There is something about being trapped in transit with a stranger who has a story to tell and how mesmerizing it can be and often, how personal it can become.

That’s the way it is in "The Kreutzer Sonata," the haunting one-man adaptation of a Leo Tolstoy novella that opened at Renaissance Theaterworks over the weekend.

James Pickering, one of the finest actors this or any other city has ever seen, is Pozdynyshev, acquitted by a jury and newly freed from prison, traveling in a cabin on a train bound for somewhere and coming from somewhere.

His tale is frank and shocking and brutally honest and, just like in real life, we can’t stop listening. It’s a story that makes you hope it will go on forever.

It is the story of man and woman and love and obsession and jealousy and shameless pleasure of the flesh and the role we all play in our own undoing.

The story begins with a narrative of his life as a roving bachelor. He is erudite and collected and full of good humor as the vagaries of sexual conquest pile one atop the other. His memory is accurate and full of detail, and we are whisked along on this endless journey of conquest followed by abandonment.

And then, unexpectedly, on a boat, he met a "wide-eyed creature with the amber curls" and he became, of all things, a husband. She, a wife. The glory of it was surprising, despite an occasional hiccup in the early going.

He had kept a detailed diary of his years of semi-debauchery and, wanting no secrets to exist between him and his bride, he gave her the five volumes. There was nothing about him that he didn’t want her to know.

"As it turned out, there were some things about me she didn’t want to know," he says, as she retreated for two days of tears in their bedroom.

From that moment on, knowing as we do that there is a crime in this story, the march toward that evil begins. Unabated we are taken through their five children, her withdrawal from the world, his purchase of a piano and her playing to bring her out. We are tantalized by the arrival of a violinist, a friend from his youth and a concert Pozdynyshev himself stages, a concert of violin and piano, Beethoven’s "Kreutzer Sonata." He brought the two musicians together, threw them into each others orbit and was stunned when they found a bond in the music he could never have with her.

A trip out of town occasions a letter from his wife, but his suspicions are in full flower and he returns home, surprising the couple seated on a piano bench, facing each other. In the end, Pozdynyshev stabs his wife to death.

It takes a year for his trial to be over, and he walks away a free man, imprisoned only by his own memories and guilt. His last gaze at his wife was in a coffin, three days after the murder. He notices that there is too much red on her lips, and he wipes some of it off on a silk handkerchief. He carries that unwashed handkerchief to this day.

Pozdynyshev’s story is augmented by snatches from the sonata, seemingly random moments for piano (Colleen Schmitt) and violin (Joseph Ketchum), both of whom gave spectacular performances. It’s as if the music is a specific accompaniment to the incredible effort Pozdynyshev is making to control his story and his emotional turmoil.

The musicians, seen only through a scrim lit through the windows of the train, is haunting and inexorably wraps the audience in a soft throw that soothes your body and your soul.

Marie Kohler directed this production, and Jill Anna Ponasik was the music director. The shared responsibilities are indicative of the equality that music plays with words in this play.

The scenic design by Lisa Schlenker and lighting by Noelle Stollmack are both subtle and spectacular. The creation of the shabby train cabin and the dimly lit corner of Pozdynyshev’s mind and memory are very moving.

Much must be said about Pickering in this production.

He is a man at the top of his craft, deftly maintaining control of the emotions raging inside his heavy heart. His grip on this role is ironclad, and there is always a sense that his story is his story, and he is going to tell it his way.

Perhaps the most singular moment is when Pickering realizes that he is the maestro of the symphony of dissolution, drama and death that has infected his life. It is a startling and humbling discovery.

Pickering handles the light and bright comedy of the early part of his story with a charm and grace that is endearing. At the end, when he rails, helpless against his own failings, the power is immeasurable.

"The Kreutzer Sonata" runs through Feb. 15 and information on tickets and showtimes is available here.