War and Peace

wo days later, on the fifteenth of July, an immense number of carriages
were standing outside the Slobóda Palace.

The great halls were full. In the first were the nobility and gentry in
their uniforms, in the second bearded merchants in full-skirted coats
of blue cloth and wearing medals. In the noblemen’s hall there was
an incessant movement and buzz of voices. The chief magnates sat on
high-backed chairs at a large table under the portrait of the Emperor,
but most of the gentry were strolling about the room.

All these nobles, whom Pierre met every day at the Club or in their own
houses, were in uniform—some in that of Catherine’s day, others in that
of Emperor Paul, others again in the new uniforms of Alexander’s time or
the ordinary uniform of the nobility, and the general characteristic
of being in uniform imparted something strange and fantastic to these
diverse and familiar personalities, both old and young. The old men,
dim-eyed, toothless, bald, sallow, and bloated, or gaunt and wrinkled,
were especially striking. For the most part they sat quietly in their
places and were silent, or, if they walked about and talked, attached
themselves to someone younger. On all these faces, as on the faces
of the crowd Pétya had seen in the Square, there was a striking
contradiction: the general expectation of a solemn event, and at the
same time the everyday interests in a boston card party, Peter the cook,
Zinaída Dmítrievna’s health, and so on.

Pierre was there too, buttoned up since early morning in a nobleman’s
uniform that had become too tight for him. He was agitated;
this extraordinary gathering not only of nobles but also of the
merchant-class—les états généraux (States-General)—evoked in him a whole
series of ideas he had long laid aside but which were deeply graven in
his soul: thoughts of the Contrat Social and the French Revolution. The
words that had struck him in the Emperor’s appeal—that the sovereign was
coming to the capital for consultation with his people—strengthened this
idea. And imagining that in this direction something important which
he had long awaited was drawing near, he strolled about watching and
listening to conversations, but nowhere finding any confirmation of the
ideas that occupied him.

The Emperor’s manifesto was read, evoking enthusiasm, and then all moved
about discussing it. Besides the ordinary topics of conversation, Pierre
heard questions of where the marshals of the nobility were to stand when
the Emperor entered, when a ball should be given in the Emperor’s
honor, whether they should group themselves by districts or by whole
provinces... and so on; but as soon as the war was touched on, or
what the nobility had been convened for, the talk became undecided and
indefinite. Then all preferred listening to speaking.

A middle-aged man, handsome and virile, in the uniform of a retired
naval officer, was speaking in one of the rooms, and a small crowd was
pressing round him. Pierre went up to the circle that had formed round
the speaker and listened. Count Ilyá Rostóv, in a military uniform of
Catherine’s time, was sauntering with a pleasant smile among the crowd,
with all of whom he was acquainted. He too approached that group and
listened with a kindly smile and nods of approval, as he always did,
to what the speaker was saying. The retired naval man was speaking very
boldly, as was evident from the expression on the faces of the listeners
and from the fact that some people Pierre knew as the meekest and
quietest of men walked away disapprovingly or expressed disagreement
with him. Pierre pushed his way into the middle of the group, listened,
and convinced himself that the man was indeed a liberal, but of views
quite different from his own. The naval officer spoke in a particularly
sonorous, musical, and aristocratic baritone voice, pleasantly
swallowing his r’s and generally slurring his consonants: the voice of
a man calling out to his servant, “Heah! Bwing me my pipe!” It was
indicative of dissipation and the exercise of authority.

“What if the Smolénsk people have offahd to waise militia for the
Empewah? Ah we to take Smolénsk as our patte’n? If the noble awistocwacy
of the pwovince of Moscow thinks fit, it can show its loyalty to our
sov’weign the Empewah in other ways. Have we fo’gotten the waising of
the militia in the yeah ‘seven? All that did was to enwich the pwiests’
sons and thieves and wobbahs....”

Count Ilyá Rostóv smiled blandly and nodded approval.

“And was our militia of any use to the Empia? Not at all! It only wuined
our farming! Bettah have another conscwiption... o’ ou’ men will wetu’n
neithah soldiers no’ peasants, and we’ll get only depwavity fwom them.
The nobility don’t gwudge theah lives—evewy one of us will go and bwing
in more wecwuits, and the sov’weign” (that was the way he referred to
the Emperor) “need only say the word and we’ll all die fo’ him!” added
the orator with animation.

Count Rostóv’s mouth watered with pleasure and he nudged Pierre, but
Pierre wanted to speak himself. He pushed forward, feeling stirred,
but not yet sure what stirred him or what he would say. Scarcely had he
opened his mouth when one of the senators, a man without a tooth in his
head, with a shrewd though angry expression, standing near the first
speaker, interrupted him. Evidently accustomed to managing debates and
to maintaining an argument, he began in low but distinct tones:

“I imagine, sir,” said he, mumbling with his toothless mouth, “that we
have been summoned here not to discuss whether it’s best for the empire
at the present moment to adopt conscription or to call out the militia.
We have been summoned to reply to the appeal with which our sovereign
the Emperor has honored us. But to judge what is best—conscription or
the militia—we can leave to the supreme authority....”

Pierre suddenly saw an outlet for his excitement. He hardened his heart
against the senator who was introducing this set and narrow attitude
into the deliberations of the nobility. Pierre stepped forward and
interrupted him. He himself did not yet know what he would say, but he
began to speak eagerly, occasionally lapsing into French or expressing
himself in bookish Russian.

“Excuse me, your excellency,” he began. (He was well acquainted with
the senator, but thought it necessary on this occasion to address him
formally.) “Though I don’t agree with the gentleman...” (he hesitated:
he wished to say, “Mon très honorable préopinant”—“My very honorable
opponent”) “with the gentleman... whom I have not the honor of knowing,
I suppose that the nobility have been summoned not merely to express
their sympathy and enthusiasm but also to consider the means by which
we can assist our Fatherland! I imagine,” he went on, warming to his
subject, “that the Emperor himself would not be satisfied to find in us
merely owners of serfs whom we are willing to devote to his service, and
chair à canon * we are ready to make of ourselves—and not to obtain from
us any co-co-counsel.”

* “Food for cannon.”

Many persons withdrew from the circle, noticing the senator’s sarcastic
smile and the freedom of Pierre’s remarks. Only Count Rostóv was pleased
with them as he had been pleased with those of the naval officer, the
senator, and in general with whatever speech he had last heard.

“I think that before discussing these questions,” Pierre continued, “we
should ask the Emperor—most respectfully ask His Majesty—to let us know
the number of our troops and the position in which our army and our
forces now are, and then...”

But scarcely had Pierre uttered these words before he was attacked from
three sides. The most vigorous attack came from an old acquaintance,
a boston player who had always been well disposed toward him, Stepán
Stepánovich Adráksin. Adráksin was in uniform, and whether as a result
of the uniform or from some other cause Pierre saw before him quite a
different man. With a sudden expression of malevolence on his aged face,
Adráksin shouted at Pierre:

“In the first place, I tell you we have no right to question the Emperor
about that, and secondly, if the Russian nobility had that right, the
Emperor could not answer such a question. The troops are moved
according to the enemy’s movements and the number of men increases and
decreases....”

Another voice, that of a nobleman of medium height and about forty years
of age, whom Pierre had formerly met at the gypsies’ and knew as a bad
cardplayer, and who, also transformed by his uniform, came up to Pierre,
interrupted Adráksin.

“Yes, and this is not a time for discussing,” he continued, “but for
acting: there is war in Russia! The enemy is advancing to destroy
Russia, to desecrate the tombs of our fathers, to carry off our wives
and children.” The nobleman smote his breast. “We will all arise,
everyone of us will go, for our father the Tsar!” he shouted, rolling
his bloodshot eyes. Several approving voices were heard in the crowd.
“We are Russians and will not grudge our blood in defense of our faith,
the throne, and the Fatherland! We must cease raving if we are sons of
our Fatherland! We will show Europe how Russia rises to the defense of
Russia!”

Pierre wished to reply, but could not get in a word. He felt that his
words, apart from what meaning they conveyed, were less audible than the
sound of his opponent’s voice.

Count Rostóv at the back of the crowd was expressing approval; several
persons, briskly turning a shoulder to the orator at the end of a
phrase, said:

“That’s right, quite right! Just so!”

Pierre wished to say that he was ready to sacrifice his money, his
serfs, or himself, only one ought to know the state of affairs in
order to be able to improve it, but he was unable to speak. Many voices
shouted and talked at the same time, so that Count Rostóv had not time
to signify his approval of them all, and the group increased, dispersed,
re-formed, and then moved with a hum of talk into the largest hall and
to the big table. Not only was Pierre’s attempt to speak unsuccessful,
but he was rudely interrupted, pushed aside, and people turned away
from him as from a common enemy. This happened not because they were
displeased by the substance of his speech, which had even been forgotten
after the many subsequent speeches, but to animate it the crowd needed a
tangible object to love and a tangible object to hate. Pierre became the
latter. Many other orators spoke after the excited nobleman, and all in
the same tone. Many spoke eloquently and with originality.

Glínka, the editor of the Russian Messenger, who was recognized (cries
of “author! author!” were heard in the crowd), said that “hell must be
repulsed by hell,” and that he had seen a child smiling at lightning
flashes and thunderclaps, but “we will not be that child.”

“Yes, yes, at thunderclaps!” was repeated approvingly in the back rows
of the crowd.

The crowd drew up to the large table, at which sat gray-haired or bald
seventy-year-old magnates, uniformed and besashed, almost all of whom
Pierre had seen in their own homes with their buffoons, or playing
boston at the clubs. With an incessant hum of voices the crowd advanced
to the table. Pressed by the throng against the high backs of the
chairs, the orators spoke one after another and sometimes two together.
Those standing behind noticed what a speaker omitted to say and hastened
to supply it. Others in that heat and crush racked their brains to find
some thought and hastened to utter it. The old magnates, whom Pierre
knew, sat and turned to look first at one and then at another, and their
faces for the most part only expressed the fact that they found it very
hot. Pierre, however, felt excited, and the general desire to show that
they were ready to go to all lengths—which found expression in the tones
and looks more than in the substance of the speeches—infected him too.
He did not renounce his opinions, but felt himself in some way to blame
and wished to justify himself.

“I only said that it would be more to the purpose to make sacrifices
when we know what is needed!” said he, trying to be heard above the
other voices.

One of the old men nearest to him looked round, but his attention was
immediately diverted by an exclamation at the other side of the table.

“Yes, Moscow will be surrendered! She will be our expiation!” shouted
one man.

“He is the enemy of mankind!” cried another. “Allow me to speak....”
“Gentlemen, you are crushing me!...”