“I don’t understand,” he said.
“I know,” she interrupted him, “how hard it is for your truthful nature to
lie, and I grieve for you. I often think that you have ruined your whole life
for me.”
“I was just thinking the very same thing,” he said; “how could you
sacrifice everything for my sake? I can’t forgive myself that you’re
unhappy!”
“I unhappy?” she said, coming closer to him, and looking at him with an
ecstatic smile of love. “I am like a hungry man who has been given food.
He may be cold, and dressed in rags, and ashamed, but he is not unhappy. I
unhappy? No, this is my unhappiness….”
She could hear the sound of her son’s voice coming towards them, and
glancing swiftly round the terrace, she got up impulsively. Her eyes glowed
with the fire he knew so well; with a rapid movement she raised her lovely
hands, covered with rings, took his head, looked a long look into his face,
and, putting up her face with smiling, parted lips, swiftly kissed his mouth
and both eyes, and pushed him away. She would have gone, but he held her
back.
“When?” he murmured in a whisper, gazing in ecstasy at her.
“Tonight, at one o’clock,” she whispered, and, with a heavy sigh, she
walked with her light, swift step to meet her son.
Seryozha had been caught by the rain in the big garden, and he and his
nurse had taken shelter in an arbor.
“Well, au revoir,” she said to Vronsky. “I must soon be getting ready for
the races. Betsy promised to fetch me.”
Vronsky, looking at his watch, went away hurriedly.
Chapter 24
When Vronsky looked at his watch on the Karenins’ balcony, he was so
greatly agitated and lost in his thoughts that he saw the figures on the
watch’s face, but could not take in what time it was. He came out on to the
highroad and walked, picking his way carefully through the mud, to his
carriage. He was so completely absorbed in his feeling for Anna, that he did
not even think what o’clock it was, and whether he had time to go to
Bryansky’s. He had left him, as often happens, only the external faculty of
memory, that points out each step one has to take, one after the other. He
went up to his coachman, who was dozing on the box in the shadow,
already lengthening, of a thick limetree; he admired the shifting clouds of
midges circling over the hot horses, and, waking the coachman, he jumped
into the carriage, and told him to drive to Bryansky’s. It was only after
driving nearly five miles that he had sufficiently recovered himself to look
at his watch, and realize that it was half-past five, and he was late.
There were several races fixed for that day: the Mounted Guards’ race,
then the officers’ mile-and-a-half race, then the three-mile race, and then the
race for which he was entered. He could still be in time for his race, but if
he went to Bryansky’s he could only just be in time, and he would arrive
when the whole of the court would be in their places. That would be a pity.
But he had promised Bryansky to come, and so he decided to drive on,
telling the coachman not to spare the horses.
He reached Bryansky’s, spent five minutes there, and galloped back. This
rapid drive calmed him. All that was painful in his relations with Anna, all
the feeling of indefiniteness left by their conversation, had slipped out of his
mind. He was thinking now with pleasure and excitement of the race, of his
being anyhow, in time, and now and then the thought of the blissful
interview awaiting him that night flashed across his imagination like a
flaming light.
The excitement of the approaching race gained upon him as he drove
further and further into the atmosphere of the races, overtaking carriages
driving up from the summer villas or out of Petersburg.
At his quarters no one was left at home; all were at the races, and his
valet was looking out for him at the gate. While he was changing his
clothes, his valet told him that the second race had begun already, that a lot
of gentlemen had been to ask for him, and a boy had twice run up from the
stables. Dressing without hurry (he never hurried himself, and never lost his
self-possession), Vronsky drove to the sheds. From the sheds he could see a
perfect sea of carriages, and people on foot, soldiers surrounding the race
course, and pavilions swarming with people. The second race was
apparently going on, for just as he went into the sheds he heard a bell
ringing. Going towards the stable, he met the white-legged chestnut,
Mahotin’s Gladiator, being led to the race-course in a blue forage
horsecloth, with what looked like huge ears edged with blue.
“Where’s Cord?” he asked the stable-boy.
“In the stable, putting on the saddle.”
In the open horse-box stood Frou-Frou, saddled ready. They were just
going to lead her out.
“I’m not too late?”
“All right! All right!” said the Englishman; “don’t upset yourself!”
Vronsky once more took in in one glance the exquisite lines of his
favorite mare; who was quivering all over, and with an effort he tore
himself from the sight of her, and went out of the stable. He went towards
the pavilions at the most favorable moment for escaping attention. The
mile-and-a-half race was just finishing, and all eyes were fixed on the
horse-guard in front and the light hussar behind, urging their horses on with
a last effort close to the winning post. From the center and outside of the
ring all were crowding to the winning post, and a group of soldiers and
officers of the horse-guards were shouting loudly their delight at the
expected triumph of their officer and comrade. Vronsky moved into the
middle of the crowd unnoticed, almost at the very moment when the bell
rang at the finish of the race, and the tall, mudspattered horse-guard who
came in first, bending over the saddle, let go the reins of his panting gray
horse that looked dark with sweat.
The horse, stiffening out its legs, with an effort stopped its rapid course,
and the officer of the horse-guards looked round him like a man waking up
from a heavy sleep, and just managed to smile. A crowd of friends and
outsiders pressed round him.
Vronsky intentionally avoided that select crowd of the upper world,
which was moving and talking with discreet freedom before the pavilions.
He knew that Madame Karenina was there, and Betsy, and his brother’s
wife, and he purposely did not go near them for fear of something
distracting his attention. But he was continually met and stopped by
acquaintances, who told him about the previous races, and kept asking him
why he was so late.
At the time when the racers had to go to the pavilion to receive the
prizes, and all attention was directed to that point, Vronsky’s elder brother,
Alexander, a colonel with heavy fringed epaulets, came up to him. He was
not tall, though as broadly built as Alexey, and handsomer and rosier than
he; he had a red nose, and an open, drunken-looking face.
“Did you get my note?” he said. “There’s never any finding you.”
Alexander Vronsky, in spite of the dissolute life, and in especial the
drunken habits, for which he was notorious, was quite one of the court
circle.
Now, as he talked to his brother of a matter bound to be exceedingly
disagreeable to him, knowing that the eyes of many people might be fixed
upon him, he kept a smiling countenance, as though he were jesting with his
brother about something of little moment.
“I got it, and I really can’t make out what you are worrying yourself
about,” said Alexey.
“I’m worrying myself because the remark has just been made to me that
you weren’t here, and that you were seen in Peterhof on Monday.”
“There are matters which only concern those directly interested in them,
and the matter you are so worried about is….”
“Yes, but if so, you may as well cut the service….”
“I beg you not to meddle, and that’s all I have to say.”
Alexey Vronsky’s frowning face turned white, and his prominent lower
jaw quivered, which happened rarely with him. Being a man of very warm
heart, he was seldom angry; but when he was angry, and when his chin
quivered, then, as Alexander Vronsky knew, he was dangerous. Alexander
Vronsky smiled gaily.
“I only wanted to give you Mother’s letter. Answer it, and don’t worry
about anything just before the race. Bonne chance,” he added, smiling and
he moved away from him. But after him another friendly greeting brought
Vronsky to a standstill.
“So you won’t recognize your friends! How are you, mon cher?” said
Stepan Arkadyevitch, as conspicuously brilliant in the midst of all the
Petersburg brilliance as he was in Moscow, his face rosy, and his whiskers
sleek and glossy. “I came up yesterday, and I’m delighted that I shall see
your triumph. When shall we meet?”
“Come tomorrow to the messroom,” said Vronsky, and squeezing him by
the sleeve of his coat, with apologies, he moved away to the center of the
race course, where the horses were being led for the great steeplechase.
The horses who had run in the last race were being led home, steaming
and exhausted, by the stable-boys, and one after another the fresh horses for
the coming race made their appearance, for the most part English racers,
wearing horsecloths, and looking with their drawn-up bellies like strange,
huge birds. On the right was led in Frou-Frou, lean and beautiful, lifting up
her elastic, rather long pasterns, as though moved by springs. Not far from
her they were taking the rug off the lop-eared Gladiator. The strong,
exquisite, perfectly correct lines of the stallion, with his superb hind-
quarters and excessively short pasterns almost over his hoofs, attracted
Vronsky’s attention in spite of himself. He would have gone up to his mare,
but he was again detained by an acquaintance.
“Oh, there’s Karenin!” said the acquaintance with whom he was chatting.
“He’s looking for his wife, and she’s in the middle of the pavilion. Didn’t
you see her?”
“No,” answered Vronsky, and without even glancing round towards the
pavilion where his friend was pointing out Madame Karenina, he went up to
his mare.
Vronsky had not had time to look at the saddle, about which he had to
give some direction, when the competitors were summoned to the pavilion
to receive their numbers and places in the row at starting. Seventeen
officers, looking serious and severe, many with pale faces, met together in
the pavilion and drew the numbers. Vronsky drew the number seven. The
cry was heard: “Mount!”
Feeling that with the others riding in the race, he was the center upon
which all eyes were fastened, Vronsky walked up to his mare in that state of
nervous tension in which he usually became deliberate and composed in his
movements. Cord, in honor of the races, had put on his best clothes, a black
coat buttoned up, a stiffly starched collar, which propped up his cheeks, a
round black hat, and top boots. He was calm and dignified as ever, and was
with his own hands holding Frou-Frou by both reins, standing straight in
front of her. Frou-Frou was still trembling as though in a fever. Her eye, full
of fire, glanced sideways at Vronsky. Vronsky slipped his finger under the
saddle-girth. The mare glanced aslant at him, drew up her lip, and twitched
her ear. The Englishman puckered up his lips, intending to indicate a smile
that anyone should verify his saddling.
“Get up; you won’t feel so excited.”
Vronsky looked round for the last time at his rivals. He knew that he
would not see them during the race. Two were already riding forward to the
point from which they were to start. Galtsin, a friend of Vronsky’s and one
of his more formidable rivals, was moving round a bay horse that would not
let him mount. A little light hussar in tight riding breeches rode off at a
gallop, crouched up like a cat on the saddle, in imitation of English jockeys.
Prince Kuzovlev sat with a white face on his thoroughbred mare from the
Grabovsky stud, while an English groom led her by the bridle. Vronsky and
all his comrades knew Kuzovlev and his peculiarity of “weak nerves” and
terrible vanity. They knew that he was afraid of everything, afraid of riding
a spirited horse. But now, just because it was terrible, because people broke
their necks, and there was a doctor standing at each obstacle, and an
ambulance with a cross on it, and a sister of mercy, he had made up his
mind to take part in the race. Their eyes met, and Vronsky gave him a
friendly and encouraging nod. Only one he did not see, his chief rival,
Mahotin on Gladiator.
“Don’t be in a hurry,” said Cord to Vronsky, “and remember one thing:
don’t hold her in at the fences, and don’t urge her on; let her go as she
likes.”
“All right, all right,” said Vronsky, taking the reins.
“If you can, lead the race; but don’t lose heart till the last minute, even if
you’re behind.”
Before the mare had time to move, Vronsky stepped with an agile,
vigorous movement into the steel-toothed stirrup, and lightly and firmly
seated himself on the creaking leather of the saddle. Getting his right foot in
the stirrup, he smoothed the double reins, as he always did, between his
fingers, and Cord let go.
As though she did not know which foot to put first, Frou-Frou started,
dragging at the reins with her long neck, and as though she were on springs,
shaking her rider from side to side. Cord quickened his step, following him.
The excited mare, trying to shake off her rider first on one side and then the
other, pulled at the reins, and Vronsky tried in vain with voice and hand to
soothe her.
They were just reaching the dammed-up stream on their way to the
starting point. Several of the riders were in front and several behind, when
suddenly Vronsky heard the sound of a horse galloping in the mud behind
him, and he was overtaken by Mahotin on his white-legged, lop-eared
Gladiator. Mahotin smiled, showing his long teeth, but Vronsky looked
angrily at him. He did not like him, and regarded him now as his most
formidable rival. He was angry with him for galloping past and exciting his
mare. Frou-Frou started into a gallop, her left foot forward, made two
bounds, and fretting at the tightened reins, passed into a jolting trot,
bumping her rider up and down. Cord, too, scowled, and followed Vronsky
almost at a trot.
