CHAPTER 9

LEVIN CURSED, REVIVIFIED HIS beloved-companion, and emptied his glass. The two old friends sat in silence for a time, waiting for Socrates’ circuits to realign. Tea cups clinked elsewhere in the restaurant; a I/Samovar/1(8) burbled in the kitchen; a Class I lumière flickered to life automatically just as the gathering twilight demanded it; off in the distance on the streets outside was the tromp of 77s, the sharp hoot of their Caretaker.

“There’s one other thing I ought to tell you,” said Stepan Arkadyich while they waited. “Do you know Vronsky?”

“No, I don’t. Why do you ask?”

“Give us another bottle,” Stepan Arkadyich directed the II/Server/888 who was filling up their glasses, motoring round them just when he was not wanted. “And then turn off your sensors, will you?” Not needing to watch to make sure the white-jacketed Class II complied, since the Iron Laws demanded obedience to a human’s every order, Stepan Arkadyich freely turned back to Levin to share his secret.

“Why you ought to know Vronsky is that he’s one of your rivals.”

“Who’s Vronsky?” said Levin, and his face was suddenly transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which Oblonsky had just been admiring to an angry and unpleasant expression.

“Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch Vronsky, and one of the finest specimens of the gilded youth of Petersburg. I made his acquaintance in Tver when I was there on official business, and he came there for the levy of recruits. Fearfully rich, handsome, great connections, a hero of the Border Wars, and authorized to carry a hot-whip and a pair of smokers on his belt. And with all that a very nice, good-natured fellow. But he’s more than simply a good-natured fellow, as I’ve found out here—he’s a cultivated man, too, and very intelligent; he’s a man who’ll make his mark.”

Levin scowled and was dumb.

“Well, he turned up here soon after you’d gone, and as I can see, he’s over head and ears in love with Kitty, and you know that her mother . . .”

“Excuse me, but I know nothing,” said Levin, frowning gloomily. And immediately he recollected his ill brother Nikolay and how hateful he was to have been able to forget him.

“You wait a bit, wait a bit,” said Stepan Arkadyich, smiling and touching his hand. “I’ve told you what I know, and I repeat that in this delicate and tender matter, as far as one can conjecture, I believe the chances are in your favor.”

Levin dropped back in his chair; his face was pale.

“But I would advise you to settle the thing as soon as may be,” pursued Oblonsky, filling up his glass.

“No, thanks, I can’t drink any more,” said Levin, pushing away his glass. “I shall be drunk. . . . Come, tell me how are you getting on?” he went on, obviously anxious to change the conversation. He glanced with frustration at Socrates, willing the robot to swiftly revivify, but his beloved-companion’s faceplate remained blank and black.

“One word more: in any case I advise you to settle the question soon. Tonight I don’t advise you to speak,” said Stepan Arkadyich. “Go round tomorrow morning, make an offer in due form, and God bless you. . . .”

At once Levin’s whole soul was full of remorse that he had begun this conversation with Stepan Arkadyich. A feeling such as his was profaned by talk of the rivalry of some Petersburg officer, of the suppositions and the counsels of Stepan Arkadyich. He immediately moved to change the subject.

“Oh, do you still think of coming to me for the Hunt-and-be-Hunted? Come next spring, do,” said Levin.

“I’ll come Hunt some day,” he said. “But women, my boy they’re the pivot everything turns upon. Things are in a bad way with me, very bad. And it’s all through women. Tell me frankly now,” he pursued, lighting the cigar that Small Stiva proffered, and keeping one hand on his glass, “give me your advice.”

“Why, what is it?”

“I’ll tell you. Suppose you’re married, you love your wife, but you’re fascinated by another woman. . . .”

“Excuse me, but I’m absolutely unable to comprehend how . . . just as I can’t comprehend how I could now, after my dinner, go straight to a baker’s shop and steal a roll.”

Stepan Arkadyich’s eyes sparkled more than usual. Suddenly both felt that though they were friends, though they had been dining and drinking together, which should have drawn them closer, each was thinking only of his own affairs, and they had nothing to do with one another. Oblonsky had more than once experienced this extreme sense of aloofness, instead of intimacy, coming on after dinner, and he knew what to do in such cases.

“Bill!” he called, and waited impatiently, patting the table with his hands, before remembering he had demanded the II/Server/888 turn off its sensors.