Many people shuffled away from the circle when they noticed the derisive smile of the senator and Pierre’s outspokenness. Count Rostov was the only person who liked what Pierre said, just as he had liked what the naval officer had said and the senator. He always liked what the last speaker had said.
‘I would imagine that before we get down to discussing these questions,’ Pierre continued, ‘we ought to ask the Emperor, his Majesty, with the greatest respect to communicate to us the numbers of our troops, the positions of our troops and our army, and only then . . .’
These words were hardly out of Pierre’s mouth when he was roundly attacked from three sides at once. The most violent onslaught came from an old and well-disposed acquaintance by the name of Stepan Stepanovich Apraksin, who had often been his partner at boston. But Stepan Stepanovich was in uniform, and because of this or perhaps for some other reason, Pierre saw before him a completely changed man. Stepan Stepanovich yelled at Pierre with an old man’s anger on an old man’s face: ‘In the first place, I’m telling you we have no right to put questions like that to the Emperor, and secondly, if the Russian nobility did have such a right, the Emperor would be in no position to reply. Troop movements depend on enemy manoeuvres. We put men in and we take them out . . .’
Another voice cut across Apraksin. It belonged to a forty-year-old man of medium height known to Pierre from earlier days at the gypsies’ entertainments, when he had been no good at cards. He too was a different man in uniform, and he now moved up closer to Pierre.
‘Anyway, this is no time for deep discussions,’ said this nobleman. ‘Action’s the word! There’s a war on. The enemy’s on the march and he’s coming to destroy Russia, to desecrate the tombs of our fathers, and get our wives and children.’ He thumped himself on the chest. ‘We shall arise. To a man we shall arise and follow our father the Tsar!’ he roared, his eyes bloodshot and rolling. A murmur of approval ran through the group. ‘We are Russians, ready to put our lives on the line for the defence of our faith, our throne, our country. But we must leave off our idle dreaming if we are true sons of our fatherland. We’ll show them in Europe – Russia shall defend Russia!’ roared this gentleman.
Pierre wanted to reply, but he couldn’t get a word out. He could sense that the sound of his words, irrespective of any meaning, would be drowned out by the other’s excited voice.
Count Rostov was nodding in agreement at the back. Some of the listeners had been quick to align themselves shoulder to shoulder with the speaker as he wound up, and there was a chorus of approval: ‘Oh yes. Quite right. Yes indeed!’
Pierre wanted to say that he was by no means averse to sacrificing money, or his peasants, or himself, but you needed to know exactly what was what if you wanted to help . . . but he couldn’t speak.
Voices were yelling and shouting together, too many for Count Rostov to nod to. And the group was continually growing, collapsing and re-forming until at last there came a general surge, accompanied by the buzz of conversation, towards the big table in the big room. Pierre was given no chance to speak. They talked him down, jostled him aside and turned their backs on him as if he was the common enemy, not because they didn’t like what he had said (which had been lost by now in the torrent of further speeches), but because a crowd is always at its liveliest when it has a tangible object to love and another one to hate. Pierre had provided the latter. Many speakers said their piece after that excited gentleman, all in the same tone. There were some very fine and original speeches.
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‘No, no, not when it thunders here!’ came the encouraging noises from the back.
