‘You came here and did a good deed,’ said Dolly, examining her closely.
Anna looked at her with eyes wet with tears.
‘Don’t say that, Dolly. I didn’t do anything, and I couldn’t have done anything. I often wonder why people have conspired to spoil me with flattery. What did I do, and what could I have done? You found enough love in your heart to forgive …’
‘Heaven knows what would have happened without you! You are so lucky, Anna!’ said Dolly. ‘Everything in your soul is so clear and good.’
‘Everyone has skeletons1 in their soul, as the English say.’
‘What skeletons do you have? Everything is so clear with you.’
‘Oh, I have them!’ Anna said suddenly, and unexpectedly after her tears, a sly, humorous smile wrinkled her lips.
‘So your skeletons are funny, not grim,’ said Dolly, smiling.
‘No, they are grim. Do you know why I am going today and not tomorrow? It’s a confession which has been weighing on me, and I want to make it to you,’ said Anna, leaning back decisively into her armchair and looking straight into Dolly’s eyes.
And to her amazement Dolly saw that Anna had blushed to her ears, to the curly black ringlets of hair on her neck.
‘Yes,’ continued Anna. ‘Do you know why Kitty did not come to dinner? She is jealous of me. I have spoiled … I was the reason why that ball was a torment rather than a joy for her. But it’s not my fault, it really isn’t, or maybe just slightly,’ she said, drawing out the word ‘slightly’ in a high-pitched voice.
‘Oh, you sounded just like Stiva when you said that!’ said Dolly, laughing.
Anna was offended.
‘Oh, no, no! I am not like Stiva,’ she said, frowning. ‘That is why I am telling you this, because I will not allow myself even for a moment to doubt myself,’ said Anna.
But the moment she uttered those words, she felt they were untrue; she not only did doubt herself, but the thought of Vronsky gave her a thrill, and she was leaving earlier than she had wanted purely to avoid meeting him again.
‘Yes, Stiva told me that you danced the mazurka with him, and that he …’
‘You cannot imagine how absurdly it turned out. I was only thinking about matchmaking, and then suddenly it was something quite different. Maybe against my will, I …’
She blushed and broke off.
‘Oh, they feel that immediately!’ said Dolly.
‘But I would be in despair if there was anything serious in it on his part,’ said Anna, interrupting her. ‘And I am sure that it will all be forgotten and Kitty will stop hating me.’
‘Actually, Anna, to tell you the truth, I do not really want this marriage for Kitty. And it’s better that it should not work out, if he, Vronsky, can fall in love with you in one day.’
‘Oh, heavens, that would be too silly!’ said Anna, and a deep flush of pleasure appeared on her face again when she heard the thought absorbing her uttered out loud. ‘So, there you are, I am leaving, having made an enemy of Kitty, whom I have come to love. Oh, how lovely she is! But Dolly, you will put things right, won’t you?’
Dolly could barely suppress a smile. She loved Anna, but it was nice for her to see that she too had weaknesses.
‘An enemy? That’s not possible.’
‘I would so like you all to love me as I love you; and now I love you all even more,’ she said with tears in her eyes. ‘Ah, how foolish I am being today!’
She dabbed her face with a handkerchief, and started to get dressed.
Just as she was about to depart, Stepan Arkadyich arrived, late, with a red, cheery face and a smell of wine and cigars.
Anna’s emotional state communicated itself also to Dolly, and as she embraced her sister-in-law for the last time, she whispered:
‘Anna, remember: I will never forget what you have done for me. And remember that I love you, and will always love you as my best friend!’
‘I don’t understand why,’ said Anna, kissing her and trying to hide her tears.
‘You do understand, I know you do. Farewell, my dearest!’
1 [English in the original.]
29
‘WELL, it’s all over, and thank heavens for that!’ was the first thought which occurred to Anna Arkadyevna when she said goodbye for the last time to her brother, who stood blocking the way into the carriage until the third bell.* She sat down on her seat, next to Annushka, and looked around her in the half-light of the sleeping-compartment. ‘Thank goodness, tomorrow I will see Seryozha and Alexey Alexandrovich, and my nice, ordinary life will go on as before.’
Still in the same preoccupied state she had been in all that day, Anna took pleasure and particular care settling herself for the journey; with her small, deft hands she fastened and unfastened her little red bag, took a small cushion and placed it on her knees, neatly wrapped up her legs, and sat back calmly. A lady in poor health was already getting ready to go to sleep. Two other ladies started talking to her, and a fat old woman was wrapping up her legs and passing comment on the heating. Anna said a few words in reply to the ladies, but not foreseeing any interest in the conversation, asked Annushka to get out a small lamp, attached it to the arm of her seat, and took out a paper-knife and an English novel from her bag. At first she found it hard to read. First she was hindered by the noise and bustle; then, when the train departed, she could not help listening to the various sounds; then her attention was distracted by the snow driving against the left-hand window and sticking to the glass, by the sight of the muffled conductor going by, one side of him covered with snow, and by conversations about the terrible snowstorm now raging outside. After that everything repeated itself endlessly; the same jolting and banging, the same snow on the window, the same rapid transitions from steaming heat to cold, and back to heat, the same people flitting past in the semi-darkness, and the same voices, and Anna started to read and understand what she was reading. Annushka had already dozed off, holding the little red bag on her lap with her broad hands in gloves, one of which was torn. Anna Arkadyevna read and understood, but it was unpleasant for her to read, that is, to follow the reflection of other people’s lives. She had too great a longing to live herself. If she read about the heroine of the novel caring for a sick man, she wanted to tiptoe with silent steps about the sick man’s room; if she read about a Member of Parliament giving a speech, she wanted to give that speech; if she read about Lady Mary riding to hounds, teasing her sister-in-law and amazing everybody with her daring, she wanted to do all that herself. But there was nothing she could do and, running her small hands over the smooth paper-knife, she returned to her reading with greater concentration.
The hero of the novel had already begun to attain his English fortune, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was experiencing a desire to go with him to this estate, when she suddenly felt that he ought to feel ashamed and that she was ashamed for the same reason. But what should he be ashamed of? ‘And what exactly am I ashamed of?’ she asked herself in aggrieved surprise. She put down her book and leaned back in her seat, gripping the paper-knife tightly in both hands. There had been nothing shameful. She sifted through all her Moscow memories. They were all good, all pleasant. She remembered the ball, she remembered Vronsky and his love-stricken, submissive face, and she remembered all her interactions with him; there had been nothing shameful. But it was also at this particular stage in her recollections that her feeling of shame increased, as if some kind of inner voice was saying to her right at the moment when she remembered Vronsky: ‘Warm, very warm, hot.’ ‘Well, then?’ she said to herself resolutely as she shuffled in her seat. ‘What can it mean? Am I really afraid to look at this directly? Well, then? Can there really be, and could there ever be any kind of relations between me and that officer boy which might be different to those with every other acquaintance?’ She smiled contemptuously and picked up her book again, but now she definitely could not understand what she was reading. She ran her paper-knife over the window, then pressed its smooth and cold surface against her cheek, and almost laughed out loud from the joy suddenly overcoming her for no apparent reason. She felt that her nerves were being stretched ever more tautly, like strings on some kind of twisting pegs. She felt her eyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes twitching nervously, something in her chest constricting her breathing, and every image and sound in this flickering half-light striking her with exceptional sharpness. She kept being visited by moments of doubt as to whether the carriage was moving forwards, or backwards, or standing stock-still. Was that Annushka beside her or a stranger? ‘Over there on the armrest, is that a fur coat or an animal? And what am I doing here? Is this me or someone else?’ She was afraid of surrendering to this oblivion. But something was luring her into it, and she could surrender to it or resist it at will. In order to try and come to her senses, she stood up, threw aside her rug, and removed the cape from her warm dress. For a moment she did come to her senses, and realized that the emaciated peasant in the long nankeen coat with a missing button who had come in was the stoker, that he was looking at the thermometer, and that the wind and the snow had burst in through the door after him, but then everything became confused again … The long-waisted peasant started gnawing at something in the wall, the old lady started stretching her legs out the whole length of the carriage, filling it with a black cloud; then there was a terrible screeching and banging sound, as if someone were being torn to pieces; then there was a blinding red light, and then everything was shut out by a wall. Anna felt she had vanished. But all this was enjoyable, not frightening. The voice of the muffled, snow-covered man shouted out something above her ear. She stood up and collected herself; she realized they had arrived at a station, and that this was the conductor. She asked Annushka to hand her back the cape she had taken off, and her scarf, put them on, and headed for the door.