"No, joking apart, whatever you choose is sure to be good. 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

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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.




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