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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 hand-
somer 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 exceed-
ingly 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 your-
self 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 whis-
kers 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