Vronsky had indeed promised to go to Bryansky‘s, nearly seven miles from Peterhof,28 and bring him money for the horses; he hoped he would have time to get there as well. But his comrades understood at once that he was not going only there.
Petritsky, continuing to sing, winked and puffed his lips, as if to say: ‘We know which Bryansky that is.’
‘See that you’re not late!’ Yashvin merely said and, to change the subject, asked, ‘So my roan serves you well?’ looking out of the window at the shaft horse he had sold him.
‘Wait,’ Petritsky shouted to Vronsky, who was already going out. ‘Your brother left a letter for you and a note. Hold on, where are they?’
Vronsky stopped.
‘Well, where are they?’
‘Where are they? That’s the question!’ Petritsky said solemnly, gesturing upwards from his nose with his index finger.
‘Speak up, this is stupid!’ Vronsky said, smiling.
‘I haven’t made a fire. They must be here somewhere.’
‘Well, enough babbling! Where’s the letter?’
‘No, really, I forget. Or did I dream it? Hold on, hold on! What’s the use of getting angry? If you’d drunk four bottles each, like I did last night, you’d forget where you flopped down. Hold on, I’ll remember in a second!’
Petritsky went behind the partition and lay down on his bed.
‘Wait! I was lying like this, he was standing like that. Yes, yes, yes, yes ... Here it is!’ And Petritsky pulled the letter from under the mattress, where he had hidden it.
Vronsky took the letter and his brother’s note. It was just what he expected - a letter from his mother with reproaches for not coming, and a note from his brother saying that they had to have a talk. Vronsky knew it was about the same thing. ‘What business is it of theirs!’ he thought and, crumpling the letters, tucked them between the buttons of his frock coat, to read attentively on his way. In the front hall of the cottage he met two officers: one theirs, and the other from another regiment.
Vronsky’s quarters were always a den for all the officers.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘I must go to Peterhof.’
‘And has the horse come from Tsarskoe?’
‘She has, but I haven’t seen her yet.’
‘They say Makhotin’s Gladiator has gone lame.’
‘Nonsense! Only how are you going to race in this mud?’ said the other.
‘Here come my saviours!’ cried Petritsky, seeing the men come in. His orderly was standing in front of him holding a tray with vodka and pickles. ‘Yashvin here tells me to drink so as to refresh myself.’
‘Well, you really gave it to us last evening,’ said one of the newcomers. ‘Wouldn’t let us sleep all night.’
‘No, but how we finished!’ Petritsky went on. ‘Volkov got up on the roof and said he was feeling sad. I said: “Give us music, a funeral march!” He fell asleep on the roof to the funeral march.’
‘Drink, drink the vodka without fail, and then seltzer water with a lot of lemon,’ Yashvin said, standing over Petritsky like a mother making a child take its medicine, ‘and after that a bit of champagne - say, one little bottle.’
‘Now that’s clever. Wait, Vronsky, let’s have a drink.’
‘No, good-bye, gentlemen, today I don’t drink.’
‘Why, so as not to gain weight? Well, then we’ll drink alone. Bring on the seltzer water and lemon.’
‘Vronsky!’ someone shouted when he was already in the front hall.
‘What?’
‘You should get your hair cut, it’s too heavy, especially on the bald spot.’
Vronsky was indeed beginning to lose his hair prematurely on top. He laughed merrily, showing his solid row of teeth, pulled his peaked cap over his bald spot, went out and got into the carriage.
‘To the stable!’ he said and took out the letters to read them, then changed his mind, so as not to get distracted before examining the horse. ‘Later! ...’
XXI
The temporary stable, a shed of wooden planks, had been built just next to the racetrack, and his horse was supposed to have been brought there yesterday. He had not seen her yet. For the last two days he had not ridden her himself, but had entrusted her to the trainer, and had no idea what condition his horse had arrived in or was in now. As soon as he got out of the carriage, his groom, known as ‘boy’, having recognized his carriage from a distance, called the trainer. The dry Englishman in high boots and a short jacket, with only a tuft of beard left under his chin, came out to meet him with the awkward gait of a jockey, spreading his elbows wide and swaying.
‘Well, how’s Frou-Frou?’ Vronsky asked in English.
‘All right, sir,’ the Englishman’s voice said somewhere inside his throat. ‘Better not go in,’ he added, raising his hat. ‘I’ve put a muzzle on her, and the horse is agitated. Better not go in, it upsets the horse.’
‘No, I’d rather go in. I want to have a look at her.’
‘Come along,’ the frowning Englishman said, as before, without opening his mouth and, swinging his elbows, he went ahead with his loose gait.
