LITMIR.BIZ

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just on the declivity passed Makhotin. He caught sight of his mud-bespattered face, and even thought he saw him smile. He passed, but felt that Makhotin was close behind him, and continually heard just behind his back the regular beating of hoofs and the short, still fresh breathing of Gladiator’s nostrils.

      The next two obstacles, a ditch and a fence, were easily passed, but Vronsky heard Gladiator galloping and snorting closer. He urged on his mare and felt with joy that she easily increased her speed, and he heard the sound of Gladiator’s hoofs again at the former distance behind.

      Vronsky now had the lead, as he had wished and as Cord had advised, and he was confident of success. His excitement and joy, and his tenderness for Frou-Frou, grew stronger and stronger. He wished to glance round but dared not do so, and he tried to keep calm and not to urge his mare, but to let her retain a reserve of strength such as he felt that Gladiator still had.

      There remained the most difficult obstacle; if he crossed it ahead of the others, he would come in first. He was galloping up to the Irish bank. He and Frou-Frou both saw the bank while still some way off and to both of them came a momentary doubt. He noticed the mare’s hesitation by her ears and raised his whip, but immediately felt that his doubt was groundless: the mare knew what was wanted, and, as he expected, she increased her speed, took off exactly at the right moment, and gave a leap the force of which carried her far across the ditch. Then without effort and without changing her legs Frou-Frou continued her gallop.

      ‘Bravo, Vronsky!’ he heard the voices of a knot of people he knew — friends of his regiment — who were standing by this obstacle. He could not fail to recognize Yashvin’s voice, though he did not see him.

      ‘Oh, my beauty!’ he thought of Frou-Frou, as he listened to what was happening behind. ‘He is over it!’ he thought, as he heard Gladiator again galloping behind him. There remained one last water-jump, only a yard and a half wide. Vronsky did not even look at it, but hoping to win by a distance, began working the reins with a circular movement, raising and dropping the mare’s head in time with her stride. He felt the mare was using her last reserve of strength; not only her neck and shoulders were wet, but on her withers, her head, and her pointed ears the sweat stood in drops, and she was breathing short and sharp. But he knew that her reserve of strength was more than enough for the remaining five hundred yards. It was only by feeling himself nearer to the ground and by the smoothness of the pace that Vronsky knew how much the mare had increased her speed. She leapt the ditch as if she did not notice it, seeming to fly across it like a bird. But at that very moment Vronsky, to his horror, felt that something terrible had happened. He himself, without knowing it, had made the unpardonable mistake of dropping back in his saddle and pulling up her head. Before he could realize this, the white legs of the gelding flashed close by him and Makhotin passed at a rapid gallop. Vronsky was touching the ground with one foot. He scarcely had time to withdraw the foot before Frou-Frou fell on her side, and snorting heavily and with her delicate damp neck making vain efforts to rise, began struggling on the ground at his feet, like a wounded, fluttering bird. Owing to Vronsky’s awkward movement she had dropped her hind legs and broken her back. But he only understood this much later. Now he only saw that Makhotin was quickly galloping away, while he, reeling, stood alone on the muddy, stationary ground; before him, breathing heavily, lay Frou-Frou, who, bending her head toward him, gazed at him with her beautiful eyes. Still not understanding what had happened, Vronsky pulled at the reins. The mare again began to struggle like a fish, causing the flaps of the saddle to creak; she got her front legs free, but unable to lift her hindquarters, struggled and immediately again fell on her side.

      His face distorted with passion, pale and with quivering jaw, Vronsky kicked her with his heel in the belly and again pulled at the reins. But she did not move and, muzzling the ground, only looked at her master with eloquent eyes.

      ‘Ah, ah, ah!’ groaned Vronsky, seizing his head. ‘Ah! what have I done?’ he exclaimed. ‘The race lost! And the fault mine — shameful and unpardonable. And this dear, unfortunate mare ruined! Ah! what have I done!’

      Onlookers, a doctor, an attendant, and officers of his regiment ran toward him. To his regret he felt that he was himself sound and unhurt. The mare had broken her back, and it was decided to shoot her. Vronsky was unable to reply to questions or to speak to anyone. He turned away and, without picking up the cap that had fallen from his head, left the racecourse without knowing where he was going. He felt miserable. For the first time in his life he experienced the worst kind of misfortune — one that was irretrievable, and caused by his own fault.

      Yashvin overtook him with his cap and led him home, and in half an hour Vronsky came to himself. But the memory of that steeplechase long remained the most painful and distressing memory of his life.

      Chapter 26

      EXTERNALLY Karenin’s relations with his wife remained as before. The only difference was that he was even more occupied than before. As in former years, at the beginning of the spring he went abroad to recuperate his health, which was upset each year by the winter’s work. And as usual he returned in July and at once with increased energy took up his customary work. And as usual his wife had moved to the country house while he remained in Petersburg.

      Since their conversation on the night of the Princess Tverskaya’s party he had never spoken to Anna of his suspicions and jealousy, and that habitual tone of his which seemed to mock at some one was exactly suited to his present relations with her. He was rather colder toward her. He appeared only to be slightly dissatisfied with her for that first night’s talk which she had evaded. In his behaviour to her there was a shade of vexation, but nothing more. ‘You did not wish to have an explanation,’ he seemed to say to her in imagination, ‘so much the worse for you. Now you will ask me to explain, and I shall not do so. So much the worse for you,’ he thought, like a man who having vainly tried to extinguish a fire should be vexed at his vain exertions and say to it: ‘Well, go on and burn, it is your own fault.’

      He who was so wise and astute in official affairs did not realize the insanity of such an attitude toward his wife. He did not understand it because it would have been too terrible to realize his real situation and he had closed, locked, and sealed that compartment of his soul which contained his feelings for his family — that is, his wife and son.

      He who had been a considerate father, since the end of that winter had become particularly cold toward his son, and treated him in the same bantering manner as he did his wife. ‘Ah, young man!’ was the way in which he addressed him.

      Karenin thought and said that in no previous year had he had so much official business as this year; but he was not conscious of the fact that this year he invented work for himself, and that this was one of the means of keeping that compartment closed where lay his feelings for and thoughts of his family, which became more terrible the longer they lay there. If anyone had ventured to ask him what he thought of his wife’s conduct, the mild and gentle Karenin would not have given any answer, but would have been angry with the man who put such a question. That was why Karenin’s face bore a stern, proud expression when anyone asked about his wife’s health. He did not wish to think about his wife’s conduct and feelings at all, and he really did not think about them.

      The country house the Karenins regularly occupied in summer was in Peterhof, and generally the Countess Lydia Ivanovna also lived near by and was in constant touch with Anna. That year the Countess Lydia Ivanovna refused to live in Peterhof, did not once come to see Anna, and hinted to Karenin the undesirability of Anna’s intimacy with Betsy and Vronsky. Karenin stopped her severely, expressing the opinion that his wife was above suspicion, and from that time began to avoid the Countess. He did not wish to see, and did not see, that many people in Society already looked askance at Anna; he did not wish to understand, and did not understand, why his wife particularly insisted on moving to Tsarskoe Selo, where Betsy lived and near which place Vronsky’s regiment was stationed. He did not let himself think about this and did not think about it; yet at the bottom of his soul, without admitting it to himself or having any proofs or even suspicions of it, he nevertheless knew certainly that he was

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