War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [201]
Count Ilya Andreich Rostov, hurried, preoccupied, paced in his soft boots from dining room to drawing room, greeting in a hasty and perfectly identical manner both important and unimportant persons, all of whom he knew, and, occasionally seeking out his trim, dashing son with his eyes, joyfully rested his gaze on him and winked to him. Young Rostov was standing by the window with Dolokhov, with whom he had recently become acquainted, and whose acquaintance he valued. The old count came up to him and shook Dolokhov’s hand.
“Be so good as to call on us, since you know my fine lad…you’re together there…two heroes…Ah, Vassily Ignatyich…greetings, old boy,” he addressed a little old man who was passing by, but before he finished the greeting everything stirred, and a servant came running with a frightened face and announced: “He’s here!”
There was a ringing of bells; the club stewards rushed forward; scattered through different rooms, the guests, like rye shaken in a shovel, came together in one heap and stopped in the big drawing room by the door to the reception hall.
In the doorway of the anteroom Bagration appeared, without his hat and sword, which, as was customary at the club, he had left with the doorman. He was not in an Astrakhan peaked cap, with a whip over his shoulder, as Rostov had seen him on the eve of the battle of Austerlitz, but in a trim new uniform with Russian and foreign decorations and the star of St. George on his left breast. He had evidently had his hair and side-whiskers trimmed just before the dinner, which changed his physiognomy to its disadvantage. On his face there was something naïvely festive, which, in combination with his firm, manly features, even gave his face a somewhat comical expression. Bekleshov and Fyodor Petrovich Uvarov, who came with him, stopped in the doorway, wishing him, as the main guest, to go ahead of them. Bagration was embarrassed, not wishing to take advantage of their courtesy; a pause in the doorway ensued, and Bagration finally did go ahead of them. He walked over the parquet of the reception hall bashfully and awkwardly, not knowing what to do with his hands; it was easier and more usual for him to walk under bullets over a plowed field, as he had walked ahead of the Kursky regiment at Schöngraben. The stewards met him at the first door, spoke a few words to him about the joy of seeing such a dear guest, and, not waiting for him to reply, and as if taking possession of him, surrounded him and led him to the drawing room. It was impossible to go through the door of the drawing room because of the thronging members and guests, who pressed against each other, trying to get a glimpse of Bagration, as of a rare animal, over each other’s shoulders. Count Ilya Andreich—more energetically than anyone, laughing and repeating, “Allow me, mon cher, allow me, allow me!”—pushed through the crowd, led the guests to the drawing room, and seated them on the middle sofa. The aces, the club’s most respected members, stood around the new arrivals. Count Ilya Andreich, again pushing through the crowd, left the drawing room and came back a moment later with another steward, carrying a large silver platter, which he offered to Prince Bagration. On the platter lay verses composed and printed in honor of the hero. Seeing the platter, Bagration glanced fearfully around, as if looking for help. But all eyes were demanding that he submit. Feeling himself in their power, Bagration resolutely took the platter in both hands and looked angrily and reproachfully at the count who had offered it to him. Someone obligingly took the platter from Bagration’s hands (otherwise he seemed prepared to hold it that way till evening and go to the table with it), and drew his attention to the verses. “Well, so I’ll read them,” Bagration seemed to say, and, fixing his weary eyes on the paper, he began to read with a concentrated and serious look. The author himself took the verses from him and began to read. Prince Bagration