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.