‘To the Angleterre or the Hermitage?’*
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Well, let’s go to the Angleterre then,’ said Stepan Arkadyich, choosing the Angleterre because he owed more there than he did at the Hermitage. He therefore felt it would be bad form to avoid that hotel. ‘Do you have a cab? Well, that’s grand, as I let my carriage go.’
The friends were silent all the way there. Levin was thinking about what the change in expression on Kitty’s face meant, one minute assuring himself that there was hope, and the next succumbing to despair and seeing clearly that it was madness to hope, but meanwhile he felt like a completely different person, and utterly unlike how he had been before her smile and that Goodbye.
Stepan Arkadyich was composing the menu during the journey.
‘You do like turbot, don’t you?’ he said to Levin as they pulled up.
‘What?’ asked Levin. ‘Turbot? Oh yes, I’m awfully fond of turbot.’
1 [English in the original.]
10
WHEN Levin entered the hotel with Oblonsky, he could not help noticing a certain particular expression of a kind of suppressed elation on Stepan Arkadyich’s face and about his whole person. Oblonsky took off his coat, and with his hat set at a jaunty angle he proceeded into the dining room, giving out orders to the obsequious Tatars* carrying napkins who were dressed in tails. Bowing right and left to acquaintances who were as happy to see him there as everywhere else, he went up to the bar, had a bit of fish to accompany his vodka, and said something to the painted Frenchwoman in ribbons, lace, and ringlets sitting at the counter which had even this Frenchwoman bursting out in genuine laughter. Levin refused a vodka only because he was offended by the sight of this Frenchwoman, who seemed to consist entirely of false hair, poudre de riz, and vinaigre de toilette.1 He swiftly moved away from her, as if from some dirty place. His soul was overflowing with memories of Kitty, and a smile of triumph and happiness shone in his eyes.
‘This way please, Your Excellency, you won’t be disturbed here, Your Excellency,’ said a particularly obsequious and chalky old Tatar, whose coat-tails parted over his wide haunches. ‘Your hat please, Your Excellency,’ he said to Levin, attending to Stepan Arkadyich’s guest as a token of respect to him.
After instantly spreading a fresh tablecloth over the tablecloth already covering a round table under a bronze wall-lamp, he pulled out the velvet-covered chairs and stopped in front of Stepan Arkadyich with a napkin and the menu in his hands, awaiting instructions.
‘If you would like a private room, Your Excellency, one will become available shortly: it’s Prince Golitsyn with a lady. We have some fresh oysters in.’
‘Ah! Oysters.’
Stepan Arkadyich stopped to think.
‘Should we change our plan, Levin?’ he said, placing a finger on the menu. His face expressed serious confusion. ‘Are they good oysters? Tell the truth!’
‘They’re Flensburg oysters, Your Excellency, there weren’t any from Ostend.’
‘That’s all very well, but are they fresh?’
‘Came in yesterday, sir.’
‘So in that case, how about beginning with oysters, and then changing our plan completely? Eh?’
‘I don’t mind. I like cabbage soup and buckwheat kasha best; but they don’t have that here, obviously.’
‘You would like to order kasha à la russe?’* said the Tatar, bending over Levin like a nanny administering to a child.
‘No, seriously, I’ll be happy with whatever you order. I’ve been skating, and I’m hungry. And don’t think’, he added, noticing the disgruntled expression on Oblonsky’s face, ‘that I won’t appreciate your choice. I will enjoy having a good meal.’
‘I’ll say! Whatever you say, it is one of life’s pleasures,’ said Stepan Arkadyich. ‘So, my good fellow, we’ll have two-dozen oysters, or maybe that’s not enough—let’s say three-dozen, some vegetable soup …’
‘Printanière,’ prompted the Tatar. But Stepan Arkadyich clearly did not want to give him the pleasure of naming the dishes in French.
‘Vegetable soup, you know? Then turbot with a thick sauce, then … roast beef; but make sure it is good. And capons, I think, and some fruit salad too.’
Remembering Stepan Arkadyich’s practice of not naming dishes according to the French menu, the Tatar did not repeat what he said, but gave himself the pleasure of repeating the whole order from the menu: ‘Soupe printanière, turbot sauce Beaumarchais, poularde à l’estragon, macèdoine de fruits …’—and then, as if on springs, he managed in the blink of an eye to put down one bound menu, pick up another, the wine menu, and present it to Stepan Arkadyich.
‘And what shall we have to drink?’
‘I’ll have whatever you want, but not too much, maybe some champagne,’ said Levin.
‘What do you mean? To begin with? Actually, maybe you’re right. Do you like the one with the white seal?’
‘Cachet blanc,’ prompted the Tatar.
‘Well, give us some of that with the oysters, and then we will see.’
‘Certainly, sir. What table wine would you like?’
‘Let’s have some Nuits. No, a classic Chablis would be even better.’
‘Certainly, sir. Would you like your cheese?’*
‘Oh yes, Parmesan. Or is there another that you like?’
‘No, I don’t mind what we have,’ said Levin, unable to repress a smile.
And the Tatar hurried off with his coat-tails billowing out over his wide haunches, only to sprint back five minutes later with a plate of shucked oysters in their pearly shells, and a bottle between his fingers.
Stepan Arkadyich crumpled up his starched napkin, tucked it into his waistcoat, rested his arms comfortably, and made a start on the oysters.
‘They’re not bad,’ he said, prising the slippery oysters from their pearly shells with a small silver fork, and swallowing one after another. ‘Not bad,’ he repeated, looking up with moist and shining eyes, first at Levin and then the Tatar. Levin ate the oysters too, although the white bread and cheese was more to his liking. But he was in awe of Oblonsky. Even the Tatar, after uncorking the bottle and pouring the sparkling wine into shallow, slender glasses, was looking at Stepan Arkadyich with a distinct smile of pleasure as he straightened his white tie.
‘You don’t like oysters that much?’ said Stepan Arkadyich, downing his glass; ‘Or is there something on your mind? Eh?’
He wanted Levin to be in good spirits. But it was not that Levin was not in good spirits, he felt uncomfortable. With everything that was going on in his soul, it was ghastly and awkward for him to be in a restaurant sandwiched between private rooms where ladies were being wined and dined, in the midst of this hustle and bustle; this whole environment of bronzes, mirrors, gas, and Tatars was offensive to him. He was afraid of contaminating what was overflowing in his heart.
‘On my mind? Yes, there is something, but all this also makes me feel uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘You cannot imagine how peculiar this all is to a country-dweller like me; like the fingernails on that gentleman I saw in your office …’
‘Yes, I saw how riveted you were by poor old Grinevich’s nails,’ said Stepan Arkadyich laughing.
‘I can’t help it,’ said Levin. ‘Try and put yourself in my shoes, and see things from the point of view of someone who lives in the country. In the country we try to bring our hands into a condition so that we can work with them easily; so we cut our nails and sometimes roll up our sleeves. But here people deliberately grow their nails as long as possible and put on cuff-links as big as saucers, so you definitely can’t do anything with your hands.’