On the 3rd of March every room in the English Club was abuzz with conversation and the members and guests, resplendent in uniforms or morning dress, some of them even with powdered hair and wearing Russian kaftans, were like busy bees in springtime, coming and going, sitting and standing, settling together and flying apart. Powdered and liveried footmen wearing stockings and buckled shoes stood at every doorway, anxiously watching for the slightest gesture from a guest or member so they could offer their services. Most of those present were old and distinguished people with beaming, confident faces, podgy fingers, powerful gestures and strong voices. Guests and members at this level of society sat in their own habitual places and came together in their own special little groups. A few of those present were occasional guests – young men for the most part, including Denisov, Rostov and Dolokhov, who had by now been re-commissioned in the Semyonovsky regiment. The younger men’s faces, especially those of the officers, carried a look of ironic deference towards their elders which seemed to say to the members of that generation, ‘We don’t mind offering you respect and deference, but don’t forget – the future belongs to us.’
Nesvitsky was there too, as a member of long standing. Pierre Bezukhov, who had obeyed instructions from his wife to let his hair grow long and abandon his spectacles, was wandering from room to room dressed
Although he belonged in years to the younger generation, his wealth and connections conferred membership of the older circles, which was why he was strolling from one group to another. The groups revolved around the most distinguished of their elder members, and even strangers would sometimes approach these circles, with due deference, in order to hear famous people holding forth. The largest groups had formed round Count Rostopchin, Valuyev and Naryshkin. Rostopchin was describing how the Russians had been overwhelmed by fleeing Austrians and had had to fix bayonets in order to force their way through. Valuyev was informing his circle in strict confidence that Uvarov had been sent down from St Petersburg to gauge opinion in Moscow in regard to Austerlitz.
In the third group Naryshkin was retelling an old story about a meeting of the Austrian council of war at which Suvorov responded to the obtuseness of the Austrian generals by crowing like a cock. Shinshin, standing near by, tried to make a joke out of this by saying that Kutuzov had apparently not even managed to learn from Suvorov the not too demanding art of crowing like a cock, but the elder club members looked askance at him with a clear indication that this kind of joke, even at Kutuzov’s expense, was not the done thing on a day like this.
Count Ilya Rostov scurried about anxiously, sidling in and out of the dining-room and drawing-room in his soft boots, saying a quick hello to everyone indiscriminately, the worthy and the not so worthy, all of whom he knew personally. More than once his eyes sought out the graceful figure of his hero son, lingering on him with great delight and giving him the odd wink. Young Rostov was standing by the window talking to Dolokhov, whose acquaintance he had recently made and greatly prized. The old count went over to them and shook hands with Dolokhov.
‘You must come and see us . . . any friend of my fine boy . . . out there together, doing all those heroic things . . . Ah! Vassily Ignatych . . . my dear fellow, I do hope you’re well . . .’ He had turned to greet an old gentleman who was passing by, but before he could finish there was a general commotion and a distressed footman ran in with an announcement: ‘Our visitor is here!’
Bells rang, the stewards rushed forward and guests who had been scattered about in different rooms scraped themselves together like shovelled rye and stood waiting at the door of the grand drawing-room.
