"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

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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.

"Get up; you won't feel so excited."

Vronsky looked round for the last time at his rivals. He knew

that he would not see them during the race. Two were already

riding forward to the point from which they were to start.

Galtsin, a friend of Vronsky's and one of his more formidable

rivals, was moving round a bay horse that would not let him

mount. A little light hussar in tight riding breeches rode off

at a gallop, crouched up like a cat on the saddle, in imitation

of English jockeys. Prince Kuzovlev sat with a white face on his

thoroughbred mare from the Grabovsky stud, while an English groom

led her by the bridle. Vronsky and all his comrades knew

Kuzovlev and his peculiarity of "weak nerves" and terrible

vanity. They knew that he was afraid of everything, afraid of

riding a spirited horse. But now, just because it was terrible,

because people broke their necks, and there was a doctor standing

at each obstacle, and an ambulance with a cross on it, and a

sister of mercy, he had made up his mind to take part in the

race. Their eyes met, and Vronsky gave him a friendly and

encouraging nod. Only one he did not see, his chief rival,

Mahotin on Gladiator.




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