“We’ve come to fetch you. Your lessive lasted a good time today,” said Petritsky. “Well, is it over?”
“It is over,” answered Vronsky, smiling with his eyes only, and twirling the tips of his mustaches as circumspectly as though after the perfect order into which his affairs had been brought any over-bold or rapid movement might disturb it.
“You’re always just as if you’d come out of a bath after it,” said Petritsky. “I’ve come from Gritsky’s” (that was what they called the colonel); “they’re expecting you.”
Vronsky, without answering, looked at his comrade, thinking of something else.
“Yes; is that music at his place?” he said, listening to the familiar sounds of polkas and waltzes floating across to him. “What’s the fete?”
“Aha!” said Vronsky, “why, I didn’t know.”
The smile in his eyes gleamed more brightly than ever.
Having once made up his mind that he was happy in his love, that he sacrificed his ambition to it—having anyway taken up this position, Vronsky was incapable of feeling either envious of Serpuhovskoy or hurt with him for not coming first to him when he came to the regiment. Serpuhovskoy was a good friend, and he was delighted he had come.
“Ah, I’m very glad!”
The colonel, Demin, had taken a large country house. The whole party were in the wide lower balcony. In the courtyard the first objects that met Vronsky’s eyes were a band of singers in white linen coats, standing near a barrel of vodka, and the robust, good-humored figure of the colonel surrounded by officers. He had gone out as far as the first step of the balcony and was loudly shouting across the band that played Offenbach’s quadrille, waving his arms and giving some orders to a few soldiers standing on one side. A group of soldiers, a quartermaster, and several subalterns came up to the balcony with Vronsky. The colonel returned to the table, went out again onto the steps with a tumbler in his hand, and proposed the toast, “To the health of our former comrade, the gallant general, Prince Serpuhovskoy. Hurrah!”
The colonel was followed by Serpuhovskoy, who came out onto the steps smiling, with a glass in his hand.
“You always get younger, Bondarenko,” he said to the rosy-checked, smart-looking quartermaster standing just before him, still youngish looking though doing his second term of service.
It was three years since Vronsky had seen Serpuhovskoy. He looked more robust, had let his whiskers grow, but was still the same graceful creature, whose face and figure were even more striking from their softness and nobility than their beauty. The only change Vronsky detected in him was that subdued, continual radiance of beaming content which settles on the faces of men who are successful and are sure of the recognition of their success by everyone. Vronsky knew that radiant air, and immediately observed it in Serpuhovskoy.