Then followed plans and calculations which gave a surprising amount of occupation to both hosts and guests at the coming banquet. One Nikolai went off to a restaurant to order the supper, another elsewhere to order cheese and savouries; our wine invariably came from the famous shop of Deprez. We were no connoisseurs and never soared above champagne; indeed, our youthful palates deserted even champagne in favour of a brand called Rivesaltes Mousseux. I once noticed this name on the card of a Paris restaurant, and called for a bottle of it, in memory of 1833. But alas! not even sentiment could induce me to swallow more than one glass.
The wine had to be tasted before the feast, and as the samples evidently gave great satisfaction, it was necessary to send more than one mission for this purpose.
§5
In this connexion I cannot refrain from recording something that happened to our friend Sokolovski. He could never keep money and spent at once whatever he got. A year before his arrest, he paid a visit to Moscow. As he had been successful in selling the manuscript of a poem, he determined to give a dinner and to ask not only us but such bigwigs as Polevói, Maximovitch, and others. On the day before, he went out with Polezháev, who was in Moscow with his regiment, to make his purchases; he bought all kinds of needless things, cups and even a samovár, and finally wine and eatables, such as stuffed turkeys, patties, and so on. Five of us went that evening to his rooms, and he proposed to open a single bottle for our benefit. A second followed, and at the end of the evening, or rather, at dawn of the next day, it appeared that the wine was all drunk and that Sokolovski had no more money. After paying some small debts, he had spent all his money on the dinner. He was much distressed, but, after long reflexion, plucked up courage and wrote to all the bigwigs that he was seriously ill and must put off his party.
§6
For our “feast of the four birthdays” I wrote out a regular programme, which was honoured by the special attention of Golitsyn, one of the Commissioners at our trial, who asked me if the programme had been carried out exactly.
“À la lettre!” I replied. He shrugged his shoulders, as if his own life had been a succession of Good Fridays spent in a monastery.
Our suppers were generally followed by a lively discussion over a question of the first importance, which was this—how ought the punch to be made? Up to this point, the eating and drinking went on usually in perfect harmony, like a bill in parliament which is carried nem. con. But over the punch everyone had his own view; and the previous meal enlivened the discussion. Was the punch to be set on fire now, or to be set on fire later? How was it to be set on fire? Was champagne or sauterne to be used to put it out? Was the pineapple to be put in while it was still alight, or not?
“While it’s burning, of course! Then all the flavour will pass into the punch.”
“Nonsense! The pineapple floats and will get burnt. That will simply spoil it.”