Part VIII - The end?

Dear Diary,

I woke up this morning in a bare room with windows, empty of everything else besides you. I read through your pages, and I think this desperate woman whose thoughts I have read on paper must be me, for why else would these pages be here? But I cannot remember. I studied her story, my story, but I don’t know what has happened to me now. Where am I?

After reading, I walked to the first window. I looked out to see where I am, but I only saw a train station. This old woman was speaking to a man about her son, Vronsky, who must be the same as the man I so passionately loved and who has brought about my strange present situation.

The old woman told the man that her son spoke to no one for six weeks and ate food only when she forced him to. She said she thought that he would try to take his own life. She refers to a woman—that must be me, I suppose—and she said I got what I deserved, that we had a child who is living with my husband (who is not this Vronsky?), and that it would be terrible if they met at my funeral! Diary, what happened to me?

I couldn’t listen to her any longer and went to the next window, where I saw her son with an aging and petrified face speaking to a man about going to fight in a war because he has been ruined. When he suddenly winced from a toothache, something like a memory came to me—a feeling only, but still—that this toothache is somehow awful because my Vronsky’s teeth were always in perfect condition. I don’t know why this would matter, but I’ll hold on to anything at this point. He watched the train moving and seemed to be visibly pained. I think I remember a train…

In the last window there is another man, contemplative, living in the country with his young wife and son. He seems familiar to me, too, as if I met him once before but not often. He hides things from himself that he could use to take his own life. A clue? Why am I watching this? What did I do?

When he is out in the fields a storm begins, and as lightning strikes a large oak tree and falls over, he fears dreadfully for the lives of his wife and child. Oh, to be loved so! Would this Vronsky have done the same for me? Could he have saved me from this odd fate? Diary, I think I’ve done something terrible. They don’t say my name anymore, these people I see through my windows, and I fear I’m fading away. I don’t know what will happen to me after this, but for what I’m afraid might be the last time, I will sign my name and hope someone will find you and tell my story so that I will never be forgotten!

Yours forever,

Anna

Part VII: On the Train

Dear Diary,

On the train. I must see Vronsky, I must. Everything will be better then. Once I see him, that is, and we sort everything out. I have been so unreasonably jealous. Haven’t I? Yes, of course. We can be happy now. As happy as Kitty, and as cruel. How she reveled in my weakness, the lowness of my state. She is ashamed of me. He is too, he must be. I do not deserve this.

I must speak to him at once—why are these people so happy? Don’t they understand the misery of life?—There is no love, only vanity. Yes, vanity! Vronsky had his, and had his satisfaction of me. Now I am only an embarrassment; how it would please him if I left!

We are already drifting apart. But I cannot leave him, not for anything. I love him entirely too desperately. Yet I am dissatisfied. An untenable state of affairs. Life is an untenable state of affairs, I think—and there can be nothing different! I thought I loved him. Perhaps I do. I loved Serezha. Exchanging affections, that’s what life is, and perennial dissatisfaction.

If only Vronsky were not unfaithful! But he is not, no, I am unreasonably jealous. No, no, just dissatisfied. I’ll see him. We’ll find our pleasure again. I’ll show him. –

Except we cannot. That’s the truth of things; life is always a torment, suffering is our purpose and there can be no escape. How could we escape? Perhaps he has received my note. He will come, he must come.

This couple on the train, what are they thinking? Anything? No – I can see through them. They speak French and think they’re happy. He thought we would be happy. We can still be happy. We can sort it out. But what’s to sort out? I’ll still be dissatisfied. Or am I jealous? No. I am right. I was right. I miss Serezha. There is no true happiness.

He won’t come. I know it. He doesn’t care a whit for me. Where will I go? What could possibly guide me there? Can I punish him? Could I make him feel as desolate and abandoned as I have? No, no, he must come. He could not torture me so.

Reason? (who are these fools, these empty-headed fools?) Reason reveals that everything is false. All deception—all evil—how I would rather not see than see this! Repulsive! Untrue! Torturer! This cannot go on, cannot—a candle of suffering, illuminating everything, and everything is hateful. I cannot bear it, not a second longer.

I must get off the train. I must see Vronsky, and at once. I must get off the train.

I must get off the train.