الفصل الفصل 189 · 第189章

Two 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!...”