Kabanata Kabanata 71 · 第71章

On that third of March, all the rooms in the English Club were filled

with a hum of conversation, like the hum of bees swarming in springtime.

The members and guests of the club wandered hither and thither, sat,

stood, met, and separated, some in uniform and some in evening dress,

and a few here and there with powdered hair and in Russian kaftáns.

Powdered footmen, in livery with buckled shoes and smart stockings,

stood at every door anxiously noting visitors’ every movement in order

to offer their services. Most of those present were elderly, respected

men with broad, self-confident faces, fat fingers, and resolute gestures

and voices. This class of guests and members sat in certain habitual

places and met in certain habitual groups. A minority of those present

were casual guests—chiefly young men, among whom were Denísov,

Rostóv, and Dólokhov—who was now again an officer in the Semënov

regiment. The faces of these young people, especially those who were

military men, bore that expression of condescending respect for their

elders which seems to say to the older generation, “We are prepared to

respect and honor you, but all the same remember that the future belongs

to us.”

Nesvítski was there as an old member of the club. Pierre, who at his

wife’s command had let his hair grow and abandoned his spectacles,

went about the rooms fashionably dressed but looking sad and dull. Here,

as elsewhere, he was surrounded by an atmosphere of subservience to

his wealth, and being in the habit of lording it over these people, he

treated them with absent-minded contempt.

By his age he should have belonged to the younger men, but by his wealth

and connections he belonged to the groups of old and honored guests, and

so he went from one group to another. Some of the most important old men

were the center of groups which even strangers approached respectfully

to hear the voices of well-known men. The largest circles formed round

Count Rostopchín, Valúev, and Narýshkin. Rostopchín was describing

how the Russians had been overwhelmed by flying Austrians and had had to

force their way through them with bayonets.

Valúev was confidentially telling that Uvárov had been sent from

Petersburg to ascertain what Moscow was thinking about Austerlitz.

In the third circle, Narýshkin was speaking of the meeting of the

Austrian Council of War at which Suvórov crowed like a cock in reply to

the nonsense talked by the Austrian generals. Shinshín, standing close

by, tried to make a joke, saying that Kutúzov had evidently failed to

learn from Suvórov even so simple a thing as the art of crowing like a

cock, but the elder members glanced severely at the wit, making him

feel that in that place and on that day, it was improper to speak so of

Kutúzov.

Count Ilyá Rostóv, hurried and preoccupied, went about in his soft

boots between the dining and drawing rooms, hastily greeting the

important and unimportant, all of whom he knew, as if they were all

equals, while his eyes occasionally sought out his fine well-set-up

young son, resting on him and winking joyfully at him. Young Rostóv

stood at a window with Dólokhov, whose acquaintance he had lately

made and highly valued. The old count came up to them and pressed

Dólokhov’s hand.

“Please come and visit us... you know my brave boy... been together

out there... both playing the hero... Ah, Vasíli Ignátovich...

How d’ye do, old fellow?” he said, turning to an old man who was

passing, but before he had finished his greeting there was a general

stir, and a footman who had run in announced, with a frightened face:

“He’s arrived!”

Bells rang, the stewards rushed forward, and—like rye shaken together

in a shovel—the guests who had been scattered about in different rooms

came together and crowded in the large drawing room by the door of the

ballroom.

Bagratión appeared in the doorway of the anteroom without hat or sword,

which, in accord with the club custom, he had given up to the hall

porter. He had no lambskin cap on his head, nor had he a loaded whip

over his shoulder, as when Rostóv had seen him on the eve of the battle

of Austerlitz, but wore a tight new uniform with Russian and foreign

Orders, and the Star of St. George on his left breast. Evidently just

before coming to the dinner he had had his hair and whiskers trimmed,

which changed his appearance for the worse. There was something naïvely

festive in his air, which, in conjunction with his firm and virile

features, gave him a rather comical expression. Bekleshëv and Theodore

Uvárov, who had arrived with him, paused at the doorway to allow him,

as the guest of honor, to enter first. Bagratión was embarrassed, not

wishing to avail himself of their courtesy, and this caused some delay

at the doors, but after all he did at last enter first. He walked shyly

and awkwardly over the parquet floor of the reception room, not knowing

what to do with his hands; he was more accustomed to walk over a plowed

field under fire, as he had done at the head of the Kursk regiment at

Schön Grabern—and he would have found that easier. The committeemen

met him at the first door and, expressing their delight at seeing such a

highly honored guest, took possession of him as it were, without waiting

for his reply, surrounded him, and led him to the drawing room. It was

at first impossible to enter the drawing room door for the crowd of

members and guests jostling one another and trying to get a good look

at Bagratión over each other’s shoulders, as if he were some rare

animal. Count Ilyá Rostóv, laughing and repeating the words, “Make

way, dear boy! Make way, make way!” pushed through the crowd more

energetically than anyone, led the guests into the drawing room, and

seated them on the center sofa. The bigwigs, the most respected members

of the club, beset the new arrivals. Count Ilyá, again thrusting his

way through the crowd, went out of the drawing room and reappeared a

minute later with another committeeman, carrying a large silver salver

which he presented to Prince Bagratión. On the salver lay some verses

composed and printed in the hero’s honor. Bagratión, on seeing the

salver, glanced around in dismay, as though seeking help. But all eyes

demanded that he should submit. Feeling himself in their power, he

resolutely took the salver with both hands and looked sternly and

reproachfully at the count who had presented it to him. Someone

obligingly took the dish from Bagratión (or he would, it seemed, have

held it till evening and have gone in to dinner with it) and drew his

attention to the verses.

“Well, I will read them, then!” Bagratión seemed to say, and,

fixing his weary eyes on the paper, began to read them with a fixed and

serious expression. But the author himself took the verses and began

reading them aloud. Bagratión bowed his head and listened:

Bring glory then to Alexander’s reign

And on the throne our Titus shield.

A dreaded foe be thou, kindhearted as a man,

A Rhipheus at home, a Caesar in the field!

E’en fortunate Napoleon

Knows by experience, now, Bagratión,

And dare not Herculean Russians trouble...

But before he had finished reading, a stentorian major-domo announced

that dinner was ready! The door opened, and from the dining room came

the resounding strains of the polonaise:

Conquest’s joyful thunder waken,

Triumph, valiant Russians, now!...

and Count Rostóv, glancing angrily at the author who went on reading

his verses, bowed to Bagratión. Everyone rose, feeling that dinner

was more important than verses, and Bagratión, again preceding all the

rest, went in to dinner. He was seated in the place of honor between

two Alexanders—Bekleshëv and Narýshkin—which was a significant

allusion to the name of the sovereign. Three hundred persons took their

seats in the dining room, according to their rank and importance: the

more important nearer to the honored guest, as naturally as water flows

deepest where the land lies lowest.

Just before dinner, Count Ilyá Rostóv presented his son to Bagratión,

who recognized him and said a few words to him, disjointed and awkward,

as were all the words he spoke that day, and Count Ilyá looked joyfully

and proudly around while Bagratión spoke to his son.

Nicholas Rostóv, with Denísov and his new acquaintance, Dólokhov, sat

almost at the middle of the table. Facing them sat Pierre, beside Prince

Nesvítski. Count Ilyá Rostóv with the other members of the committee

sat facing Bagratión and, as the very personification of Moscow

hospitality, did the honors to the prince.

His efforts had not been in vain. The dinner, both the Lenten and the

other fare, was splendid, yet he could not feel quite at ease till the

end of the meal. He winked at the butler, whispered directions to the

footmen, and awaited each expected dish with some anxiety. Everything

was excellent. With the second course, a gigantic sterlet (at sight of

which Ilyá Rostóv blushed with self-conscious pleasure), the footmen

began popping corks and filling the champagne glasses. After the fish,

which made a certain sensation, the count exchanged glances with

the other committeemen. “There will be many toasts, it’s time to

begin,” he whispered, and taking up his glass, he rose. All were

silent, waiting for what he would say.

“To the health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!” he cried, and at the

same moment his kindly eyes grew moist with tears of joy and enthusiasm.

The band immediately struck up “Conquest’s joyful thunder

waken...” All rose and cried “Hurrah!” Bagratión also rose and

shouted “Hurrah!” in exactly the same voice in which he had shouted

it on the field at Schön Grabern. Young Rostóv’s ecstatic voice

could be heard above the three hundred others. He nearly wept. “To the

health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!” he roared, “Hurrah!” and

emptying his glass at one gulp he dashed it to the floor. Many followed

his example, and the loud shouting continued for a long time. When the

voices subsided, the footmen cleared away the broken glass and everybody

sat down again, smiling at the noise they had made and exchanging

remarks. The old count rose once more, glanced at a note lying beside

his plate, and proposed a toast, “To the health of the hero of our

last campaign, Prince Peter Ivánovich Bagratión!” and again his blue

eyes grew moist. “Hurrah!” cried the three hundred voices again,

but instead of the band a choir began singing a cantata composed by Paul

Ivánovich Kutúzov:

Russians! O’er all barriers on!

Courage conquest guarantees;

Have we not Bagratión?

He brings foemen to their knees,... etc.

As soon as the singing was over, another and another toast was proposed

and Count Ilyá Rostóv became more and more moved, more glass was

smashed, and the shouting grew louder. They drank to Bekleshëv,

Narýshkin, Uvárov, Dolgorúkov, Apráksin, Valúev, to the committee,

to all the club members and to all the club guests, and finally to

Count Ilyá Rostóv separately, as the organizer of the banquet. At that

toast, the count took out his handkerchief and, covering his face, wept

outright.