides dissatisfaction with oneself. After dinner Anna went to her room to dress, and Dolly followed her.

 

‘How strange you are to-day!’ said Dolly.

 

‘I? Do you think so? I am not strange, but wicked. It sometimes happens to me. I feel ready to cry. It is very silly, but it will pass,’ said Anna hurriedly, and she bent her flushed face over the tiny bag into which she was packing a nightcap and some lawn handkerchiefs. Her eyes shone peculiarly and kept filling with tears. ‘I did not want to leave Petersburg, and now I do not want to leave here.’

 

‘You came here and did a good action,’ said Dolly, scrutinizing her attentively.

 

Anna looked at her with her eyes wet with tears.

 

‘Do not say that, Dolly. I have done and could do nothing. I often wonder why people conspire to spoil me. What have I done and what could I do? There was enough love in your heart to forgive . . .’

 

‘But for you, God only knows what would have happened! How lucky you are, Anna,’ said Dolly. ‘Everything in your soul is clear and good.’

 

‘Every one has a skeleton in their cupboard, as the English say.’

 

‘What skeleton have you? Everything about you is so clear.’

 

‘I have one!’ said Anna, and unexpectedly following her tears, a sly humorous smile puckered her lips.

 

‘Well, at least your skeleton is a funny one and not a dismal one,’ said Dolly smiling.

 

‘No, it is a dismal one. Do you know why I am going to-day and not to-morrow? This is a confession of something that oppresses me, and I want to make it to you,’ said Anna, determinedly throwing herself back in an arm-chair and looking straight into Dolly’s eyes.

 

And to her surprise Dolly saw that Anna was blushing to her ears and to the curly black locks on her neck.

 

‘Do you know,’ continued Anna, ‘why Kitty did not come to dinner? She is jealous of me. I have spoiled . . . I mean I was the cause of the ball being a torture instead of a pleasure to her. But really, really I was not to blame, or only a very little,’ she said, drawling out the word ‘very’ in a high-pitched voice.

 

‘Oh, how like Stiva you said that,’ remarked Dolly laughing.

 

Anna was annoyed.

 

‘Oh no, no, I am not Stiva,’ she said frowning. ‘The reason I have told you is that I do not even for a moment allow myself to distrust myself.’

 

But at the moment when she uttered these words she knew they were untrue: she not only distrusted herself but was agitated by the thought of Vronsky, and was leaving sooner than she had intended only that she might not meet him again.

 

‘Yes, Stiva told me that you danced the mazurka with him, and that he . . .’

 

‘You cannot think how queerly it came about. I only thought of arranging the match, and — suddenly it all came out quite differently. . . . Perhaps against my own will I . . .’

 

She blushed and stopped.

 

‘Oh, they feel that at once!’ said Dolly.

 

‘But I should be in despair if there were anything serious in it on his side,’ Anna interrupted her. ‘I am sure that it will all be forgotten, and Kitty will no longer hate me.’

 

‘Well, do you know, Anna, to tell you the truth, I am not very anxious that Kitty should marry him. It is much better that it should come to nothing if he, Vronsky, is capable of falling in love with you in a day.’

 

‘Oh, my goodness! How stupid it would be,’ said Anna, and again a deep flush of pleasure suffused her face at hearing the thought that occupied her mind expressed in words. ‘So I am going away having made an enemy of Kitty, of whom I am so fond. Oh, what a darling she is! But you will put it right? Eh, Dolly?’

 

Dolly could hardly repress a smile. She was fond of Anna, but it was pleasant to find that she too had a weakness.

 

‘An enemy? That is impossible.’

 

‘I should so like you all to love me as I love you; and now I love you still more,’ said Anna with tears in her eyes. ‘Oh dear, how silly I am to-day.’

 

She dabbed her face with her handkerchief and began to dress.

 

Oblonsky, smelling of wine and cigars, with his face red and happy, came in late, just as she was about to start.

 

Anna’s emotion had spread to Dolly, who as she embraced her sister-in-law for the last time whispered: ‘Remember that I love and always shall love you as my best friend!’

 

‘I do not know why you should,’ said Anna, kissing her and trying to hide her tears.

 

‘You understood and understand me. Good-bye, my sweet one!’

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

 

 

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‘WELL, that’s all over, thank Heaven!’ was Anna’s first thought when she had taken leave of her brother, who stood to the last moment obstructing the entrance to the railway carriage.

 

She sat down beside her maid Annushka, and peered round the dimly-lit sleeping compartment. ‘Thank Heaven, to-morrow I shall see Serezha and Alexis Alexandrovich again, and my good accustomed life will go on as of old.’

 

With the same preoccupied mind she had had all that day, Anna prepared with pleasure and great deliberation for the journey. With her deft little hands she unlocked her red bag, took out a small pillow which she placed on her knees, and locked the bag again; then she carefully wrapped up her feet and sat down comfortably. An invalid lady was already going to bed. Two other ladies began talking to Anna. One, a fat old woman, while wrapping up her feet, remarked upon the heating of the carriage. Anna said a few words in answer, but not foreseeing anything interesting from the conversation asked her maid to get out her reading-lamp, fixed it to the arm of her seat, and took a paper-knife and an English novel from her handbag. At first she could not read. For a while the bustle of people moving about disturbed her, and when the train had finally started it was impossible not to listen to the noises; then there was the snow, beating against the window on her left, to which it stuck, and the sight of the guard, who passed through the carriage closely wrapped up and covered with snow on one side; also the conversation about the awful snow-storm which was raging outside distracted her attention. And so it went on and on: the same jolting and knocking, the same beating of the snow on the window-pane, the same rapid changes from steaming heat to cold, and back again to heat, the gleam of the same faces through the semi-darkness, and the same voices, — but at last Anna began to read and to follow what she read. Annushka was already dozing, her broad hands, with a hole in one of the gloves, holding the red bag on her lap. Anna read and understood, but it was unpleasant to read, that is to say, to follow the reflection of other people’s lives. She was too eager to live herself. When she read how the heroine of the novel nursed a sick man, she wanted to move about the sick-room with noiseless footsteps; when she read of a member of Parliament making a speech, she wished to make that speech; when she read how Lady Mary rode to hounds, teased her sister-in-law, and astonished everybody by her boldness — she wanted to do it herself. But there was nothing to be done, so she forced herself to read, while her little hand toyed with the smooth paper-knife.

 

The hero of the novel had nearly attained to his English happiness of a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna wanted to go to the estate with him, when she suddenly felt that he must have been ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same thing, — but what was he ashamed of? ‘What am I ashamed of?’ she asked herself with indignant surprise. She put down her book, leaned back, and clasped the paper-knife tightly in both hands. There was nothing to be ashamed of. She called up all her Moscow memories. They were all good and pleasant. She recalled the ball and Vronsky and his humble, enamoured gaze, and their relations with one another; there was nothing to be ashamed of. And yet at that very point of her recollections when she remembered Vronsky, the feeling of shame grew stronger and some inner voice seemed to say to her, ‘warm, very warm, burning!’ ‘Well, what of it?’ she finally said to herself with decision, changing her position on the seat. ‘What does it signify? Am I afraid to look straight at it? What of it? Just as if there existed, or could exist, between me and this officer-lad any relations differing from those with other acquaintances.’ She smiled disdainfully and again took up her book; but now she absolutely could not understand what she was reading. She passed her paper-knife over the windowpane, then pressed its cold smooth surface against her cheek and almost laughed aloud, suddenly overcome with unreasoning joy. She felt that her nerves were being stretched like strings drawn tighter and tighter round pegs. She felt her eyes opening wider, her fingers and toes nervously moving, and something inside her stopping her breath, and all the forms and sounds in the swaying semi-darkness around struck her with unusual vividness. Momentary doubts kept occurring in her mind as to whether the train was moving forwards or backwards, or standing still. Was it Annushka who was sitting beside her, or a stranger? ‘And am I here, myself? Am I myself or another?’ She was afraid of giving way to these delirious thoughts. Something seemed to draw her to them, but she had the power to give way to them or to resist. To get over it she rose, threw off her wrap, and took off the cape of her coat. She came to her senses for a moment, and knew that the lean peasant in the long nankin coat with a button missing who had come into the compartment was the carriage stoker and was looking at the thermometer, and that the wind and snow rushed in when he opened the door; but afterwards everything again became confused. . . .

 

The peasant in the long coat started gnawing at something on the wall; the old woman began stretching her legs the whole length of the carriage, which she filled with a black cloud; then something squeaked and clattered in a dreadful manner, as if some one was being torn to pieces; then a blinding red light appeared, and at last everything was hidden by a wall. Anna felt as if she had fallen through the floor. But all this did not seem dreadful, but amusing. The voice of a man wrapped up and covered with snow shouted something just above her ear. She rose and came to herself, understanding that they had stopped at a station and that this was the guard. She asked Annushka to give her the cape she had removed and a shawl, and putting them on she moved to the door.

 

‘Are you going out?’ asked Annushka.

 

‘Yes, I want a breath of air. It is so hot in here.’

 

She opened the carriage door. The snow and wind rushed toward her and had a tussle with her for the door. And this too struck her as amusing. She went out. The wind seemed only to have waited for her: it whistled merrily and tried to seize and carry her off but she held on to the cold door-post and held down her shawl, then stepping on to the platform she moved away from the carriage.

 

The wind blew boisterously into the little porch of the carriage, but on the platform, sheltered by the train, it was quiet. With enjoyment she drew in full breaths of the snowy, frosty air as she stood beside her carriage looking round at the platform and the lighted station.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 30

 

 

 

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A BLUSTERING storm was rushing and whistling between the wheels of the train and round the pillars and the corners of the station. The railway carriages, the pillars, the people, and everything that could be seen, were covered on one side with snow, and that covering became thicker and thicker. A momentary lull would be followed by such a terrific gust that it seemed hardly possible to stand against it. Yet people, merrily exchanging remarks, ran over the creaking boards of the platform, and the big station doors were constantly being opened and shut. The shadow of a man stooping slipped past her feet and she heard a hammer striking the carriage wheels. ‘Let me have the telegram!’ came an angry voice from the other side out of the stormy darkness. ‘Here, please, No. 28!’ cried other voices while many people muffled up and covered with snow ran hither and thither. Two gentlemen passed her with glowing cigarettes between their lips. She took another deep breath to get her fill of fresh air and had already drawn her hand out of her muff to take hold of the handrail and get into the train, when another man wearing a military overcoat came close between her and the wavering light of the lamp. She turned round, and instantly recognized Vronsky. With his hand in salute, he bowed and asked if she wanted anything and whether he could be of any service to her. For some time she looked into his face without answering, and, though he stood in the shade she noticed, or thought she noticed, the expression of his face and eyes. It was the same expression of respectful ecstasy that had so affected her the night before. She had assured herself more than once during those last few days, and again a moment ago, that Vronsky in relation to her was only one of the hundreds of everlastingly identical young men she met everywhere, and that she would never allow herself to give him a thought; yet now, at the first moment of seeing him again, she was seized by a feeling of joyful pride. There was no need for her to ask him why he was there. She knew as well as if he had told her, that he was there in order to be where she was.

 

‘I did not know that you were going too. Why are you going?’ she asked, dropping the hand with which she was about to take hold of the handrail. Her face beamed with a joy and animation she could not repress.

 

‘Why am I going?’ he repeated, looking straight into her eyes. ‘You know that I am going in order to be where you are,’ said he. ‘I cannot do otherwise.’

 

At that moment the wind, as if it had mastered all obstacles, scattered the snow from the carriage roofs, and set a loose sheet of iron clattering; and in front the deep whistle of the engine howled mournfully and dismally. The awfulness of the storm appeared still more beautiful to her now. He had said just what her soul desired but her reason dreaded. She did not reply, and he saw a struggle in her face.

 

‘Forgive me if my words displease you,’ he said humbly.

 

He spoke courteously and respectfully, but so firmly and stubbornly that she was long unable to reply.

 

‘What you are saying is wrong, and if you are a good man, I beg you to forget it, as I will forget it,’ she said at last.

 

‘Not a word, not a movement of yours will I ever forget, nor can I . . .’

 

‘Enough, enough!’ she cried, vainly trying to give a severe expression to her face, into which he was gazing eagerly. She took hold of the cold handrail, ascended the steps, and quickly entered the little lobby leading into the carriage. But in that little lobby she stopped, going over in her imagination what had just taken place. Though she could remember neither his nor her own words, she instinctively felt that that momentary conversation had drawn them terribly near to one another, and this both frightened her and made her happy. After standing still for a few seconds she went into the carriage and sat down. The overwrought condition which tormented her before not only returned again, but grew worse and reached such a degree that she feared every moment that something within her would give way under the intolerable strain. She did not sleep at all that night, but the strain and the visions which filled her imagination had nothing unpleasant or dismal about them; on the contrary they seemed joyful, glowing, and stimulating. Toward morning Anna, while still sitting up, fell into a doze; when she woke it was already light and the train was approaching Petersburg. At once thoughts of home, her husband, her son, and the cares of the coming day and of those that would follow, beset her.

 

When the train stopped at the Petersburg terminus and she got out, the first face she noticed was that of her husband.

 

‘Great heavens! What has happened to his ears?’ she thought, gazing at his cold and commanding figure, and especially at the gristly ears which now so struck her, pressing as they did against the rim of his hat. When he saw her, he came toward her with his customary ironical smile and looked straight at her with his large tired eyes. An unpleasant feeling weighed on her heart when she felt his fixed and weary gaze, as if she had expected to find him different. She was particularly struck by the feeling of dissatisfaction with herself which she experienced when she met him. It was that ordinary well-known feeling, as if she were dissembling, which she experienced in regard to her husband; but formerly she had not noticed it, while now she was clearly and painfully conscious of it.

 

‘Yes, as you see. Here is a devoted husband; devoted as in the first year of married life, — consumed by desire to see you,’ said he in his slow, high-pitched voice and in the tone in which he always addressed her, a tone which ridiculed those who could use such words in earnest.

 

‘Is Serezha well?’ she asked.

 

‘And is this all the reward I get,’ he said, ‘for my ardour? He is quite well, quite well. . . .’

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 31

 

 

 

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VRONSKY did not even try to sleep that night. He sat in his place, his eyes staring straight before him, not observing the people who went in or out; and if previously his appearance of imperturbable calm had struck and annoyed those who did not know him, he now seemed to them even prouder and more self-confident. He looked at people as if they were inanimate things. A nervous young man, a Law Court official, who sat opposite, hated him for that look. The young man repeatedly lit his cigarette at Vronsky’s, talked to him, and even jostled him to prove that he was not a thing but a man; yet Vronsky still looked at him as at a street lamp, and the young man made grimaces, feeling that he was losing self-control under the stress of this refusal to regard him as human.

 

Vronsky neither saw nor heard anyone. He felt himself a king, not because he believed that he had made an impression on Anna — he did not yet believe that — but because the impression she had made on him filled him with happiness and pride.

 

What would come of it all he did not know and did not even consider. He felt that all his powers, hitherto dissipated and scattered, were now concentrated and directed with terrible energy toward one blissful aim. This made him happy. He knew only that he had told her the truth: that he would go where she went, that all the happiness of life and the only meaning of life for him now was in seeing and hearing her. When he had got out of the train at Bologoe station to drink a glass of seltzer water and had seen Anna, he had involuntarily at once told her just what he was thinking about it. He was glad he had said it to her, and that she now knew it and was thinking about it. He did not sleep at all that night. When he returned to the train, he kept recalling all the positions in which he had seen her, and all her words; and in his imagination, causing his heart to stand still, floated pictures of a possible future.

 

When he got out of the train at Petersburg he felt, despite his sleepless night, as fresh and animated as after a cold bath. He stopped outside the carriage, waiting till she appeared. ‘I shall see her again,’ he thought and smiled involuntarily. ‘I shall see her walk, her face . . . she will say something, turn her head, look at me, perhaps even smile.’ But before seeing her he saw her husband, whom the station-master was respectfully conducting through the crowd. ‘Dear me! the husband!’ Only now did Vronsky for the first time clearly realize that the husband was connected with her. He knew she had a husband, but had not believed in his existence, and only fully believed in him when he saw him there: his head and shoulders, and the black trousers containing his legs, and especially when he saw that husband with an air of ownership quietly take her hand.

 

When he saw Karenin, with his fresh Petersburg face, his sternly self-confident figure, his round hat and his slightly rounded back, Vronsky believed in his existence, and had such a disagreeable sensation as a man tortured by thirst might feel on reaching a spring and finding a dog, sheep, or pig in it, drinking the water and making it muddy.