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only arrived yesterday.’

      ‘Well then, shall we begin with oysters and change the plan of our dinner, eh?’

      ‘I don’t mind. I like buckwheat porridge and cabbage-soup best, but they don’t have those things here.’

      ‘Would you like Buckwheat à la Russe?’ said the Tartar, stooping over Levin like a nurse over a child.

      ‘No — joking apart, whatever you choose will suit me, I’ve been skating and I’m hungry! Don’t think that I do not appreciate your choice,’ he added, noticing a dissatisfied look on Oblonsky’s face. ‘I shall be glad of a good dinner.’

      ‘I should think so! Say what you like, it is one of the pleasures of life!’ said Oblonsky. ‘Well then, my good fellow, bring us two — or that will be too little, … three dozen oysters, and vegetable soup …’

      ‘Printanier,’ chimed in the waiter.

      But Oblonsky evidently did not wish to give him the pleasure of calling the dishes by their French names.

      ‘… vegetable, you know. Then turbot with thick sauce; then … roast beef (and mind it’s good!); and then capon, shall we say? Yes. And stewed fruit.’

      The waiter, remembering Oblonsky’s way of calling the items on the French menu by their Russian names, did not repeat the words after him, but afterwards allowed himself the pleasure of repeating the whole of the order according to the menu: ‘Potage printanier, turbot, sauce Beaumarchais, poularde à l’estragon, macédoine de fruits …’ and immediately, as if moved by springs, he put down the bill of fare in one cardboard cover, and seizing another containing the wine-list held it out to Oblonsky.

      ‘What shall we have to drink?’

      ‘Whatever you like, only not too much … Champagne!’ said Levin.

      ‘What, to begin with? However, why not? You like the white seal?’

      ‘Cachet blanc,’ chimed in the waiter.

      ‘Yes, bring us that with the oysters, and then we’ll see.’

      ‘Yes, sir, and what sort of table wine?’

      ‘Nuit … no, let’s have the classic Chablis.’

      ‘Yes sir. And your special cheese?’

      ‘Well, yes — parmesan. Or do you prefer some other kind?’

      ‘No, I really don’t care,’ said Levin, unable to restrain a smile.

      The Tartar darted off, his coat-tails flying; and five minutes later rushed in again, with a dish of opened oysters in pearly shells and a bottle between his fingers.

      Oblonsky crumpled his starched napkin and pushed a corner of it inside his waistcoat, then, with his arms comfortably on the table, attacked the oysters.

      ‘Not bad,’ he said, pulling the quivering oysters out of their pearly shells with a silver fork, and swallowing one after another. ‘Not bad,’ he repeated, lifting his moist and glittering eyes now to Levin, now to the Tartar.

      Levin could eat oysters, though he preferred bread and cheese. But it gave him more pleasure to watch Oblonsky. Even the Tartar, who having drawn the cork and poured the sparkling wine into the thin wide glasses was straightening his white tie, glanced with a smile of evident pleasure at Oblonsky.

      ‘You don’t care much for oysters?’ said Oblonsky, emptying his champagne glass — ‘or perhaps you’re thinking of something else. Eh?’

      He wanted Levin to be in good spirits. But Levin, if not exactly in bad spirits, felt constrained. The feelings that filled his heart made him ill at ease and uncomfortable in this restaurant with its private rooms where men took women to dine. Everything seemed offensive: these bronzes, mirrors, gaslights and Tartar waiters. He was afraid of soiling that which filled his soul.

      ‘I? Yes, I am preoccupied — and besides, all this makes me feel constrained,’ he said. ‘You can’t imagine how strange it all seems to me who live in the country, — like the nails of that gentleman I saw at your place.’

      ‘Yes, I noticed that poor Grinevich’s nails interested you greatly,’ said Oblonsky.

      ‘I can’t help it,’ replied Levin. ‘Put yourself in my place — look at it from a country fellow’s point of view! We try to get our hands into a state convenient to work with, and for that purpose we cut our nails and sometimes roll up our sleeves. But here people purposely let their nails grow until they begin to curl, and have little saucers for studs to make it quite impossible for them to use their hands!’

      Oblonsky smiled merrily.

      ‘Yes, it is a sign that rough work is unnecessary to him. He works with his mind …’

      ‘Possibly; but still it seems to me strange that while we country people try to get over our meals as quickly as we can, so as to be able to get on with our work, here you and I try to make our meal last as long as possible, and therefore eat oysters.’

      ‘Well, of course,’ said Oblonsky. ‘The aim of civilization is to enable us to get enjoyment out of everything.’

      ‘Well, if that is its aim, I’d rather be a savage.’

      ‘You are a savage as it is. All you Levins are savages.’

      Levin sighed. He remembered his brother Nicholas and frowned, feeling ashamed and distressed; but Oblonsky started a subject which at once distracted his thoughts.

      ‘Well, are you going to see our people tonight? The Shcherbatskys, I mean,’ he said, pushing away the rough and now empty oyster shells and drawing the cheese toward him, while his eyes glittered significantly.

      ‘Yes, certainly I shall go. Though the Princess appeared to ask me rather unwillingly.’

      ‘Not a bit of it! What humbug! It’s just her manner … Come, bring us that soup, my good fellow! … It’s her grande dame manner,’ said Oblonsky. ‘I shall come too, but I must first go to a musical rehearsal at the Countess Bonin’s. What a strange fellow you are, though! How do you explain your sudden departure from Moscow? The Shcherbatskys asked me again and again, just as if I ought to know all about you. Yet all I know is that you never do things as anyone else does!’

      ‘Yes,’ said Levin slowly and with agitation. ‘You are right, I am a savage. Only my savagery lies not in having gone away then, but rather in having come back now. I have now come …’

      ‘Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!’ interrupted Oblonsky, looking straight into his eyes.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘ “Fiery steeds by” something “brands

      I can always recognize;

      Youths in love at once I know,

      By the look that lights their eyes!” ’

      declaimed Oblonsky. ‘You have everything before you!’

      ‘And you — have you everything behind you?’

      ‘No, not behind me, but you have the future and I have the present; and even that only half-and-half!’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Oh, things are rather bad… . However, I don’t want to talk about myself, and besides it’s impossible to explain everything,’ said Oblonsky. ‘Well, and why have you come to Moscow? … Here, take this away!’ he shouted to the Tartar.

      ‘Don’t you guess?’ answered Levin, the light shining deep in his eyes as he gazed steadily at Oblonsky.

      ‘I do, but I can’t begin to speak about it, — by which you can judge whether my guess is right or wrong,’ said Oblonsky, looking at him with a subtle smile.

      ‘Well, and what do you say to it?’ asked Levin with a trembling voice,

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