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A crowd of men, a doctor and his assistant, the officers of his

regiment, ran up to him. To his misery he felt that he was whole

and unhurt. The mare had broken her back, and it was decided to

shoot her. Vronsky could not answer questions, could not speak to

anyone. He turned, and without picking up his cap that had fallen

off, walked away from the race course, not knowing where he was

going. He felt utterly wretched. For the first time in his life

he knew the bitterest sort of misfortune, misfortune beyond

remedy, and caused by his own fault.

Yashvin overtook him with his cap, and led him home, and half an

hour later Vronsky had regained his self-possession. But the

memory of that race remained for long in his heart, the cruelest

and bitterest memory of his life.

Chapter 26