《War And Peace》 Book4 CHAPTER III
by Leo Tolstoy
ON THE 3RD OF MARCH all the rooms of the English Club were full of the hum of
voices, and the members and guests of the club, in uniforms and frock-coats,
some even in powder and Russian kaftans, were standing meeting, parting, and
running to and fro like bees swarming in spring. Powdered footmen in livery,
wearing slippers and stockings, stood at every door, anxiously trying to follow
every movement of the guests and club members, so as to proffer their services.
The majority of those present were elderly and respected persons, with broad,
self-confident faces, fat fingers, and resolute gestures and voices. Guests and
members of this class sat in certain habitual places, and met together in
certain habitual circles. A small proportion of those present were casual
guests—chiefly young men, among them Denisov, Rostov, and Dolohov, who was now
an officer in the Semyonovsky regiment again. The faces of the younger men,
especially the officers, wore that expression of condescending deference to
their elders which seems to say to the older generation, “Respect and deference
we are prepared to give you, but remember all the same the future is for us.”
Nesvitsky, an old member of the club, was there too. Pierre, who at his wife's
command had let his hair grow and left off spectacles, was walking about the
rooms dressed in the height of the fashion, but looking melancholy and
depressed. Here, as everywhere, he was surrounded by the atmosphere of people
paying homage to his wealth, and he behaved to them with the careless,
contemptuous air of sovereignty that had become habitual with him.
In years, he belonged to the younger generation, but by his wealth and
connections he was a member of the older circles, and so he passed from one set
to the other. The most distinguished of the elder members formed the centres of
circles, which even strangers respectfully approached to listen to the words of
well-known men. The larger groups were formed round Count Rostoptchin, Valuev,
and Naryshkin. Rostoptchin was describing how the Russians had been trampled
underfoot by the fleeing Austrians, and had had to force a way with the bayonet
through the fugitives. Valuev was confidentially informing his circle that
Uvarov had been sent from Petersburg to ascertain the state of opinion in Moscow
in regard to Austerlitz.
In the third group Naryshkin was repeating the tale of the meeting of the
Austrian council of war, at which, in reply to the stupidity of the Austrian
general, Suvorov crowed like a cock. Shinshin, who stood near, tried to make a
joke, saying that Kutuzov, it seemed, had not even been able to learn from
Suvorov that not very difficult art of crowing like a cock—but the elder club
members looked sternly at the wit, giving him thereby to understand that even
such a reference to Kutuzov was out of place on that day.
Count Ilya Andreitch Rostov kept anxiously hurrying in his soft boots to and
fro from the dining-room to the drawing-room, giving hasty GREetings to
important and unimportant persons, all of whom he knew, and all of whom he
treated alike, on an equal footing. Now and then his eyes sought out the
graceful, dashing figure of his young son, rested gleefully on him, and winked
to him. Young Rostov was standing at the window with Dolohov, whose acquaintance
he had lately made, and greatly prized. The old count went up to them, and shook
hands with Dolohov.
“I beg you will come and see us; so you're a friend of my youngster's … been
together, playing the hero together out there.… Ah! Vassily Ignatitch … a good
day to you, old man,” he turned to an old gentleman who had just come in, but
before he had time to finish his GREetings to him there was a general stir, and
a footman running in with an alarmed countenance, announced: “He had
arrived!”
Bells rang; the stewards rushed forward; the guests, scattered about the
different rooms, gathered together in one mass, like rye shaken together in a
shovel, and waited at the door of the GREat drawing-room.
At the door of the ante-room appeared the figure of Bagration, without his
hat or sword, which, in accordance with the club custom, he had left with the
hall porter. He was not wearing an Astrachan cap, and had not a riding-whip over
his shoulder, as Rostov had seen him on the night before the battle of
Austerlitz, but wore a tight new uniform with Russian and foreign orders and the
star of St. George on the left side of his chest. He had, obviously with a view
to the banquet, just had his hair cut and his whiskers clipped, which changed
his appearance for the worse. He had a sort of naïvely festive air, which, in
conjunction with his determined, manly features, gave an expression positively
rather comic to his face. Bekleshov and Fyodor Petrovitch Uvarov, who had come
with him, stood still in the doorway trying to make him, as the guest of most
importance, precede them. Bagration was embarrassed, and unwilling to avail
himself of their courtesy; there was a hitch in the proceedings at the door, but
finally Bagration did, after all, enter first. He walked shyly and awkwardly
over the parquet of the reception-room, not knowing what to do with his hands.
He would have been more at home and at his ease walking over a ploughed field
under fire, as he had walked at the head of the Kursk regiment at Schöngraben.
The stewards met him at the first door, and saying a few words of their pleasure
at seeing such an honoured guest, they surrounded him without waiting for an
answer, and, as it were, taking possession of him, led him off to the
drawing-room. There was no possibility of getting in at the drawing-room door
from the crowds of members and guests, who were crushing one another in their
efforts to get a look over each other's shoulders at Bagration, as if he were
some rare sort of beast. Count Ilya Andreitch laughed more vigorously than any
one, and continually repeating, “Make way for him, my dear boy, make way, make
way,” shoved the crowd aside, led the guests into the drawing-room, and seated
them on the sofa in the middle of it. The GREat men, and the more honoured
members of the club, surrounded the newly arrived guests. Count Ilya Andreitch,
shoving his way again through the crowd, went out of the drawing-room, and
reappeared a minute later with another steward carrying a great silver dish,
which he held out to Prince Bagration. On the dish lay a poem, composed and
printed in the hero's honour. Bagration, on seeing the dish, looked about him in
dismay, as though seeking assistance. But in all eyes he saw the expectation
that he would submit. Feeling himself in their power, Bagration resolutely took
the dish in both hands, and looked angrily and reproachfully at the count, who
had brought it. Some one officiously took the dish from Bagration (or he would,
it seemed, have held it so till nightfall, and have carried it with him to the
table), and drew his attention to the poem. “Well, I'll read it then,” Bagration
seemed to say, and fixing his weary eyes on the paper, he began reading it with
a serious and concentrated expression. The author of the verses took them, and
began to read them aloud himself. Prince Bagration bowed his head and
listened.
And save for us our Titus on
the throne!
Be thou our champion and our country's stay!
A noble heart, a
Caesar in the fray!
Napoleon in the zenith of his fame
Learns to his cost
to fear Bagration's name,
Nor dares provoke a Russian foe again,” etc.
etc.
But he had not finished the poem, when the butler boomed out sonorously:
“Dinner is ready!” The door opened, from the dining-room thundered the strains
of the Polonaise: “Raise the shout of victory, valiant Russian, festive sing,”
and Count Ilya Andreitch, looking angrily at the author, who still went on
reading his verses, bowed to Bagration as a signal to go in. All the company
rose, feeling the dinner of more importance than the poem, and Bagration, again
preceding all the rest, went in to dinner. In the place of honour between two
Alexanders— Bekleshov and Naryshkin—(this, too, was intentional, in allusion to
the name of the Tsar) they put Bagration: three hundred persons were ranged
about the tables according to their rank and importance, those of GREater
consequence, nearer to the distinguished guest—as naturally as water flows to
find its own level.
Just before dinner, Count Ilya Andreitch presented his son to the prince.
Bagration recognised him, and uttered a few words, awkward and incoherent, as
were indeed all he spoke that day. Count Ilya Andreitch looked about at every
one in gleeful pride while Bagration was speaking to his son.
Nikolay Rostov, with Denisov and his new acquaintance Dolohov, sat together
almost in the middle of the table. Facing them sat Pierre with Prince Nesvitsky.
Count Ilya Andreitch was sitting with the other stewards facing Bagration, and,
the very impersonation of Moscow hospitality, did his utmost to regale the
prince.
His labours had not been in vain. All the banquet—the meat dishes and the
Lenten fare alike—was sumptuous, but still he could not be perfectly at ease
till the end of dinner. He made signs to the carver, gave whispered directions
to the footmen, and not without emotion awaited the arrival of each anticipated
dish. Everything was capital. At the second course, with the gigantic sturgeon
(at the sight of which Ilya Andreitch flushed with shamefaced delight), the
footman began popping corks and pouring out champagne. After the fish, which
made a certain sensation, Count Ilya Andreitch exchanged glances with the other
stewards. “There will be a GREat many toasts, it's time to begin!” he whispered,
and, glass in hand, he got up. All were silent, waiting for what he would
say.
“To the health of our sovereign, the Emperor!” he shouted, and at the moment
his kindly eyes GREw moist with tears of pleasure and enthusiasm. At that
instant they began playing: “Raise the shout of victory!” All rose from their
seats and shouted “Hurrah!” And Bagration shouted “Hurrah!” in the same voice in
which he had shouted it in the field at Schöngraben. The enthusiastic voice of
young Rostov could be heard above the three hundred other voices. He was on the
very point of tears. “The health of our sovereign, the Emperor,” he roared,
“hurrah!” Emptying his glass at one gulp, he flung it on the floor. Many
followed his example. And the loud shouts lasted for a long while. When the
uproar subsided, the footmen cleared away the broken glass, and all began
settling themselves again; and smiling at the noise they had made, began
talking. Count Ilya Andreitch rose once more, glanced at a note that lay beside
his plate, and proposed a toast to the health of the hero of our last campaign,
Prince Pyotr Ivanovitch Bagration, and again the count's blue eyes were dimmed
with tears. “Hurrah!” was shouted again by the three hundred voices of the
guests, and instead of music this time a chorus of singers began to sing a
cantata composed by Pavel Ivanovitch Kutuzov:
Valour's the pledge of
victory,
We have our Bagrations.
Our foes will all be at our feet,” etc.
etc.
As soon as the singers had finished, more and more toasts followed, at which
Count Ilya Andreitch became more and more moved, and more glass was broken and
even more uproar was made. They drank to the health of Bekleshov, of Naryshkin,
of Uvarov, of Dolgorukov, of Apraxin, of Valuev, to the health of the stewards,
to the health of the committee, to the health of all the club members, to the
health of all the guests of the club, and finally and separately to the health
of the organiser of the banquet, Count Ilya Andreitch. At that toast the count
took out his handkerchief and, hiding his face in it, fairly broke down.
