CHAPTER XXII
It was already six o'clock; and in order not to miss his appointment, or to go with his own horses, which everybody knew, Vronsky engaged Yashvin's hired carriage, and told the izvoshchik to drive with all speed. It was a spacious old carriage, with room for four. He sat in one corner, stretched his legs out on the empty seat, and began to think.
The confused consciousness of the order in which he had regulated his affairs; the confused recollection of the friendship and flattery of Serpukhovskoï, who assured him that he was an indispensable man; and most of all, the expectation of the coming interview,—conspired to give him a keen sense of the joy of living. This impression was so powerful that he could not keep from smiling. He stretched his legs, threw one knee over the other, felt for the contusion that his fall had given him the evening before, and drew several long breaths with full lungs.
"Good, very good," said he to himself. Oftentimes before he had felt a pleasure in the possession of his body, but never had he so loved it, or loved himself, as now. It was even pleasurable to feel the slight soreness in his leg, pleasurable was the mouse-like sensation of motion on his breast when he breathed.
This same bright, fresh, August day, which so impressed Anna with its hopelessness, stimulated, vitalized him, and cooled his face and neck, which still burned from the reaction after his bath. The odor of brilliantine from his mustaches seemed pleasant to him in this fresh atmosphere. Everything that he saw from the carriage-window seemed to him in this cool, pure air, in this pale light of the dying day, fresh, joyous, and healthful, like himself. And the housetops shining in the rays of the setting sun, the outlines of the fences and the edifices along the way, and the shapes of occasional pedestrians and carriages hurrying hither and thither, and the motionless green of the trees, and the lawns,
