Anna Karenina (Literature Classics Series). Leo Tolstoy

to settle the matter as you think. Leave it to me and listen to me. Never speak to me about it. Do you promise? … Yes, yes, promise! …’

      ‘I promise everything, but I cannot be at peace, especially after what you have told me. I cannot be at peace when you are not.’

      ‘I?’ she said. ‘Yes, I do suffer sometimes; but it will pass if you never speak to me about it. It is only when you speak to me about it that I suffer.’

      ‘I don’t understand …’ said he.

      ‘I know,’ she interrupted him, ‘how hard it is for your honest nature to lie and I pity you. I often think how you have ruined your life because of me.’

      ‘I was just thinking the same,’ he said; ‘wondering how you could sacrifice everything for my sake. I cannot forgive myself for your unhappiness.’

      ‘I unhappy?’ she said, drawing near to him and gazing at him with a smile of rapturous love. ‘I am like a hungry man to whom food has been given. He may be cold, his clothes may be ragged, and he may be ashamed, but he is not unhappy. I unhappy? No, this is my happiness… .’

      But she heard the voice of her son approaching, and glancing quickly round the verandah she rose hurriedly. Her eyes kindled with the light Vronsky knew so well, and with a rapid motion she raised her lovely hands, covered with rings, seized his head, gave him a long look, lifted her face with parted smiling lips, quickly kissed his mouth and both eyes, and then pushed him away. She was about to go but he held her back.

      ‘When?’ he whispered, gazing rapturously at her.

      ‘Tonight at one,’ she whispered, and with her quick light step went to meet her son.

      Serezha had been caught in the rain in the public gardens, and he and his nurse had taken shelter in the pavilion.

      ‘Well, au revoir,’ she said to Vronsky. ‘It will soon be time to start for the races. Betsy has promised to call for me.’

      Vronsky looked at his watch and hurried away.

      Chapter 24

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      WHEN Vronsky looked at his watch on the Karenins’ verandah he was so agitated and so preoccupied that he saw the hands and face of the watch without realizing the time. He went to the high road, stepping carefully over the mud, and made his way to his calèche. He was so full of his feeling for Anna that he did not consider what o’clock it was or whether he still had time to call on Bryansky. He only retained, as often happens, the external capacity of memory which indicated what he had decided to do next. He approached his coachman, who was dozing on the box, in the already slanting shadow of a large lime tree, looked with pleasure at the swaying swarms of midges that whirled above the perspiring horses, and having roused the coachman jumped into the calèche and told him to drive to Bryansky’s. Only after going some five miles did he recollect himself sufficiently to look at his watch and to realize that it was already half-past five, and that he was late.

      There were to be several races that day: a Life-Guards’ race, then an officers’ two-verst race, a four-verst race, and then the one for which he had entered. He could be in time for his own race, but, if he called on Bryansky first, he could only just manage it, and the whole Court would already be at the racecourse. That was not the correct thing to do. But he had promised Bryansky to call and therefore he decided to go on, telling the coachman not to spare the horses.

      He saw Bryansky, stayed with him five minutes, and drove back at a gallop. This quick drive soothed him. All that was depressing in his relations with Anna, the indefiniteness that remained after their conversation, escaped from his mind. He now thought with enjoyment and agitation of the race, and that after all he would be there in time, and occasionally the expectation of that night’s meeting flashed brightly in his imagination.

      The spirit of the coming races overcame him more and more as he drove further and further into their atmosphere and overtook carriages making their way to the course from Petersburg and from outlying country places.

      When he reached his quarters he found no one there — they had all gone to the races and his valet was waiting at the gate. While he was changing his things, the valet told him that the second race had already begun and that many gentlemen had been to inquire for him, and a lad had run over twice from the stables.

      Having changed without hurrying (he never hurried or lost his self-control), Vronsky ordered the coachman to drive him to the stables. From there he could see the sea of carriages, pedestrians, and soldiers surrounding the racecourse, and the stands, which were thronged with people. Probably the second race was just taking place, for as he entered the stables he heard the bell ring. On his way he met Makhotin’s white-legged chestnut Gladiator, which in a blue-bordered orange covering, with his ears looking enormous in their blue-trimmed cloth, was being led to the course.

      ‘Where is Cord?’ he asked the groom.

      ‘In the stables, saddling.’

      In her open box Frou-Frou stood ready saddled. They were just going to lead her out.

      ‘I am not late?’

      ‘All right! all right!’ answered the Englishman. ‘Don’t upset yourself.’

      Vronsky once again glanced at the beautiful fascinating shape of the mare, whose whole body was trembling, and tearing himself with difficulty from this sight he left the shed. He came toward the pavilions at the very best time to avoid attracting anyone’s attention. The two-verst race was nearly over, and all eyes were fixed on an officer of the horse-guards in front and on a hussar officer behind, who were urging their horses to the last limits of their strength as they neared the winning-post. From within and without the ring every one was crowding toward the winning-post, and a group of horse-guards, — officers and men, — with loud shouts were expressing their joy at the expected triumph of their officer and comrade. Vronsky joined the crowd unnoticed, almost at the moment that the bell rang to announce the end of the race, and the tall officer of the horse-guards all bespattered with mud, who had come in first, was bending down in his saddle, loosening the reins of his grey gelding, which was dark with perspiration and panting heavily.

      The gelding, planting its feet with effort, reduced the speed of its enormous body, and the guards’ officer, like one waking from deep sleep, looked round and forced himself to smile. A crowd of friends and strangers surrounded him.

      Vronsky purposely avoided the select and fashionable crowd which moved and chatted with restrained freedom in front of the pavilions. He ascertained that Anna, Betsy, and his brother’s wife were there, but in order not to agitate himself, intentionally avoided going near them. But he continually met acquaintances who stopped him, told him about the races that had been run, and asked him why he was so late.

      When the winners were called up to the pavilion to receive their prizes and every one was looking that way, Vronsky’s elder brother, Alexander, a colonel with shoulder knots, of medium height, as sturdy as Alexis but handsomer and ruddier, with a red nose and a drunken though open countenance, came up to him.

      ‘Did you get my note?’ he asked. ‘One can never find you.’

      Alexander Vronsky, despite the loose and, in particular, drunken life for which he was noted, was quite a courtier.

      While speaking to his brother of a matter very unpleasant to him he, knowing that many eyes might be fixed on them, wore a smiling expression, as if he were joking with him about some unimportant matter.

      ‘I received it, but really do not understand what you are worrying about,’ replied Alexis.

      ‘I am worrying because people have just remarked to me that you were not here and that you were seen in Peterhof last Monday.’

      ‘There are things which should be discussed only by those who are directly interested, and the matter you are concerning yourself about is one …’