Chapter 25

"I had to go twenty-five versts by carriage and eight hours by train.
By carriage it was a very pleasant journey. The coolness of autumn was
accompanied by a brilliant sun. You know the weather when the wheels
imprint themselves upon the dirty road. The road was level, and the
light strong, and the air strengthening. The tarantass was comfortable.
As I looked at the horses, the fields, and the people whom we passed,
I forgot where I was going. Sometimes it seemed to me that I was
travelling without an object,--simply promenading,--and that I should
go on thus to the end of the world. And I was happy when I so forgot
myself. But when I remembered where I was going, I said to myself: 'I
shall see later. Don't think about it.'

"When half way, an incident happened to distract me still further. The
tarantass, though new, broke down, and had to be repaired. The delays in
looking for a telegue, the repairs, the payment, the tea in the inn, the
conversation with the dvornik, all served to amuse me. Toward nightfall
all was ready, and I started off again. By night the journey was still
pleasanter than by day. The moon in its first quarter, a slight frost,
the road still in good condition, the horses, the sprightly coachman,
all served to put me in good spirits. I scarcely thought of what awaited
me, and was gay perhaps because of the very thing that awaited me, and
because I was about to say farewell to the joys of life.

"But this tranquil state, the power of conquering my preoccupation, all
ended with the carriage drive. Scarcely had I entered the cars, when the
other thing began. Those eight hours on the rail were so terrible to me
that I shall never forget them in my life. Was it because on entering
the car I had a vivid imagination of having already arrived, or because
the railway acts upon people in such an exciting fashion? At any rate,
after boarding the train I could no longer control my imagination, which
incessantly, with extraordinary vivacity, drew pictures before my eyes,
each more cynical than its predecessor, which kindled my jealousy.
And always the same things about what was happening at home during
my absence. I burned with indignation, with rage, and with a peculiar
feeling which steeped me in humiliation, as I contemplated these
pictures. And I could not tear myself out of this condition. I could
not help looking at them, I could not efface them, I could not keep from
evoking them.

"The more I looked at these imaginary pictures, the more I believed
in their reality, forgetting that they had no serious foundation. The
vivacity of these images seemed to prove to me that my imaginations
were a reality. One would have said that a demon, against my will,
was inventing