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behave. She did not understand either that Alexey Alexandrovitch’s
peculiar loquacity that day, so exasperating to her, was merely the
expression of his inward distress and uneasiness. As a child that has
been hurt skips about, putting all his muscles into movement to drown
the pain, in the same way Alexey Alexandrovitch needed mental exer-
cise to drown the thoughts of his wife that in her presence and in
Vronsky’s, and with the continual iteration of his name, would force
themselves on his attention. And it was as natural for him to talk well
and cleverly, as it is natural for a child to skip about. He was saying:
“Danger in the races of officers, of cavalry men, is an essential
element in the race. If England can point to the most brilliant feats of
cavalry in military history, it is simply owing to the fact that she has
historically developed this force both in beasts and in men. Sport has,
in my opinion, a great value, and as is always the case, we see nothing
but what is most superficial.”
“It’s not superficial,” said Princess Tverskaya. “One of the officers,
they say, has broken two ribs.”
Alexey Alexandrovitch smiled his smile, which uncovered his teeth,
but revealed nothing more.
“We’ll admit, princess, that that’s not superficial,” he said, “but
internal. But that’s not the point,” and he turned again to the general
with whom he was talking seriously; “we mustn’t forget that those who
are taking part in the race are military men, who have chosen that
career, and one must allow that every calling has its disagreeable side.
It forms an integral part of the duties of an officer. Low sports, such as
prizefighting or Spanish bull-fights, are a sign of barbarity. But spe-
cialized trials of skill are a sign of development.”
“No, I shan’t come another time; it’s too upsetting,” said Princess
Betsy. “Isn’t it, Anna?”
“It is upsetting, but one can’t tear oneself away,” said another lady.
“If I’d been a Roman woman I should never have missed a single
circus.”
Anna said nothing, and keeping her opera glass up, gazed always
at the same spot.
At that moment a tall general walked through the pavilion. Break-
ing off what he was saying, Alexey Alexandrovitch got up hurriedly,
though with dignity, and bowed low to the general.
“You’re not racing?” the officer asked, chaffing him.
“My race is a harder one,” Alexey Alexandrovitch responded def-
erentially.
And though the answer meant nothing, the general looked as
though he had heard a witty remark from a witty man, and fully rel-
ished la pointe de la sauce.
“There are two aspects,” Alexey Alexandrovitch resumed: “those
who take part and those who look on; and love for such spectacles is an
unmistakable proof of a low degree of development in the spectator, I
admit, but...”
“Princess, bets!” sounded Stepan Arkadyevitch’s voice from below.
addressing Betsy. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Anna and I are for Kuzovlev,” replied Betsy.
“I’m for Vronsky. A pair of gloves?”
“Done!”
“But it is a pretty sight, isn’t it?”
Alexey Alexandrovitch paused while there was talking about him,
but he began again directly.
“I admit that manly sports do not...” he was continuing.
But at that moment the racers started, and all conversation ceased.
Alexey Alexandrovitch too was silent, and everyone stood up and