LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

I’ve been skating, and I’m hungry. And don’t imagine,” he added, detecting a look of dissatisfaction on Oblonsky’s face, “that I shan’t appreciate your choice. I am fond of good things.”

      “I should hope so! After all, it’s one of the pleasures of life,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Well, then, my friend, you give us two—or better say three—dozen oysters, clear soup with vegetables…”

      “Printaniere,” prompted the Tatar. But Stepan Arkadyevitch apparently did not care to allow him the satisfaction of giving the French names of the dishes.

      “With vegetables in it, you know. Then turbot with thick sauce, then…roast beef; and mind it’s good. Yes, and capons, perhaps, and then sweets.”

      The Tatar, recollecting that it was Stepan Arkadyevitch’s way not to call the dishes by the names in the French bill of fare, did not repeat them after him, but could not resist rehearsing the whole menu to himself according to the bill:—”Soupe printanière, turbot, sauce Beaumarchais, poulard à l’estragon, macédoine de fruits…etc.,” and then instantly, as though worked by springs, laying down one bound bill of fare, he took up another, the list of wines, and submitted it to Stepan Arkadyevitch.

      “What shall we drink?”

      “What you like, only not too much. Champagne,” said Levin.

      “What! to start with? You’re right though, I dare say. Do you like the white seal?”

      “Cachet blanc,” prompted the Tatar.

      “Very well, then, give us that brand with the oysters, and then we’ll see.”

      “Yes, sir. And what table wine?”

      “You can give us Nuits. Oh, no, better the classic Chablis.”

      “Yes, sir. And your cheese, your excellency?”

      “Oh, yes, Parmesan. Or would you like another?”

      “No, it’s all the same to me,” said Levin, unable to suppress a smile.

      And the Tatar ran off with flying coat-tails, and in five minutes darted in with a dish of opened oysters on mother-of-pearl shells, and a bottle between his fingers.

      Stepan Arkadyevitch crushed the starchy napkin, tucked it into his waistcoat, and settling his arms comfortably, started on the oysters.

      “Not bad,” he said, stripping the oysters from the pearly shell with a silver fork, and swallowing them one after another. “Not bad,” he repeated, turning his dewy, brilliant eyes from Levin to the Tatar.

      Levin ate the oysters indeed, though white bread and cheese would have pleased him better. But he was admiring Oblonsky. Even the Tatar, uncorking the bottle and pouring the sparkling wine into the delicate glasses, glanced at Stepan Arkadyevitch, and settled his white cravat with a perceptible smile of satisfaction.

      “You don’t care much for oysters, do you?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, emptying his wine glass, “or you’re worried about something. Eh?”

      He wanted Levin to be in good spirits. But it was not that Levin was not in good spirits; he was ill at ease. With what he had in his soul, he felt sore and uncomfortable in the restaurant, in the midst of private rooms where men were dining with ladies, in all this fuss and bustle; the surroundings of bronzes, looking glasses, gas, and waiters—all of it was offensive to him. He was afraid of sullying what his soul was brimful of.

      “I? Yes, I am; but besides, all this bothers me,” he said. “You can’t conceive how queer it all seems to a country person like me, as queer as that gentleman’s nails I saw at your place…”

      “Yes, I saw how much interested you were in poor Grinevitch’s nails,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing.

      “It’s too much for me,” responded Levin. “Do try, now, and put yourself in my place, take the point of view of a country person. We in the country try to bring our hands into such a state as will be most convenient for working with. So we cut our nails; sometimes we turn up our sleeves. And here people purposely let their nails grow as long as they will, and link on small saucers by way of studs, so that they can do nothing with their hands.”

      Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled gaily.

      “Oh, yes, that’s just a sign that he has no need to do coarse work. His work is with the mind…”

      “Maybe. But still it’s queer to me, just as at this moment it seems queer to me that we country folks try to get our meals over as soon as we can, so as to be ready for our work, while here are we trying to drag out our meal as long as possible, and with that object eating oysters…”

      “Why, of course,” objected Stepan Arkadyevitch. “But that’s just the aim of civilization—to make everything a source of enjoyment.”

      “Well, if that’s its aim, I’d rather be a savage.”

      “And so you are a savage. All you Levins are savages.”

      Levin sighed. He remembered his brother Nikolay, and felt ashamed and sore, and he scowled; but Oblonsky began speaking of a subject which at once drew his attention.

      “Oh, I say, are you going tonight to our people, the Shtcherbatskys’, I mean?” he said, his eyes sparkling significantly as he pushed away the empty rough shells, and drew the cheese towards him.

      “Yes, I shall certainly go,” replied Levin; “though I fancied the princess was not very warm in her invitation.”

      “What nonsense! That’s her manner…. Come, boy, the soup!…. That’s her manner—grande dame,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “I’m coming, too, but I have to go to the Countess Bonina’s rehearsal. Come, isn’t it true that you’re a savage? How do you explain the sudden way in which you vanished from Moscow? The Shtcherbatskys were continually asking me about you, as though I ought to know. The only thing I know is that you always do what no one else does.”

      “Yes,” said Levin, slowly and with emotion, “you’re right. I am a savage. Only, my savageness is not in having gone away, but in coming now. Now I have come…”

      “Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!” broke in Stepan Arkadyevitch, looking into Levin’s eyes.

      “Why?”

      “I know a gallant steed by tokens sure,

       And by his eyes I know a youth in love,”

      declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Everything is before you.”

      “Why, is it over for you already?”

      “No; not over exactly, but the future is yours, and the present is mine, and the present—well, it’s not all that it might be.”

      “How so?”

      “Oh, things go wrong. But I don’t want to talk of myself, and besides I can’t explain it all,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Well, why have you come to Moscow, then?…. Hi! take away!” he called to the Tatar.

      “You guess?” responded Levin, his eyes like deep wells of light fixed on Stepan Arkadyevitch.

      “I guess, but I can’t be the first to talk about it. You can see by that whether I guess right or wrong,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, gazing at Levin with a subtle smile.

      “Well, and what have you to say to me?” said Levin in a quivering voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face were quivering too. “How do you look at the question?”

      Stepan Arkadyevitch slowly emptied his glass of Chablis, never taking his eyes off Levin.

      “I?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, “there’s nothing I desire so much as that—nothing! It would be the best thing that could be.”

      “But you’re not making a mistake?

Скачать книгу