There in the doorway of the ante-room stood the figure of Bagration, without hat or sword, which had been deposited with the hall porter in accordance with club practice. The astrakhan cap and the whip over his shoulder that Rostov had seen him with on the night before the battle of Austerlitz had gone; he now wore a tight new uniform decorated with Russian and foreign medals and the Star of St George on his left breast. He had just had his hair cut and side-whiskers trimmed, obviously with the banquet in mind, but this did nothing for his appearance. He seemed to be in a kind of silly holiday mood which hardly squared with his strong, manly features and made his face look rather ridiculous. Bekleshov and Fyodor Uvarov, who had come with him, stood still in the doorway so that he could go in first as the guest of honour, but an embarrassed Bagration seemed not to want such courtesy. There was a hold-up in the doorway, but eventually Bagration did come in first. He shambled timidly across the parquet floor of the reception-room, not knowing what do with his hands. He would have been more relaxed and more at home walking through a hail of bullets across a ploughed field, as he had done recently at the head of the Kursk regiment at Schöngrabern. The senior members welcomed him at the first door, saying how delightful it was to see such an honoured guest, and before he had time to respond they all but overwhelmed him, encircling him and conducting him towards the drawing-room. The entry then became impossible – no one could get in or out for the crowds of members and guests crushing each other and straining for a look over each other’s shoulders at Bagration, as if he were some rare species of animal. Count Rostov laughed louder than anyone as he called out, ‘Make way for him, dear boy, make way, make way!’ He shoved his way through the crowd, led the guests in and invited them to be seated on a sofa in the middle of the drawing-room. The bigwigs of the club, the most distinguished members, swarmed round the newly arrived guests. Count Rostov elbowed his way back out through the crowd only to reappear a minute later with another senior member bearing a massive silver salver which he then offered to Prince Bagration. On the salver lay a poem, specially composed and printed in honour of the hero. Bagration took one look at the salver and glanced round in alarm, as if appealing for help. But every eye was on him, willing him to submit. In his impotence Bagration seized the dish with both hands, looking daggers at the count who had brought it. Someone helpfully relieved Bagration of the salver for fear that he might hold on to it till bed-time or take it with him to the table, and drew his attention to the poem. ‘Yes, well, I suppose I ought to read it,’ Bagration seemed to say, and with weary eyes glued to the text he started reading with some gravity and close concentration. The author of the poem took it from him and began to read it out loud. Prince Bagration bowed his head and listened.
Sing hymns to Alexander’s age!
Long live upon his throne our Russian Titus!
Our fearsome leader be, and be a righteous sage,
A host at home, afield – a Caesar to incite us!
And then the glad Napoleón
Shall rue the day he crossed swords with Bagratión
And he shall shake with fear and come no more to fight us . . .4
But before he could finish, the major-domo boomed out, ‘Dinner is served!’ and the door opened to the thunderous strains of a polonaise issuing from the dining-room:
Hail the victor! Loud the anthem!
Valiant Russians, sing your joy . . .
Count Rostov glared at the author, who was still reading his poem, and bowed low to Bagration. All the company rose, dinner holding greater appeal than poetry, and went in to dine; once again Bagration led the way. He was placed at the head of the table between two Alexanders, Bekleshov and Naryshkin, a calculated allusion to the name of the Tsar, and three hundred diners took up their places according to rank and importance, with the very important people nearest the distinguished guest, as naturally as water flowing down to find its own level.
Just before dinner Count Rostov had presented his son to the prince. Bagration recognized him and said a few words to him, as bumbling and incoherent as all the other words spoken by him that day. The older count looked around at everyone with pride and joy while Bagration was speaking to his son.
Nikolay Rostov sat down, alongside Denisov and his new acquaintance Dolokhov, almost in the middle of the table. Opposite them sat Pierre with Prince Nesvitsky. The old Count Rostov was sitting with other senior members across from Bagration, a picture of Moscow bonhomie lavishing hospitality on the prince.
