The temporary stable, a wooden shed, had been put up close to the

race course, and there his mare was to have been taken the

previous day. He had not yet seen her there.

During the last few days he had not ridden her out for exercise

himself, but had put her in the charge of the trainer, and so now

he positively did not know in what condition his mare had arrived

yesterday and was today. He had scarcely got out of his carriage

when his groom, the so-called "stable boy," recognizing the

carriage some way off, called the trainer. A dry-looking

Englishman, in high boots and a short jacket, clean-shaven,

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except for a tuft below his chin, came to meet him, walking with

the uncouth gait of jockey, turning his elbows out and swaying

from side to side.

"Well, how's Frou-Frou?" Vronsky asked in English.

"All right, sir," the Englishman's voice responded somewhere in

the inside of his throat. "Better not go in," he added, touching

his hat. "I've put a muzzle on her, and the mare's fidgety.

Better not go in, it'll excite the mare."

"No, I'm going in. I want to look at her."

"Come along, then," said the Englishman, frowning, and speaking

with his mouth shut, and, with swinging elbows, he went on in

front with his disjointed gait.

They went into the little yard in front of the shed. A stable

boy, spruce and smart in his holiday attire, met them with a

broom in his hand, and followed them. In the shed there were

five horses in their separate stalls, and Vronsky knew that his

chief rival, Gladiator, a very tall chestnut horse, had been

brought there, and must be standing among them. Even more than

his mare, Vronsky longed to see Gladiator, whom he had never

seen. But he knew that by the etiquette of the race course it

was not merely impossible for him to see the horse, but improper

even to ask questions about him. Just as he was passing along

the passage, the boy opened the door into the second horse-box on

the left, and Vronsky caught a glimpse of a big chestnut horse

with white legs. He knew that this was Gladiator, but, with the

feeling of a man turning away from the sight of another man's

open letter, he turned round and went into Frou-Frou's stall.

"The horse is here belonging to Mak...Mak...I never can say the

name," said the Englishman, over his shoulder, pointing his big

finger and dirty nail towards Gladiator's stall.




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