Pierre was walking around the drawing-room, oblivious to Petya.
The boy plucked him by the sleeve to attract his attention.
‘Hey, Pyotr Kirilych, talk to me about my plan, for heaven’s sake! You’re my only hope,’ said Petya.
‘Oh yes, your plan . . . Going into the hussars . . . I will mention it. Yes, I’ll mention it today . . .’
‘Well now, my dear fellow, did you get the manifesto?’ asked the old count. ‘My little countess has been to church at the Razumovskys’. She heard the new prayer. Very nice too, she says.’
‘Yes, I did,’ answered Pierre. ‘The Tsar’s coming here tomorrow . . . There’s to be an extraordinary meeting of the nobility and a new levy – ten men per thousand, they say. Oh, by the way, my congratulations.’
‘Yes, indeed, thank God. Well, any news from the army?’
‘Our boys are in retreat again. They are just outside Smolensk, they say,’ answered Pierre.
‘Oh Lord! Oh Lord!’ said the count. ‘Where’s the manifesto?’
‘The Tsar’s appeal? Oh yes!’ Pierre went through his pockets looking for the papers, but he couldn’t find them. Still patting his pockets, he kissed the countess’s hand as she came in, and looked round anxiously, evidently expecting Natasha, who had stopped singing by now but hadn’t come through into the drawing-room.
‘Good heavens, I don’t know what I’ve done with it,’ he said.
‘There you are, he’s always losing things,’ said the countess.
Natasha came in. Her face had softened but she still looked worried as she sat down, without a word, watching Pierre. The moment she had come into the room Pierre’s face, a picture of gloom, had lit up, and although he went on scrabbling for the documents, he stole several glances at her.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’ll go back home. That’s where I must have left them. No doubt about it . . .’
‘But you’ll be late for dinner.’
‘Oh dear! The driver’s gone.’
But Sonya had gone back into the vestibule to look for the papers and found them in Pierre’s hat, where he had studiously tucked them under the lining. Pierre set about reading them.
‘No, no. After dinner,’ said the old count, who was obviously looking forward to the reading as a great treat.
At dinner they drank champagne and toasted the new chevalier of St George, and Shinshin told them the latest city gossip – an old Georgian princess had fallen ill, Métivier had disappeared from Moscow, and some German had been dragged before Rostopchin by the people, who claimed he was a French spy. According to Count Rostopchin they were calling him a
‘There are so many arrests,’ said the count. ‘I keep telling the countess not to speak French so much. It’s not the right time.’
‘And have you heard the latest?’ said Shinshin. ‘Prince Golitsyn’s hired a Russian teacher – he’s learning Russian.’
‘It’s getting dangerous to speak French in the streets,’ he added – in French.
‘Well, Count Pyotr Kirilych, if there’s a general call-up we’ll have to get you on a horse, won’t we?’ said the old count to Pierre.
Pierre had been quiet and pensive throughout dinner. Faced with this question he just stared at the count as if he couldn’t understand what he was saying.
‘Yes, yes, everybody’s off to the war,’ he said. ‘No! A fine soldier I’d make! And yet you know, it’s all so strange, so strange! Well, I can’t understand it. I don’t know, I’ve no taste for the military life, but nowadays nobody can answer for himself.’
After dinner the count settled down in a comfortable chair, took on a serious air and asked Sonya, who was thought to be a very good reader, to read the Tsar’s appeal.
‘To Moscow, our foremost capital city.
‘The enemy has crossed our frontiers with huge forces. He comes to lay waste our beloved country . . .’
Sonya’s thin little voice rang out. She was reading with close concentration. The count was listening with his eyes closed, sighing heavily at certain passages.
Natasha, bolt upright, directed searching looks at her father and Pierre.
Pierre felt her eyes on him and had to struggle to stop himself looking round. The countess looked angry and censorious, shaking her head at the manifesto’s every solemn pronouncement. In all these words she could see only one thing: the danger menacing her son would not soon be over. Shinshin had twisted his lips into a sardonic smile and was obviously getting ready to make a joke when the first suitable opportunity came along – at the expense of Sonya’s reading, the count’s next comment, even the manifesto itself if no better chance came up.
After reading about the dangers threatening Russia, the hopes invested by the Tsar in Moscow, and especially its illustrious nobility, Sonya came to the concluding words and read them with a quavering voice due mainly to the close attention being paid by all the listeners:
