Anna Karenina - LimpidSoft

PART TWO CHAPTER 24
“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 lopeared
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.
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