The Torrents Of Spring

ordered with intense care a very lavish luncheon. ‘And at one, the carriage
is to be ready! Do you hear, at one o’clock sharp!’
The head-waiter obsequiously bowed, and cringingly withdrew.
Polozov unbuttoned his waistcoat. From the very way in which he
raised his eyebrows, gasped, and wrinkled up his nose, one could see
that talking would be a great labour to him, and that he was waiting in
some trepidation to see whether Sanin was going to oblige him to use his
tongue, or whether he would take the task of keeping up the conversation
on himself.
Sanin understood his companion’s disposition of mind, and so he did
not burden him with questions; he restricted himself to the most essential.
He learnt that he had been for two years in the service (in the Uhlans!
how nice he must have looked in the short uniform jacket!) that he
had married three years before, and had now been for two years abroad
with his wife, ‘who is now undergoing some sort of cure at Wiesbaden,’
and was then going to Paris. On his side too, Sanin did not enlarge much
on his past life and his plans; he went straight to the principal point –
that is, he began talking of his intention of selling his estate.
Polozov listened to him in silence, his eyes straying from time to time
to the door, by which the luncheon was to appear. The luncheon did appear
at last. The head-waiter, accompanied by two other attendants,
brought in several dishes under silver covers.
‘Is the property in the Tula province?’ said Polozov, seating himself at
the table, and tucking a napkin into his shirt collar.
‘Yes.’
‘In the Efremovsky district … I know it.’
‘Do you know my place, Aleksyevka?’ Sanin asked, sitting down too at
the table.
‘Yes, I know it.’ Polozov thrust in his mouth a piece of omelette with
truffles. ‘Maria Nikolaevna, my wife, has an estate in that neighbourhood…
. Uncork that bottle, waiter! You’ve a good piece of land, only
your peasants have cut down the timber. Why are you selling it?’
‘I want the money, my friend. I would sell it cheap. Come, you might
as well buy it … by the way.’
Polozov gulped down a glass of wine, wiped his lips with the napkin,
and again set to work chewing slowly and noisily.
‘Oh,’ he enunciated at last… . ‘I don’t go in for buying estates; I’ve no
capital. Pass the butter. Perhaps my wife now would buy it. You talk to
her about it. If you don’t ask too much, she’s not above thinking of that…
. What asses these Germans are, really! They can’t cook fish. What could
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