No More Learning

ANNA'S
NNA'S chief desire on her return to Russia was to see her
son. From the day that she left Italy she was filled with
this idea; and her joy increased in proportion as she drew
near Petersburg. She did not trouble herself with the question
how she should manage this meeting, which seemed to her of
such importance. It was a simple and natural thing, she thought,
to see her child once more, now that she was in the same town
with him; but since her arrival she suddenly realized her pres-
ent relation towards society, and found that the interview was not
easy to obtain.
She had been two days now in Petersburg, and never for an
instant had she forgotten her son; but she had not seen him.
To go straight to her husband's house, and risk coming face
to face with her husband, seemed to her impossible. They might
even refuse to admit her. To write to Alekséi Aleksandrovitch
and ask permission of him, seemed to her painful even to think
of. She could be calm only when she did not think of her hus-
band; and yet she could not feel contented to see her son at a
distance. She had too many kisses, too many caresses, to give
him.
1
Serozha's old nurse might have been an assistance to her,
but she no longer lived with Alekséi Aleksandrovitch.
On the third day, having learned of Alekséi Aleksandrovitch's
relations with the Countess Lidia Ivanovna, Anna decided to
write her a letter composed with the greatest care, in which she


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would tell her frankly that the permission to see her son de-
pended on her. She knew that if her husband found it out, he,
in his part of magnanimous man, would not refuse her.
answer.
It was a cruel blow to have her messenger return without an
She had never felt so wounded, so humiliated; and yet
she had to acknowledge that the countess was right.
Her grief
was all the keener because she had to bear it alone. She could
not and did not wish to confide it to Vronsky. She knew that
though he was the chief cause of her unhappiness, he would look
upon her meeting with her son as of little account; and the mere
thought of the unsympathetic tone in which he would speak of
it made him seem odious to her. And the fear that she might
come to hate him was the worst of all. Therefore she made up
her mind to hide from him her action in regard to the child.
She stayed at home all day long, and racked her brain to
think of other ways of meeting her son; and finally she decided
upon the most painful of all,-to write directly to her husband.
Just as she was beginning her letter, Lidia Ivanovna's reply was
brought. She accepted it with silent resignation; but the un-
friendliness, the sarcasm, that she read between the lines, pierced
deep into her soul.
"What cruelty! What hypocrisy! " she said to herself. "They
want to insult me and torment the child. I will not let them do
She is worse than I am: at least I do not lie. "
So.
She immediately decided to go on the morrow, which was
Serozha's birthday, directly to her husband's house to see the
child, no matter what it cost in fees to the servants; and to put
an end to the ugly network of lies with which they were sur-
rounding the innocent child.
She went to a neighboring shop and purchased some toys;
and thus she formed her plan of action: She would start early in
the morning, before Alekséi Aleksandrovitch was up; she would
have the money in her hand all ready to bribe the Swiss and
the other servants to let her go up-stairs without raising her veil,
under the pretext of laying on Serozha's bed some presents sent
by his godfather. As to what she should say to her son, she
could not form the least idea; she could not make any prepara-
tion for that.
The next morning, at eight o'clock, Anna got out of her hired
carriage and rang the door-bell of her former home.


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"Go and see what is wanted. It's some baruina," said Kapi
tonuitch, in overcoat and galoshes, as he looked out of the win-
dow and saw a lady closely veiled standing on the porch. The
Swiss's assistant, a young man whom Anna did not know, had
scarcely opened the door before Anna thrust a three-ruble note
into his hand.
"Serozha-Sergéi Alekseievitch," she stammered; then she
went one or two steps down the hall.
The Swiss's assistant examined the note, and stopped the vis-
itor at the inner glass door.
"Whom do you wish to see? " he asked.
She did not hear his words, and made no reply.
Kapitonuitch, noticing the stranger's confusion, came out from
his office and asked her what she wanted.
"I come from Prince Skorodumof to see Sergéi Alekseie-
vitch. "
"He is not up yet," replied the Swiss, looking sharply at the
veiled lady.
Anna had never dreamed that she should be so troubled by
the sight of this house, where she had lived nine years. One
after another, sweet and cruel memories arose in her mind, and
for a moment she forgot why she was there.
"Will you wait? " asked the Swiss, helping her to take off her
shubka. When he saw her face, he recognized her, and bowed
profoundly. "Will your Ladyship be pleased to enter? " he said
to her.
She tried to speak; but her voice failed her, and with an en-
treating look at the old servant she rapidly flew up the stairs.
Kapitonuitch tried to overtake her, and followed after her, catch-
ing his galoshes at every step.
"Perhaps his tutor is not dressed yet: I will speak to him. "
Anna kept on up the stairs which she knew so well; but she
did not hear what the old man said.
"This way.
Excuse it if all is in disorder. He sleeps in
the front room now," said the Swiss, out of breath. "Will your
Ladyship be good enough to wait a moment? I will go and see. "
And opening the high door he disappeared.
Anna stopped and waited.
"He has just waked up," said the Swiss, coming back through
the same door.


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And as he spoke, Anna heard the sound of a child yawning;
and merely by the sound of the yawn she recognized her son,
and seemed to see him alive before her.
"Let me go in-let me! " she stammered, and hurriedly
pushed through the door.
At the right of the door was a bed, and on the bed a child
was sitting up in his little open nightgown; his little body was
leaning forward, and he was just finishing a yawn and stretching
himself. His lips were just closing into a sleepy smile, and he
fell back upon his pillow still smiling.
"Serozha! " she murmured, as she went towards him.
Every time since their separation that she had felt an access
of love for the absent son, Anna looked upon him as still a child
of four, the age when he had been most charming. Now he no
longer bore any resemblance to him whom she had left; he had
grown tall and thin. How long his face seemed! How short his
hair! What long arms! How he had changed! But it was still
the same, the shape of his head, his lips, little slender neck, and
his broad shoulders.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
"Serozha! " she whispered in the child's ear.
He raised himself on his elbow, turned his frowzy head around,
and trying to put things together, opened wide his eyes. For
several seconds he looked with an inquiring face at his mother,
who stood motionless before him. Then he suddenly smiled with
joy; and with his eyes still half closed in sleep, he threw himself,
not back upon his pillow, but into his mother's arms.
"Serozha, my dear little boy! " she stammered, choking with
tears, and throwing her arms around his little body.
"Mamma! " he whispered, cuddling into his mother's arms, so
as to feel their encircling pressure. Smiling sleepily, he took his
hand from the head of the bed and put it on his mother's shoul-
der, and climbed into her lap,- having that warm breath of sleep
peculiar to children, and pressed his face to his mother's neck
and shoulders.
―――――――
"I knew," he said, opening his eyes: "to-day is my birthday;
I knew that you would come. I am going to get up now. "
And as he spoke he fell asleep again. Anna devoured him
with her eyes. She saw how he had changed during her absence.
She would scarcely have known his long legs coming below his
nightgown, his hollow cheeks, his short hair curled in the neck


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where she had so often kissed it. She pressed him to her heart,
and the tears prevented her from speaking.
"What are you crying for, mamma? " he asked, now entirely
awake. "What makes you cry? " he repeated, ready to weep
himself.
"I? I will not cry any more; it is for joy. It is all over
now," said she, drying her tears and turning around. "Nu! go
and get dressed," she added, after she had grown a little calmer,
but still holding Serozha's hand. She sat down near the bed,
on a chair which held the child's clothing. "How do you dress
without me? How she wanted to speak simply and gayly,
but she could not; and again she turned her head away.
"I don't wash in cold water any more,
papa has forbidden
it; but you have not seen Vasíli Lukitch? Here he comes. But
you are sitting on my things. " And Serozha laughed heartily.
She looked at him and smiled.
"Mamma! dúshenka, golúbtchika! " [dear little soul, darling]
he cried again, throwing himself into her arms, as though he
now better understood what had happened to him, as he saw her
smile.
--
――――
-
"Take it off," said he, pulling off her hat. And seeing her
head bare, he began to kiss her again.
«< What did you think of me? Did you believe that I was
dead? "
"I never believed it. "
"You believed me alive, my precious? "
"I knew it! I knew it! " he replied, repeating his favorite
phrase; and seizing the hand which was smoothing his hair, he
pressed the palm of it to his little mouth, and began to kiss it.
Vasíli Lukitch, meantime, not at first knowing who this lady
was, but learning from their conversation that it was Serozha's
mother, the woman who had deserted her husband, and whom
he did not know, as he had not come into the house till after
her departure,- was in great perplexity.
was in great perplexity. Ought he to tell Al-
ekséi Aleksandrovitch? On mature reflection he came to the
conclusion that his duty consisted in going to dress Serozha at
the usual hour, without paying any attention to a third person-
his mother or any one else. But as he reached the door and
opened it, the sight of the caresses between the mother and child
the sound of their voices and their words- made him change
his mind. He shook his head, sighed, and quietly closed the
-


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door. "I will wait ten minutes longer," he said to himself,
coughing slightly, and wiping his eyes.
There was great excitement among the servants: they all
knew that the baruina had come, and that Kapitonuitch had let
her in, and that she was in the child's room; they knew too that
their master was in the habit of going to Serozha every morning
at nine o'clock: each one felt that the husband and wife ought
not to meet, that it must be prevented.
Kornéi, the valet, went down to the Swiss to ask why Anna
had been let in; and finding that Kapitonuitch had taken her
up-stairs, he reprimanded him severely. The Swiss maintained an
obstinate silence till the valet declared that he deserved to lose
his place, when the old man jumped at him, and shaking his fist
in his face, said:-
_______
"Da! Vot, you would not have let her in yourself? You've
served here ten years, and had nothing but kindness from her,
but you would have said, 'Now go away from here! ' You know
what policy is, you sly dog. What you don't forget is to rob
your master, and to carry off his raccoon-skin shubas! »
"Soldier! " replied Kornéi scornfully, and he turned towards
the nurse, who was coming in just at this moment. "What do
you think, Marya Yefimovna? He has let in Anna Arkadyevna,
without saying anything to anybody, and just when Aleksei Al-
eksandrovitch, as soon as he is up, will be going to the nursery. "
"What a scrape! what a scrape! " said the nurse. "But, Kor-
néi Vasilyevitch, find some way to keep your master, while I run
to warn her and get her out of the way. What a scrape! "
When the nurse went into the child's room, Serozha was
telling his mother how Nádenka and he had fallen when sliding
down a hill of ice, and turned three somersaults. Anna was
listening to the sound of her son's voice, looking at his face,
watching the play of his features, feeling his little arms, but not
hearing a word that he said. She must go away, she must leave
him: this alone she understood and felt. She had heard Vasíli
Lukitch's steps, and his little discreet cough, as he came to the
door- and now she heard the nurse coming in; but unable to
move or to speak, she remained as fixed as a statue.
"Baruina! Golúbtchika! " [mistress, darling] said the nurse,
coming up to Anna, and kissing her hands and her shoulders.
"God sent this joy for our birthday celebration! You are not
changed at all. "
T
[


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"Ach! nyanya [nurse], my dear: I did not know that you
were in the house," said Anna, coming to herself.
"I don't live here; I live with my daughter. I came to give
my best wishes to Serozha, Anna Arkadyevna, golúbtchika. "
The nurse suddenly began to weep, and to kiss Anna's hand.
Serozha, with bright, joyful eyes, and holding his mother with
one hand and his nurse with the other, was dancing in his little
bare feet on the carpet. His old nurse's tenderness towards his
mother was delightful to him.
"Mamma, she often comes to see me; and when she comes
he began, but he stopped short when he perceived that the nurse
whispered something in his mother's ear, and that his mother's
face assumed an expression of fear, and at the same time of
shame.
-
>>>
Anna went to him.
"My precious! " she said.
She could not say the word "farewell" [proshcháï]; but the
expression of her face said it, and he understood.
"My precious, precious Kutik! " she said, calling him by a
pet name which she used when he was a baby. You will not
forget me; you. » but she could not say another word.
«<
Only then she began to remember the words which she
wanted to say to him; but now it was impossible to say them.
Serozha, however, understood all that she would have said: he
understood that she was unhappy, and that she loved him. He
even understood what the nurse whispered in her ear: he heard
the words "always at nine o'clock"; and he knew that they
referred to his father, and that his mother must not meet him.
He understood this, but one thing he could not understand:
why did her face express fear and shame ?
She was
not to blame, but she was afraid of him, and seemed ashamed
of something. He wanted to ask a question which would have
explained this circumstance, but he did not dare: he saw that she
was in sorrow, and he pitied her. He silently clung close to
her, and then he whispered, "Don't go yet! He will not come yet
awhile. "
·
His mother pushed him away from her a little, in order to
see if he understood the meaning of what he had said; and in
the frightened expression of his face she perceived that he not
only spoke of his father, but seemed to ask her how he ought
to think about him.


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LYOF TOLSTOY
him: he is better than
When you have grown
"Serozha, my dear," she said, "love
I am; and I have been wicked to him.
up, you will understand. "
"No one is better than you," cried the child, with sobs of
despair; and clinging to his mother's shoulders, he squeezed her
with all the force of his little trembling arms.
"Dúshenka, my darling! " stammered Anna; and bursting into
tears, she sobbed like a child, even as he sobbed.
At this moment the door opened, and Vasíli Lukitch came
in. Steps were heard at the other door; and in a frightened
whisper he exclaimed, "He is coming," and gave Anna her hat.
Serozha threw himself on the bed, sobbing, and covered his
face with his hands. Anna took them away to kiss yet once
again his tear-stained cheeks; and then with quick steps hurried
from the room. Aleksei Aleksandrovitch met her at the door.
When he saw her he stopped and bowed his head.
Though she had declared a moment before that he was better
than she, the swift glance that she gave him-taking in his
whole person-awoke in her only a feeling of hatred and scorn
for him, and jealousy on account of her son. She hurriedly
lowered her veil, and quickening her step, almost ran from the
room.
She had entirely forgotten in her haste the playthings
which, on the evening before, she had bought with so much love
and sadness; and she took them back with her to the hotel.
ANNA KILLS HERSELF
From Anna Karénina: translated by Nathan Haskell Dole. Copyrighted
1886, by T. Y. Crowell & Co.
"Not
ow I am myself again,-now my mind is clear," said Anna
to herself, as soon as the carriage started, and rolling a
little, flew swiftly along the uneven pavement.
"Da! what was that good thing that I was thinking about
last? Tiutkin the coiffeur? Oh no! not that. Oh yes! what
Yashvin said about the struggle for existence- and hatred, the
only thing that unites men. No: we go at hap-hazard. "
She saw in a carriage drawn by four horses a party of merry-
makers, who had evidently come to the city for a pleasure trip.
"What are you seeking under the disguise of pleasure? " she
thought. "You won't escape from yourselves;" and then, as her


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·
15009
eye fell on a drunken workman led by a policeman, she added,
"That man's way is quicker. Count Vronsky and I did not
reach this pleasure, though we expected much. "
And for the first time, Anna turned upon her relations with
the count this bright light which was suddenly revealing her life
to her.
"What did he seek in me? A satisfaction for his vanity,
rather than for his love! "
And she remembered Vronsky's words, and the expression of
his face, which reminded her of a submissive dog, when they
first met and loved. Everything seemed a confirmation of this
thought.
"Da! he cared for the triumph of success above everything.
Of course he loved me, but chiefly from vanity. Now that he is
not proud of me any more, it is over. He is ashamed of me.
He has taken from me all that he could take, and now I am
of no use to him. I weigh upon him, and he does not want to
be in dishonorable relationship with me. He said yesterday he
wanted the divorce, so as to burn his ships. Perhaps he loves
me still-but how? The zest is gone," she said, in English, as
she looked at a ruddy-faced man riding by on a hired horse.
"Da! there is nothing about me any longer to his taste. If I
leave him, he will rejoice in the bottom of his heart. "
This was not mere hypothesis: she saw things now clearly, as
by a sort of clairvoyance.
"My love has been growing more and more selfish and pas-
sionate; his has been growing fainter and fainter. That is why
we cannot go on together. He is all in all to me. I struggle
to draw him closer and closer to me, and he wants to fly from
me. Up to the time of our union, we flew to meet each other;
but now we move apart. He accuses me of being absurdly jeal-
- and I am; and yet I am not, either. I am not jealous, but
my love is no longer satisfied. But-" she opened her mouth
to speak, and in the excitement caused by the stress of her
thoughts, she changed her place in the carriage.
ous
―――――
"If I could, I would try to be a simple friend to him, and
not a passionate mistress, whom his coldness frenzies; but I can-
not transform myself. I am not mistaken. Don't I know that
he would not deceive me,- that he is no longer in love with
Kitty, that he has no intention of marrying the Princess Soro-
kina? I know it well, but it is none the easier for me. But
XXV-939
-


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LYOF TOLSTOY
what is that to me? If he is tired of my love,- if, when he
does not feel for me just what I feel for him, I would a thou-
sand times rather have him hate me,- this is- hell! And this
is the case. He has long ceased to love me. When love ceases,
disgust begins. -I don't know these streets at all. What hosts
of houses! and in them, people, people,-no end of them! and
they all hate each other!
"Nu! what could happen to me. now that would give me
happiness again? Suppose that Alekséi Aleksandrovitch should
consent to the divorce, and would give me back Serozha, and
that I should marry Vronsky? " And as she thought of Alekséi
Aleksandrovitch, Anna could see him before her, with his dull,
lifeless, faded eyes, his white, blue-veined hands, and his cracking
joints; and the idea of their relation to one another, which had
hitherto been tinged with tenderness, made her shudder.
"Nu! Suppose I were married, would not Kitty still look
at me as she looked at me to-day? Would not Serozha ask and
wonder why I had two husbands? But between me and Vronsky
what new feeling could I imagine? Is it possible that our rela-
tions might be, if not pleasanter, at least no worse than they
are now? No, and no! " she replied, without the least hesitation.
"Impossible! We are growing apart; and I am disagreeable to
him, and he displeases me, and I cannot change him: every
means has been tried.
son.
"Da! there's a beggar with a child. She thinks she inspires
pity. Were we not thrown into the world to hate each other,
and to torment ourselves and everybody else? Here come the
schoolboys out to play! - Serozha ? " It reminded her of her
"I used to think that I loved him, and I was touched
by his gentleness. I also lived without him, gave him up for
my love, and was not sorry for the change, since I was contented
with him whom I loved. " And she remembered with disgust
what she called that love. And the clearness in which she now
saw her own life, as well as the lives of others, delighted her.
"Thus am I, and Piotr, and the coachman Feodor, and that
merchant, and all people from here to the Volga, wherever
these remarks are applicable- and everywhere and always," she
thought, as the carriage stopped in front of the low-roofed sta-
tion of the Nizhni Novgorod Railroad, and the porter came out
to meet her.
"Shall I book you for Obiralovki? " asked Piotr.


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She had entirely forgotten why she had come, and only by a
great effort could she understand what he meant.
"Yes," she said, handing him her purse; and taking her little
red bag, she got out of the carriage.
As she entered with the throng, she reviewed all the details
of her situation and the plans between which she was halting.
And again hope and despair alternately filled her tortured, cruelly
palpitating heart. As she sat on the stelliform divan, she looked
with aversion on the people going and coming,-they were all
her enemies, and thought now of how, when she reached the
station, she would write to him, and what she would write, and
then how at this very moment he- not thinking of her suffer-
ing was complaining to his mother of his position, and how
she would go to his room, and what she would say to him. The
thought that she might yet live happily crossed her brain; and
how hard it was to love and hate him at the same time! And
above all, how her heart was beating, as if to burst its bounds!
A bell sounded, and some impudent young men of a flashy
and vulgar appearance passed before her. Then Piotr, in his
livery and top-boots, with his dull, good-natured face, crossed the
waiting-room, and came up to escort her to the cars.
The noisy
men about the door stopped talking while she passed out upon
the platform; then one of them made some remark to his neigh-
bor, which was apparently an insult. Anna mounted the high
steps, and sat down alone in the compartment on the dirty sofa
which had once been white, and laid her bag beside her on
the springy seat. Piotr raised his gold-laced hat, with an inane
smile, for a farewell, and departed. The saucy conductor shut
the door. A woman, deformed, and ridiculously dressed up, fol-
lowed by a little girl laughing affectedly, passed below the car
window. Anna looked at her with disgust. The little girl was
speaking loud in a mixture of Russian and French.
"That child is grotesque and already self-conscious," thought
Anna; and she seated herself at the opposite window of the
empty apartment, to avoid seeing the people.
A dirty, hunchbacked muzhik passed close to the window, and
examined the car wheels; he wore a cap, from beneath which
could be seen tufts of disheveled hair. "There is something
familiar about that humpbacked muzhik," thought Anna; and
suddenly she remembered her nightmare, and drew back fright-
ened towards the car door, which the conductor was just opening
to admit a lady and gentleman.
―
-


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15012
"Do you want to get out? "
Anna did not answer; and under her veil no one could see
the terror which paralyzed her. She sat down again. The
couple took seats opposite her, and cast stealthy but curious.
glances at her dress. The husband and wife were obnoxious
to her. The husband asked her if she objected to smoking,-
evidently not for the sake of smoking, but as an excuse for
entering into conversation with her. Having obtained her per-
mission, he remarked to his wife in French that he felt even
more inclined to talk than to smoke. They exchanged stupid
remarks, with the hope of attracting Anna's attention and draw-
ing her into the conversation. Anna clearly saw how they bored
each other, how they hated each other. It was impossible not to
hate such painful monstrosities. The second gong sounded, and
was followed by the rumble of baggage,-noise, shouts, laughter.
Anna saw so clearly that there was nothing to rejoice at, that
this laughter roused her indignation, and she longed to stop her
At last the third signal was given, the train started, the
locomotive whistled, and the gentleman crossed himself. "It
would be interesting to ask him what he meant by that," thought
Anna, looking at him angrily. Then she looked by the woman's
head out of the car window at the people standing and walking
on the platform. The car in which Anna sat moved past the
stone walls of the station, the switches, the other cars. The mo-
tion became more rapid; the rays of the setting sun slanted into
the car window, and a light breeze played through the slats of
the blinds.
ears.
Forgetting her neighbors, Anna breathed in the fresh air, and
took up again the course of her thoughts.
"Da! What was I thinking about? I cannot imagine any
situation in which my life could be anything but one long misery.
We are all dedicated to unhappiness: we all know it, and only
seek for ways to deceive ourselves. But when you see the truth,
what is to be done? "
"Reason was given to man that he might avoid what he dis-
likes," remarked the woman in French, apparently delighted with
her sentence.
The words fitted in with Anna's thought.
"To avoid what he dislikes," she repeated; and a glance
at the handsome-faced man, and his thin better half, showed her
that the woman looked upon herself as a misunderstood creature,
and that her stout husband did not contradict this opinion, but


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15013
took advantage of it to deceive her. Anna, as it were, read their
history, and looked into the most secret depths of their hearts;
but it was not interesting, and she went on with her reflections.
"Yes, it is very unpleasant to me, and reason was given
to avoid it; therefore it must be done. Why not extinguish the
light when it shines on things disgusting to see? But how?
Why does the conductor keep hurrying through the car? Why
does he shout? Why are there people in this car? Why do
they speak? What are they laughing at? It is all false, all a
lie, all deception, all vanity and vexation.
>>>>
When the train reached the station, Anna followed the other
passengers, and tried to avoid too rude a contact with the bus-
tling crowd. She hesitated on the platform, trying to recollect
why she had come, and to ask herself what she meant to do.
All that seemed to her possible before to do, now seemed to
her difficult to execute,- especially amid this disagreeable crowd.
Now the porters came to her, and offered her their services;
now some young men, clattering up and down the platform, and
talking loud, observed her curiously: and she knew not where to
take refuge. Finally it occurred to her to stop an official, and
ask him if a coachman had not been there with a letter for
Count Vronsky.
"The Count Vronsky? Just now some one was here.
inquiring for the Princess Sorokina and her daughter.
kind of a looking man is this coachman? "
Just then Anna espied the coachman Mikhaïl, rosy and gay in
his elegant blue livery and watch-chain, coming towards her, and
carrying a note, immensely proud that he had fulfilled his com-
mission.
He was
What
Anna broke the seal, and her heart stood still as she read the
carelessly written lines:-
"I am very sorry that your note did not find me in Moscow.
I shall return at ten o'clock. "
――――
"Yes, that is what I expected," she said to herself with a
sardonic smile.
"Very good: you can go home," she said to Mikhail. She
spoke the words slowly and gently, because her heart beat so
that she could scarcely breathe or speak.
"No, I will not let you make me suffer so," thought she, ad-
dressing with a threat, not Vronsky so much as the thought that
was torturing her; and she moved along the platform. Two
chambermaids waiting there turned to look at her, and made


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LYOF TOLSTOY
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audible remarks about her toilet. "Just in style," they said,
referring to her lace. The young men would not leave her in
peace. They stared at her, and passed her again and again,—
making their jokes so that she should hear. The station-master
came to her, and asked if she was going to take the train. A
lad selling kvas did not take his eyes from her.
"Bozhe moï! where shall I fly? " she said to herself.
When she reached the end of the platform she stopped. Some
women and children were there, talking with a man in spec-
tacles, who had probably come to the station to meet them.
They too stopped, and turned to see Anna pass by. She hast-
ened her steps.
A truck full of trunks rumbled by, making the
floor shake so that she felt as if she were on a moving train.
Suddenly she remembered the man who was run over on
the day when she met Vronsky for the first time, and she knew
then what was in store for her. With light and swift steps she
descended the stairway which led from the pump at the end of
the platform down to the rails, and stood very near the train,
which was slowly passing by. She looked under the cars,—at
the chains and the brake, and the high iron wheels, and she
tried to estimate with her eye the distance between the fore and
back wheels, and the moment when the middle would be in front
of her.
-
"There," she said, looking at the shadow of the car thrown
upon the black coal-dust which covered the sleepers, "there, in
the centre, he will be punished; and I shall be delivered from it
all- and from myself. "
Her little red traveling-bag caused her to lose the moment
when she could throw herself under the wheels of the first car:
she could not detach it from her arm. She awaited the second.
A feeling like that she had experienced once, just before taking
a dive in the river, came over her, and she made the sign of the
cross. This familiar gesture called back to her soul, memories
of youth and childhood. Life, with its elusive joys, glowed for
an instant before her, but she did not take her eyes from the
car; and when the middle, between the two wheels, appeared, she
threw away her red bag, drawing her head between her shoul-
ders, and with outstretched hands threw herself on her knees
under the car. She had time to feel afraid. "Where am I?
What am I doing? Why? " thought she, trying to draw back;
but a great, inflexible mass struck her head, and threw her upon
her back. "Lord, forgive me all! " she murmured, feeling the


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struggle to be in vain. A little muzhik was working on the
railroad, mumbling in his beard. And the candle by which she
read, as in a book, the fulfillment of her life's work,- of its
deceptions, its grief, and its torment,- flared up with greater
brightness than she had ever known, revealing to her all that
before was in darkness; then flickered, grew faint, and went out
forever.
AT BORODINO
Copyright 1886, by William S. Gottsberger. Reprinted
by permission of George G.