War and Peace
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.
CHAPTER IV
Pierre sat opposite Dólokhov and Nicholas Rostóv. As usual, he ate and
drank much, and eagerly. But those who knew him intimately noticed that
some great change had come over him that day. He was silent all through
dinner and looked about, blinking and scowling, or, with fixed eyes and
a look of complete absent-mindedness, kept rubbing the bridge of his
nose. His face was depressed and gloomy. He seemed to see and hear
nothing of what was going on around him and to be absorbed by some
depressing and unsolved problem.
The unsolved problem that tormented him was caused by hints given by the
princess, his cousin, at Moscow, concerning Dólokhov’s intimacy with
his wife, and by an anonymous letter he had received that morning, which
in the mean jocular way common to anonymous letters said that he saw
badly through his spectacles, but that his wife’s connection with
Dólokhov was a secret to no one but himself. Pierre absolutely
disbelieved both the princess’ hints and the letter, but he feared
now to look at Dólokhov, who was sitting opposite him. Every time
he chanced to meet Dólokhov’s handsome insolent eyes, Pierre felt
something terrible and monstrous rising in his soul and turned quickly
away. Involuntarily recalling his wife’s past and her relations with
Dólokhov, Pierre saw clearly that what was said in the letter might be
true, or might at least seem to be true had it not referred to his wife.
He involuntarily remembered how Dólokhov, who had fully recovered his
former position after the campaign, had returned to Petersburg and come
to him. Availing himself of his friendly relations with Pierre as a boon
companion, Dólokhov had come straight to his house, and Pierre had put
him up and lent him money. Pierre recalled how Hélène had smilingly
expressed disapproval of Dólokhov’s living at their house, and how
cynically Dólokhov had praised his wife’s beauty to him and from that
time till they came to Moscow had not left them for a day.
“Yes, he is very handsome,” thought Pierre, “and I know him. It
would be particularly pleasant to him to dishonor my name and ridicule
me, just because I have exerted myself on his behalf, befriended him,
and helped him. I know and understand what a spice that would add to the
pleasure of deceiving me, if it really were true. Yes, if it were true,
but I do not believe it. I have no right to, and can’t, believe it.”
He remembered the expression Dólokhov’s face assumed in his moments
of cruelty, as when tying the policeman to the bear and dropping them
into the water, or when he challenged a man to a duel without any
reason, or shot a post-boy’s horse with a pistol. That expression
was often on Dólokhov’s face when looking at him. “Yes, he is a
bully,” thought Pierre, “to kill a man means nothing to him. It must
seem to him that everyone is afraid of him, and that must please him.
He must think that I, too, am afraid of him—and in fact I am afraid of
him,” he thought, and again he felt something terrible and monstrous
rising in his soul. Dólokhov, Denísov, and Rostóv were now sitting
opposite Pierre and seemed very gay. Rostóv was talking merrily to his
two friends, one of whom was a dashing hussar and the other a notorious
duelist and rake, and every now and then he glanced ironically at
Pierre, whose preoccupied, absent-minded, and massive figure was a very
noticeable one at the dinner. Rostóv looked inimically at Pierre,
first because Pierre appeared to his hussar eyes as a rich civilian, the
husband of a beauty, and in a word—an old woman; and secondly because
Pierre in his preoccupation and absent-mindedness had not recognized
Rostóv and had not responded to his greeting. When the Emperor’s
health was drunk, Pierre, lost in thought, did not rise or lift his
glass.
“What are you about?” shouted Rostóv, looking at him in an ecstasy
of exasperation. “Don’t you hear it’s His Majesty the Emperor’s
health?”
Pierre sighed, rose submissively, emptied his glass, and, waiting till
all were seated again, turned with his kindly smile to Rostóv.
“Why, I didn’t recognize you!” he said. But Rostóv was otherwise
engaged; he was shouting “Hurrah!”
“Why don’t you renew the acquaintance?” said Dólokhov to Rostóv.
“Confound him, he’s a fool!” said Rostóv.
“One should make up to the husbands of pretty women,” said Denísov.
Pierre did not catch what they were saying, but knew they were talking
about him. He reddened and turned away.
“Well, now to the health of handsome women!” said Dólokhov, and
with a serious expression, but with a smile lurking at the corners of
his mouth, he turned with his glass to Pierre.
“Here’s to the health of lovely women, Peterkin—and their
lovers!” he added.
Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without looking at
Dólokhov or answering him. The footman, who was distributing leaflets
with Kutúzov’s cantata, laid one before Pierre as one of the
principal guests. He was just going to take it when Dólokhov, leaning
across, snatched it from his hand and began reading it. Pierre looked
at Dólokhov and his eyes dropped, the something terrible and monstrous
that had tormented him all dinnertime rose and took possession of him.
He leaned his whole massive body across the table.
“How dare you take it?” he shouted.
Hearing that cry and seeing to whom it was addressed, Nesvítski and the
neighbor on his right quickly turned in alarm to Bezúkhov.
“Don’t! Don’t! What are you about?” whispered their frightened
voices.
Dólokhov looked at Pierre with clear, mirthful, cruel eyes, and that
smile of his which seemed to say, “Ah! This is what I like!”
“You shan’t have it!” he said distinctly.
Pale, with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy.
“You...! you... scoundrel! I challenge you!” he ejaculated, and,