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As Levin entered the hotel with Oblonsky, he could not help noticing a certain special expression, as if of restrained radiance, on the face and in the whole figure of Stepan Arkadyich. Oblonsky took off his coat and with his hat cocked passed into the restaurant, giving orders to the Tartars16 in tailcoats who clung to him, napkins over their arms. Bowing right and left to the joyful greetings of acquaintances who turned up there, as everywhere, he went to the bar, followed his glass of vodka with a bit of fish, and said something to the painted Frenchwoman in ribbons, lace and ringlets who was sitting at the counter, so that even this Frenchwoman burst into genuine laughter. Levin did not drink vodka, if only because this Frenchwoman, who seemed to consist entirely of other people’s hair, poudre de riz and vinaigre de toilette,b was offensive to him. He hastened to step away from her as from a dirty spot. His whole soul was overflowing with the remembrance of Kitty, and in his eyes shone a smile of triumph and happiness.
‘This way, your highness, if you please, you will not be disturbed here, your highness,’ said a particularly clinging, blanched old Tartar with broad hips over which the tails of his coat parted. ‘Your hat please, your highness,’ he said to Levin, courting the guest as a token of respect for Stepan Arkadyich.
Instantly spreading a fresh tablecloth on a round table, already covered with a tablecloth, under a bronze lamp-bracket, he drew out the velvet chairs and stood before Stepan Arkadyich, napkin and menu in hand, awaiting orders.
‘If you prefer, your highness, a private room will presently be vacated: Prince Golitsyn and a lady. Fresh oysters have come in.’
‘Ah, oysters!’
Stepan Arkadyich fell to thinking.
‘Shouldn’t we change our plan, Levin?’ he said, his finger pausing on the menu. And his face showed serious perplexity. ‘Are they good oysters? Mind yourself!’
‘Flensburg, your highness, we have no Ostend oysters.’
‘Flensburg, yes, but are they fresh?’
‘Came in yesterday, sir.’
‘In that case, shouldn’t we begin with oysters, and then change the whole plan? Eh?’
‘It makes no difference to me. I like shchi and kasha best,17 but they won’t have that here.’
‘Kasha a la Russe, if you please?’ the Tartar said, bending over Levin like a nanny over a child.
‘No, joking aside, whatever you choose will be fine. I did some skating and I’m hungry. And don’t think,’ he added, noticing the displeased expression on Oblonsky’s face, ‘that I won’t appreciate your choice. I’ll enjoy a good meal.’
‘To be sure! Say what you like, it is one of life’s enjoyments,’ said Stepan Arkadyich. ‘Well, then, my good man, bring us two - no, make it three dozen oysters, vegetable soup ...’
‘Printanière,’ the Tartar picked up. But Stepan Arkadyich evidently did not want to give him the pleasure of naming the dishes in French.
‘Vegetable soup, you know? Then turbot with thick sauce, then ... roast beef - but mind it’s good. And why not capon - well, and some stewed fruit.’
The Tartar, remembering Stepan Arkadyich’s manner of not naming dishes from the French menu, did not repeat after him, but gave himself the pleasure of repeating the entire order from the menu: ‘Soupe printanière, turbot sauce Beaumarchais, poularde à l’estragon, macédoine de fruits ...’ and at once, as if on springs, laid aside one bound menu, picked up another, the wine list, and offered it to Stepan Arkadyich.
‘What shall we drink?’
‘I’ll have whatever you like, only not much, some champagne,’ said Levin.
‘What? To begin with? Though why not, in fact? Do you like the one with the white seal?’
‘Cachet blanc,’ the Tartar picked up.
‘Well, so bring us that with the oysters, and then we’ll see.’
‘Right, sir. What table wine would you prefer?’
‘Bring us the Nuits. No, better still the classic Chablis.’
‘Right, sir. Would you prefer your cheese?’
‘Yes, the Parmesan. Unless you’d prefer something else?’
‘No, it makes no difference to me,’ said Levin, unable to repress a smile.
And the Tartar, his tails flying over his broad hips, ran off and five minutes later rushed in again with a plate of opened oysters in their pearly shells and a bottle between his fingers.
Stepan Arkadyich crumpled the starched napkin, tucked it into his waistcoat, and, resting his arms comfortably, applied himself to the oysters.
‘Not bad,’ he said, peeling the sloshy oysters from their pearly shells with a little silver fork and swallowing them one after another. ‘Not bad,’ he repeated, raising his moist and shining eyes now to Levin, now to the Tartar.
Levin ate the oysters, though white bread and cheese would have been more to his liking. But he admired Oblonsky. Even the Tartar, drawing the cork and pouring the sparkling wine into shallow thin glasses, then straightening his white tie, kept glancing with a noticeable smile of pleasure at Stepan Arkadyich.
‘You don’t care much for oysters?’ said Stepan Arkadyich, drinking off his glass. ‘Or else you’re preoccupied? Eh?’
He wanted Levin to be cheerful. Yet it was not that Levin was not cheerfuclass="underline" he felt constrained. With what he had in his soul, it was eerie and awkward for him to be in a tavern, next to private rooms where one dined in the company of ladies, amidst this hustle and bustle. These surroundings of bronze, mirrors, gas-lights, Tartars - it was all offensive to him. He was afraid to soil what was overflowing in his soul.
‘Me? Yes, I’m preoccupied. But, besides, I feel constrained by all this,’ he said. ‘You can’t imagine how wild all this is for a countryman like me - or take the nails of that gentleman I saw in your office ...’
‘Yes, I could see poor Grinevich’s nails interested you greatly,’ Stepan Arkadyich said, laughing.
‘I can’t help it,’ replied Levin. ‘Try getting inside me, look at it from a countryman’s point of view. In the country we try to keep our hands in a condition that makes them convenient to work with; for that we cut our nails and sometimes roll up our sleeves. While here people purposely let their nails grow as long as they can, and stick on saucers instead of cuff-links, so that it would be impossible for them to do anything with their hands.’
Stepan Arkadyich smiled gaily.
‘Yes, it’s a sign that he has no need of crude labour. His mind works ...’
‘Maybe. But all the same it seems wild to me, just as it seems wild to me that while we countrymen try to eat our fill quickly, so that we can get on with what we have to do, you and I are trying our best not to get full for as long as possible, and for that we eat oysters ...’
‘Well, of course,’ Stepan Arkadyich picked up. ‘But that’s the aim of civilization: to make everything an enjoyment.’
‘Well, if that’s its aim, I’d rather be wild.’
‘You’re wild as it is. All you Levins are wild.’18
Levin sighed. He remembered his brother Nikolai, and felt ashamed and pained. He frowned, but Oblonsky began talking about a subject that distracted him at once.
‘So you’re going to see our people tonight - the Shcherbatskys, I mean?’ he said, pushing aside the empty scabrous shells and drawing the cheese towards him, his eyes shining significantly.
‘Yes, I’ll certainly go,’ replied Levin. ‘Though it seemed to me the princess invited me reluctantly.’