Chapter Chapter 29 · 第29章

“Come, it’s all over, and thank God!” was the first thought that came

to Anna Arkadyevna, when she had said good-bye for the last time to her

brother, who had stood blocking up the entrance to the carriage till

the third bell rang. She sat down on her lounge beside Annushka, and

looked about her in the twilight of the sleeping-carriage. “Thank God!

tomorrow I shall see Seryozha and Alexey Alexandrovitch, and my life

will go on in the old way, all nice and as usual.”

Still in the same anxious frame of mind, as she had been all that day,

Anna took pleasure in arranging herself for the journey with great

care. With her little deft hands she opened and shut her little red

bag, took out a cushion, laid it on her knees, and carefully wrapping

up her feet, settled herself comfortably. An invalid lady had already

lain down to sleep. Two other ladies began talking to Anna, and a stout

elderly lady tucked up her feet, and made observations about the

heating of the train. Anna answered a few words, but not foreseeing any

entertainment from the conversation, she asked Annushka to get a lamp,

hooked it onto the arm of her seat, and took from her bag a paper-knife

and an English novel. At first her reading made no progress. The fuss

and bustle were disturbing; then when the train had started, she could

not help listening to the noises; then the snow beating on the left

window and sticking to the pane, and the sight of the muffled guard

passing by, covered with snow on one side, and the conversations about

the terrible snowstorm raging outside, distracted her attention.

Farther on, it was continually the same again and again: the same

shaking and rattling, the same snow on the window, the same rapid

transitions from steaming heat to cold, and back again to heat, the

same passing glimpses of the same figures in the twilight, and the same

voices, and Anna began to read and to understand what she read.

Annushka was already dozing, the red bag on her lap, clutched by her

broad hands, in gloves, of which one was torn. Anna Arkadyevna read and

understood, but it was distasteful to her to read, that is, to follow

the reflection of other people’s lives. She had too great a desire to

live herself. If she read that the heroine of the novel was nursing a

sick man, she longed to move with noiseless steps about the room of a

sick man; if she read of a member of Parliament making a speech, she

longed to be delivering the speech; if she read of how Lady Mary had

ridden after the hounds, and had provoked her sister-in-law, and had

surprised everyone by her boldness, she too wished to be doing the

same. But there was no chance of doing anything; and twisting the

smooth paper-knife in her little hands, she forced herself to read.

The hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English

happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was feeling a desire to

go with him to the estate, when she suddenly felt that _he_ ought to

feel ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same thing. But what had

he to be ashamed of? “What have I to be ashamed of?” she asked herself

in injured surprise. She laid down the book and sank against the back

of the chair, tightly gripping the paper-cutter in both hands. There

was nothing. She went over all her Moscow recollections. All were good,

pleasant. She remembered the ball, remembered Vronsky and his face of

slavish adoration, remembered all her conduct with him: there was

nothing shameful. And for all that, at the same point in her memories,

the feeling of shame was intensified, as though some inner voice, just

at the point when she thought of Vronsky, were saying to her, “Warm,

very warm, hot.” “Well, what is it?” she said to herself resolutely,

shifting her seat in the lounge. “What does it mean? Am I afraid to

look it straight in the face? Why, what is it? Can it be that between

me and this officer boy there exist, or can exist, any other relations

than such as are common with every acquaintance?” She laughed

contemptuously and took up her book again; but now she was definitely

unable to follow what she read. She passed the paper-knife over the

window pane, then laid its smooth, cool surface to her cheek, and

almost laughed aloud at the feeling of delight that all at once without

cause came over her. She felt as though her nerves were strings being

strained tighter and tighter on some sort of screwing peg. She felt her

eyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes twitching nervously,

something within oppressing her breathing, while all shapes and sounds

seemed in the uncertain half-light to strike her with unaccustomed

vividness. Moments of doubt were continually coming upon her, when she

was uncertain whether the train were going forwards or backwards, or

were standing still altogether; whether it were Annushka at her side or

a stranger. “What’s that on the arm of the chair, a fur cloak or some

beast? And what am I myself? Myself or some other woman?” She was

afraid of giving way to this delirium. But something drew her towards

it, and she could yield to it or resist it at will. She got up to rouse

herself, and slipped off her plaid and the cape of her warm dress. For

a moment she regained her self-possession, and realized that the thin

peasant who had come in wearing a long overcoat, with buttons missing

from it, was the stoveheater, that he was looking at the thermometer,

that it was the wind and snow bursting in after him at the door; but

then everything grew blurred again.... That peasant with the long waist

seemed to be gnawing something on the wall, the old lady began

stretching her legs the whole length of the carriage, and filling it

with a black cloud; then there was a fearful shrieking and banging, as

though someone were being torn to pieces; then there was a blinding

dazzle of red fire before her eyes and a wall seemed to rise up and

hide everything. Anna felt as though she were sinking down. But it was

not terrible, but delightful. The voice of a man muffled up and covered

with snow shouted something in her ear. She got up and pulled herself

together; she realized that they had reached a station and that this

was the guard. She asked Annushka to hand her the cape she had taken

off and her shawl, put them on and moved towards the door.

“Do you wish to get out?” asked Annushka.

“Yes, I want a little air. It’s very hot in here.” And she opened the

door. The driving snow and the wind rushed to meet her and struggled

with her over the door. But she enjoyed the struggle.

She opened the door and went out. The wind seemed as though lying in

wait for her; with gleeful whistle it tried to snatch her up and bear

her off, but she clung to the cold door post, and holding her skirt got

down onto the platform and under the shelter of the carriages. The wind

had been powerful on the steps, but on the platform, under the lee of

the carriages, there was a lull. With enjoyment she drew deep breaths

of the frozen, snowy air, and standing near the carriage looked about

the platform and the lighted station.