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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 rub-
bing 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