Just then the tall and well-built cavalry captain Yashvin came into the room and, giving the two officers a scornful toss of the head, went over to Vronsky.
‘Ah, here he is!’ he cried, slapping him hard on the epaulette with his big hand. Vronsky turned angrily, but his face at once lit up with his own special, calm and firm gentleness.
‘That’s wise, Alyosha,’ the captain said in a loud baritone. ‘Eat now and drink a little glass.’
‘I don’t want to eat.’
‘There go the inseparables,’ Yashvin added, looking mockingly at the two officers who at that moment were leaving the room. And he sat down beside Vronsky, his thighs and shins, much too long for the height of the chairs, bending at a sharp angle in their tight breeches. ‘Why didn’t you come to the Krasnoe Theatre last night? Numerova wasn’t bad at all. Where were you?’
‘I stayed late at the Tverskoys’,’ replied Vronsky.
‘Ah!’ responded Yashvin.
Yashvin, a gambler, a carouser, a man not merely without any principles, but with immoral principles - Yashvin was Vronsky’s best friend in the regiment. Vronsky loved him for his extraordinary physical strength, which the man usually showed by his ability to drink like a fish, go without sleep and yet remain the same, and for his great force of character, which he showed in his relations with his superiors and comrades, making himself feared and respected, and at cards, where he staked tens of thousands and, despite the wine he drank, was always so subtle and steady that he was regarded as the foremost player in the English Club. Vronsky loved and respected him especially because he felt that Yashvin loved him not for his name or wealth but for himself. And of all people it was with him alone that Vronsky would have liked to talk about his love. He felt that Yashvin alone, though he seemed to scorn all feelings, could understand that strong passion which now filled his whole life. Besides, he was sure that Yashvin took no pleasure in gossip and scandal, but understood his feeling in the right way - that is, knew and believed that this love was not a joke, not an amusement, but something more serious and important.
Vronsky did not speak to him of his love, but he knew that he knew everything and understood everything in the right way, and he was pleased to see it in his eyes.
‘Ah, yes!’ he said in response to Vronsky’s having been at the Tverskoys’, and, flashing his black eyes, he took hold of the left side of his moustache and began twirling it into his mouth - a bad habit of his.
‘Well, and what happened last night? Did you win?’ asked Vronsky.
‘Eight thousand. But three are no good, it’s unlikely he’ll pay.’
‘Well, then you can lose on me,’ said Vronsky, laughing. (Yashvin had bet a large sum on Vronsky.)
‘There’s no way I can lose.’
‘Makhotin’s the only danger.’
And the conversation turned to the expectations of the day’s race, which was all Vronsky was able to think about.
‘Let’s go, I’m finished,’ said Vronsky and, getting up, he went to the door. Yashvin also got up, straightening his enormous legs and long back.
‘It’s too early for me to dine, but I could use a drink. I’ll come at once.
Hey, wine!’ he cried in his deep voice, famous for commanding, which made the windowpanes tremble. ‘No, never mind,’ he shouted again at once. ‘Since you’re going home, I’ll come with you.’
And he went with Vronsky.
XX
Vronsky stood in the spacious and clean Finnish cottage, which was divided in two. Petritsky shared quarters with him in camp as well. Petritsky was asleep when Vronsky and Yashvin entered the cottage.
‘Get up, you’ve slept enough,’ said Yashvin, going behind the partition and giving the dishevelled Petritsky, whose nose was buried in the pillow, a shove on the shoulder.
Petritsky suddenly jumped to his knees and looked around.
‘Your brother was here,’ he said to Vronsky. ‘Woke me up, devil take him, said he’d come back.’ And, drawing up his blanket, he threw himself back on to the pillow. ‘Leave me alone, Yashvin,’ he said, angry at Yashvin, who was pulling the blanket off him. ‘Leave me alone!’ He turned over and opened his eyes. ‘You’d better tell me what to drink - there’s such a vile taste in my mouth that...’
‘Vodka’s best of all,’ boomed Yashvin. ‘Tereshchenko! Vodka for the master, and pickles,’ he shouted, obviously fond of hearing his own voice.
‘Vodka, you think? Eh?’ Petritsky asked, wincing and rubbing his eyes. ‘And will you drink? Together, that’s how to drink! Vronsky, will you drink?’ Petritsky said, getting up and wrapping himself under the arms in a tiger rug.
He went through the door in the partition, raised his arms and sang in French: “‘There was a king in Thu-u-ule.”27 Vronsky, will you drink?’
‘Get out,’ said Vronsky, who was putting on the jacket his footman held for him.
‘Where are you off to?’ Yashvin asked him. ‘Here’s the troika,’ he added, seeing the carriage pull up.
‘To the stables, and I also have to see Bryansky about the horses,’ said Vronsky.
