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By Root 1180 0

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,