War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [198]
At the beginning of March, the old count Ilya Andreevich Rostov was taken up with arranging a dinner at the English Club in honor of Prince Bagration.
The count walked about the reception hall in his dressing gown, giving orders to the club manager and to the famous Feoktist, the head chef of the English Club, about asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and fish for Prince Bagration’s dinner. The count had been a member and trustee of the club since the day it was founded. He had been charged by the club with arranging the celebration for Bagration, because few men could arrange a feast with such largesse and hospitality, and especially because few men could and would supply their own money, if it was needed to arrange the feast. The chef and the club manager listened to the count’s orders with cheerful faces, because they knew that with him as with no one else could they profit so well from a dinner costing several thousand.
“So, mind you, cock’s-combs, put cock’s-combs in the tortue,*277 you know!”
“Three cold sauces, then?…” the chef asked.
The count pondered.
“Not less than three…mayonnaise, for one,” he said, counting off on his fingers…
“So your orders are to take the big sterlet?” asked the manager.
“No help for it, take the big ones, since that’s what they’ve got. Ah, dear me, I almost forgot! We must have one more entrée on the table. Oh, mercy!” He clutched his head. “Who’s going to bring flowers? Mitenka! Hey, Mitenka! Gallop to the Moscow estate, Mitenka,” he said to the steward, who came in on hearing his call, “gallop to the Moscow estate and tell Maximka the gardener to prepare the corvée now. Tell him to bring the whole conservatory here, wrapped in felt. Two hundred pots must be here by Friday.”
Having given more and more orders of various kinds, he was on his way to rest with his little countess, but remembered another necessary thing, came back himself, brought the chef and the manager back, and again began giving orders. A light male footstep was heard at the door, a jingle of spurs, and the young count came in, handsome, ruddy, with a black little mustache, obviously rested and pampered by his peaceful life in Moscow.
“Ah, my dear fellow! My head is spinning,” said the old man, smiling to his son, as if embarrassed. “You might at least help me! We need singers. I have musicians, but shall we invite some Gypsies? You military folk like that.”
“Really, papa, I think Prince Bagration made less fuss preparing for the battle of Schöngraben than you’re doing now,” the son said, smiling.
The old count pretended to be angry.
“Yes, talk, go ahead!”
And the count turned to the chef, who, with an intelligent and respectful face, glanced at the father and son observantly and affectionately.
“How about these young ones, eh, Feoktist?” he said, “laughing at us old folk.”
“Why, Your Excellency, all they want is to eat well, but putting it all together and serving it is none of their business.”
“Right, right!” cried the count, and, merrily seizing his son by both hands, he cried: “I’ve caught you now! Here’s what to do, take the sleigh and pair and go to Bezukhov, and tell him that the count, Ilya Andreich, sends to ask you for some strawberries and fresh pineapples. One can’t get them from anybody else. If he’s not there himself, go and tell the princesses, and from there go to Razgulyai—Ipatka, the coachman, knows where it is—find Ilyushka the Gypsy2 there, the one who used to dance at Prince Orlov’s, remember, in a white little kaftan, and drag him here to me.”
“Shall I have him bring Gypsy girls?” Nikolai asked, laughing.
“Well, well!…”
Just then Anna Mikhailovna stepped inaudibly into the room, with the business-like, preoccupied, and at the same time meek Christian look that never left her. Though Anna Mikhailovna found the count in his dressing gown every day, he became embarrassed each time and apologized for his costume. He did so now as well.
“Never mind, my dear count,” she said, closing her eyes meekly. “And I’ll go to Bezukhov’s myself,” she said. “Young Bezukhov has arrived,