‘Bravo, Vronsky!’ He heard the voices of a group of people - his regiment and friends, he knew - who were standing by that obstacle; he could not mistake Yashvin’s voice, though he did not see him.
‘Oh, my lovely!’ he thought of Frou-Frou, listening to what was happening behind him. ‘He cleared it!’ he thought, hearing Gladiator’s hoofbeats behind him. There remained one little ditch of water five feet wide. Vronsky was not even looking at it, but, wishing to come in a long first, began working the reins in a circle, raising and lowering the horse’s head in rhythm with her pace. He felt that the horse was drawing on her last reserve; not only were her neck and shoulders wet, but sweat broke out in drops on her withers, her head, her pointed ears, and her breathing was sharp and short. But he knew that this reserve was more than enough for the remaining five hundred yards. Only because he felt himself closer to the earth, and from the special softness of her movement, could Vronsky tell how much the horse had increased her speed. She flew over the ditch as if without noticing it; she flew over it like a bird; but just then Vronsky felt to his horror that, having failed to keep up with the horse’s movement, he, not knowing how himself, had made a wrong, an unforgivable movement as he lowered himself into the saddle. His position suddenly changed, and he knew that something terrible had happened. He was not yet aware of what it was, when the white legs of the chestnut stallion flashed just beside him and Makhotin went by at a fast clip. Vronsky was touching the ground with one foot, and his horse was toppling over on that foot. He barely managed to free the foot before she fell on her side, breathing heavily and making vain attempts to rise with her slender, sweaty neck, fluttering on the ground at his feet like a wounded bird. The awkward movement Vronsky had made had broken her back. But he understood that much later. Now he saw only that Makhotin was quickly drawing away, while he, swaying, stood alone on the muddy, unmoving ground, and before him, gasping heavily, lay Frou-Frou, her head turned to him, looking at him with her lovely eye. Still not understanding what had happened, Vronsky pulled the horse by the reins. She again thrashed all over like a fish, creaking the wings of the saddle, freed her front legs, but, unable to lift her hindquarters, immediately staggered and fell on her side again. His face disfigured by passion, pale, his lower jaw trembling, Vronsky kicked her in the stomach with his heel and again started pulling at the reins. She did not move but, burying her nose in the ground, merely looked at her master with her speaking eye.
‘A-a-ah!’ groaned Vronsky, clutching his head. ‘A-a-ah, what have I done!’ he cried. ‘The race is lost! And it’s my own fault - shameful, unforgivable! And this poor, dear, destroyed horse! A-a-ah, what have I done!’
People - the doctor and his assistant, officers from his regiment - came running towards him. To his dismay, he felt that he was whole and unhurt. The horse had broken her back and they decided to shoot her. Vronsky was unable to answer questions, unable to talk to anyone. He turned and, without picking up the cap that had fallen from his head, left the racetrack, not knowing himself where he was going. He felt miserable. For the first time in his life he had experienced a heavy misfortune, a misfortune that was irremediable and for which he himself was to blame.
Yashvin overtook him with the cap, brought him home, and a half hour later Vronsky came to his senses. But the memory of this race remained in his soul for a long time as the most heavy and painful memory of his life.
XXVI
Externally Alexei Alexandrovich’s relations with his wife remained the same as before. The only difference was that he was even busier than before. As in previous years, with the coming of spring he went to a spa abroad to restore his health, upset each year by his strenuous winter labours. Returning in July, as usual, he at once sat down with increased energy to his customary work. And as usual, his wife moved to their country house while he stayed in Petersburg.
Since the time of that conversation after the evening at Princess Tverskoy‘s, he had never spoken to Anna of his suspicions and jealousy, and his usual mocking tone could not have been better for his present relations with his wife. He was somewhat colder towards her. It was merely as if he were slightly displeased with her for that first night’s conversation, which she had fended off. There was a tinge of vexation in his relations with her, nothing more. ‘You did not wish to have a talk with me,’ he seemed to be saying, mentally addressing her. ‘So much the worse for you. Now you’ll ask me, and
