LITMIR.BIZ

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plump officer rose submissively, and they moved towards the door.

      At that moment there walked into the room the tall and well-built Captain Yashvin. Nodding with an air of lofty contempt to the two officers, he went up to Vronsky.

      “Ah! here he is!” he cried, bringing his big hand down heavily on his epaulet. Vronsky looked round angrily, but his face lighted up immediately with his characteristic expression of genial and manly serenity.

      “That’s it, Alexey,” said the captain, in his loud baritone. “You must just eat a mouthful, now, and drink only one tiny glass.”

      “Oh, I’m not hungry.”

      “There go the inseparables,” Yashvin dropped, glancing sarcastically at the two officers who were at that instant leaving the room. And he bent his long legs, swathed in tight riding breeches, and sat down in the chair, too low for him, so that his knees were cramped up in a sharp angle.

      “Why didn’t you turn up at the Red Theater yesterday? Numerova wasn’t at all bad. Where were you?”

      “I was late at the Tverskoys’,” said Vronsky.

      “Ah!” responded Yashvin.

      Yashvin, a gambler and a rake, a man not merely without moral principles, but of immoral principles, Yashvin was Vronsky’s greatest friend in the regiment. Vronsky liked him both for his exceptional physical strength, which he showed for the most part by being able to drink like a fish, and do without sleep without being in the slightest degree affected by it; and for his great strength of character, which he showed in his relations with his comrades and superior officers, commanding both fear and respect, and also at cards, when he would play for tens of thousands and however much he might have drunk, always with such skill and decision that he was reckoned the best player in the English Club. Vronsky respected and liked Yashvin particularly because he felt Yashvin liked him, not for his name and his money, but for himself. And of all men he was the only one with whom Vronsky would have liked to speak of his love. He felt that Yashvin, in spite of his apparent contempt for every sort of feeling, was the only man who could, so he fancied, comprehend the intense passion which now filled his whole life. Moreover, he felt certain that Yashvin, as it was, took no delight in gossip and scandal, and interpreted his feeling rightly, that is to say, knew and believed that this passion was not a jest, not a pastime, but something more serious and important.

      Vronsky had never spoken to him of his passion, but he was aware that he knew all about it, and that he put the right interpretation on it, and he was glad to see that in his eyes.

      “Ah! yes,” he said, to the announcement that Vronsky had been at the Tverskoys’; and his black eyes shining, he plucked at his left mustache, and began twisting it into his mouth, a bad habit he had.

      “Well, and what did you do yesterday? Win anything?” asked

       Vronsky.

      “Eight thousand. But three don’t count; he won’t pay up.”

      “Oh, then you can afford to lose over me,” said Vronsky, laughing. (Yashvin had bet heavily on Vronsky in the races.)

      “No chance of my losing. Mahotin’s the only one that’s risky.”

      And the conversation passed to forecasts of the coming race, the only thing Vronsky could think of just now.

      “Come along, I’ve finished,” said Vronsky, and getting up he went to the door. Yashvin got up too, stretching his long legs and his long back.

      “It’s too early for me to dine, but I must have a drink. I’ll come along directly. Hi, wine!” he shouted, in his rich voice, that always rang out so loudly at drill, and set the windows shaking now.

      “No, all right,” he shouted again immediately after. “You’re going home, so I’ll go with you.”

      And he walked out with Vronsky.

Chapter 20

      Vronsky was staying in a roomy, clean, Finnish hut, divided into two by a partition. Petritsky lived with him in camp too. Petritsky was asleep when Vronsky and Yashvin came into the hut.

      “Get up, don’t go on sleeping,” said Yashvin, going behind the partition and giving Petritsky, who was lying with ruffled hair and with his nose in the pillow, a prod on the shoulder.

      Petritsky jumped up suddenly onto his knees and looked round.

      “Your brother’s been here,” he said to Vronsky. “He waked me up, damn him, and said he’d look in again.” And pulling up the rug he flung himself back on the pillow. “Oh, do shut up, Yashvin!” he said, getting furious with Yashvin, who was pulling the rug off him. “Shut up!” He turned over and opened his eyes. “You’d better tell me what to drink; such a nasty taste in my mouth, that…”

      “Brandy’s better than anything,” boomed Yashvin. “Tereshtchenko! brandy for your master and cucumbers,” he shouted, obviously taking pleasure in the sound of his own voice.

      “Brandy, do you think? Eh?” queried Petritsky, blinking and rubbing his eyes. “And you’ll drink something? All right then, we’ll have a drink together! Vronsky, have a drink?” said Petritsky, getting up and wrapping the tiger-skin rug round him. He went to the door of the partition wall, raised his hands, and hummed in French, “There was a king in Thule.” “Vronsky, will you have a drink?”

      “Go along,” said Vronsky, putting on the coat his valet handed to him.

      “Where are you off to?” asked Yashvin. “Oh, here are your three horses,” he added, seeing the carriage drive up.

      “To the stables, and I’ve got to see Bryansky, too, about the horses,” said Vronsky.

      Vronsky had as a fact promised to call at Bryansky’s, some eight miles from Peterhof, and to bring him some money owing for some horses; and he hoped to have time to get that in too. But his comrades were at once aware that he was not only going there.

      Petritsky, still humming, winked and made a pout with his lips, as though he would say: “Oh, yes, we know your Bryansky.”

      “Mind you’re not late!” was Yashvin’s only comment; and to change the conversation: “How’s my roan? is he doing all right?” he inquired, looking out of the window at the middle one of the three horses, which he had sold Vronsky.

      “Stop!” cried Petritsky to Vronsky as he was just going out. “Your brother left a letter and a note for you. Wait a bit; where are they?”

      Vronsky stopped.

      “Well, where are they?”

      “Where are they? That’s just the question!” said Petritsky solemnly, moving his forefinger upwards from his nose.

      “Come, tell me; this is silly!” said Vronsky smiling.

      “I have not lighted the fire. Here somewhere about.”

      “Come, enough fooling! Where is the letter?”

      “No, I’ve forgotten really. Or was it a dream? Wait a bit, wait a bit! But what’s the use of getting in a rage. If you’d drunk four bottles yesterday as I did you’d forget where you were lying. Wait a bit, I’ll remember!”

      Petritsky went behind the partition and lay down on his bed.

      “Wait a bit! This was how I was lying, and this was how he was standing. Yes—yes—yes…. Here it is!”—and Petritsky pulled a letter out from under the mattress, where he had hidden it.

      Vronsky took the letter and his brother’s note. It was the letter he was expecting—from his mother, reproaching him for not having been to see her—and the note was from his brother to say that he must have a little talk with him. Vronsky knew that it was all about the same thing. “What business

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