War And Peace полностью

The Tsar’s manifesto was read out to enthusiastic applause, and then they all scattered about the rooms deep in conversation. Apart from everyday chit-chat, Pierre heard deliberations about where the marshals would have to stand when the Tsar came in, the best time to put on a ball for the Tsar, whether they should be broken down by districts or act together as a province, and so on. But the moment anyone so much as touched on the war and the purpose of their meeting, everything became vague and uncertain. Everyone, it seemed, would sooner listen than speak.

In one of the rooms a middle-aged man cutting a handsome, virile figure in his retired naval officer’s uniform was holding forth to a little crowd that had gathered round him. Pierre moved over to the growing circle, and listened to the speaker. Count Ilya Rostov, wearing a uniform from the days of Catherine, had been sauntering about beaming at all and sundry, since he knew everyone, but now he too came over to this group and lent an ear with a pleasant smile on his face, as always when he was listening, nodding with approval when he agreed with the speaker. The retired naval officer was coming out with some outrageous things, as was evident from the listeners’ faces and the fact that some people Pierre knew to be meek and timid souls were recoiling in disapproval or standing up to him. Pierre gradually elbowed his way into the middle of the circle, listening closely, and got the impression the speaker was a true liberal, but not in the sense that Pierre was interested in. The naval officer had the strong, melodious baritone of a Russian nobleman, with the pleasant addition of a guttural French r and slurred consonants, the kind of voice you hear when men shout, ‘Be a good fe’ow, bwing me a pipe!’ and phrases like that. His tone suggested an easy authority and long experience of the good life.

‘What if the peopuh of Smolensk have offahd to waise militia for the Empewah? Are the peopuh of Smolensk going to lay down the law fow us? If the good noble peopuh of the Moscow pwovince think fit, they can show their loyalty to the Empewah by othah means. Have we fo’gotten the militia of 1807? Only the pwiests’ sons and thieves and wobbahs made any money out of that . . .’

Count Ilya Rostov smiled his bland smile and nodded in approval.

‘And was ah militia any good to the state? Not the swightest! Bwought the wuwal economy to wack and wuin. Bwing back conscwiption, that’s what I say . . . othahwise a man comes back to you neithah soldiah no’ peasant, nothing but only a mowal weck. We nobuhls are pwepared to wisk our lives. Evwy man jack of us will dwum up wecwuits. One word fwom our sov’weign and we’ll go out and die for him,’ added the orator, warming to his theme.

Count Rostov was drooling with pleasure, and he nudged Pierre, but Pierre wanted to speak too. He moved forward, full of excitement, without knowing why he was excited or what he was going to say. He opened his mouth to launch forth, only to be interrupted by a wily, crotchety senator without a tooth in his head, standing near to the orator. Obviously a veteran of the debating chamber well accustomed to formulating an argument, he spoke out in a low, clear voice.

‘I would imagine, my dear sir,’ said the senator, his toothless mouth champing, ‘that we have been summoned here not to discuss the relative merits of conscription and the militia for our country today. We have been summoned to make a response to the appeal graciously placed before us by our sovereign the Emperor. As to the decision between conscription and the militia – we can leave that to a higher authority . . .’

Suddenly Pierre had found a target for all his excitement. He was furious with the senator for taking such a pernickety and narrow-minded view of the nobility and what they were being asked to do. Pierre stepped forward and stopped him in his tracks. Without actually knowing what he was going to say, he launched forth in rather bookish Russian, with the occasional lapse into French.

‘Excuse me, your Excellency,’ he began. (Pierre was well acquainted with this senator, but on this occasion he felt it best to address him formally.) ‘Although I don’t agree with this gentleman . . .’ (Pierre hesitated, on the point of referring to him as ‘the honourable previous speaker’) ‘with this gentleman – I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir – but I would imagine that those of us who are of noble estate, apart from any expression of sympathy and zeal for the cause, have also been convened to consider what measures we can take to assist our country. I would imagine,’ said Pierre, warming to his task, ‘that the Tsar himself would not be too pleased to find us being nothing more than the owners of peasants whom we have given up to him, and er, cannon-fodder . . . sort of . . . that we are willing to be – instead of finding us full of good c . . . cou . . . counsel.’