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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 sol-
emnly, 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 is it of theirs!” thought Vronsky, and crumpling
up the letters he thrust them between the buttons of his coat so as to
read them carefully on the road. In the porch of the hut he was met by
two officers; one of his regiment and one of another.
Vronsky’s quarters were always a meeting place for all the officers.
“Where are you off to?”
“I must go to Peterhof.”
“Has the mare come from Tsarskoe?”
“Yes, but I’ve not seen her yet.”
“They say Mahotin’s Gladiator’s lame.”
“Nonsense! But however are you going to race in this mud?” said
the other.
“Here are my saviors!” cried Petritsky, seeing them come in. Before
him stood the orderly with a tray of brandy and salted cucumbers.
“Here’s Yashvin ordering me a drink a pick-me-up.”
“Well, you did give it to us yesterday,” said one of those who had
come in; “you didn’t let us get a wink of sleep all night.”
“Oh, didn’t we make a pretty finish!” said Petritsky. “Volkov climbed
onto the roof and began telling us how sad he was. I said: ‘Let’s have
music, the funeral march!’ He fairly dropped asleep on the roof over