They all drifted over towards the large table where the bald grey-bearded seventy-year-olds sat decked out in their uniforms and decorations. Pierre had seen virtually all of these men at home with their personal buffoons, if not playing boston at the club. The crowd advanced to the table, still with no lapse in the buzz of conversation. Various speakers, squashed up against the high chair-backs by the surging crowd, were holding forth one after the other and sometimes two at a time. Those at the back noted what the speaker had not managed to say and lost no time filling the gaps. Others, suffering in the heat and the crush, were racking their brains in search of any idea that could be blurted out. The bigwigs with familiar faces sitting at the table kept looking round at each other, and in most cases the expressions on those faces all said the same thing – they were feeling the heat. Pierre, however, was feeling all worked up; even he had caught the general mood, the urge to demonstrate that they could take anything in their stride, a mood that expressed itself in tone and attitude rather than in the meaning of anything said. He was sticking to his own ideas but he still felt somehow in the wrong, and he was keen to defend himself.
‘All I said was – we could make better sacrifices when we know what the needs are,’ he announced to the world, trying to shout the others down.
One old man sitting near by looked round, only to be immediately distracted by an outburst at the other end of the table.
‘Yes, Moscow will fall! It’s the price we’ll have to pay!’ came one voice.
‘He’s the enemy of mankind!’ came another.
‘If I could just say . . .’
‘Gentlemen, you’re squashing me! . . .’
CHAPTER 23
At that moment the crowd parted and Count Rostopchin, with his jutting chin and sharp eyes, came bustling in dressed in a general’s uniform with a sash over his shoulder.
‘Our sovereign the Emperor will be here immediately,’ said Rostopchin. ‘I have just come from him. I am assuming that, given our present situation, there is not much to discuss. The Emperor has graciously seen fit to summon us along with the merchants,’ said Count Rostopchin. ‘Millions will flow from that quarter.’ He pointed to the merchants’ hall. ‘Our task is to raise men and not spare ourselves . . . It’s the least we can do.’
The only consultation was with the bigwigs at the table. To say it was conducted quietly would be an understatement; the atmosphere was positively lugubrious when, after the racket that had gone before, all that could be heard were a few old men’s voices reciting one at a time, ‘Yes, I agree,’ or, just to be different, ‘Yes, I’m of the same opinion.’
The secretary was instructed to write down the resolution of the Moscow nobility, to wit: the nobles of Moscow, like those of Smolensk, shall furnish a levy of ten men per thousand serfs, fully kitted out.
The gentlemen got to their feet with an air of relief when the session was over, scraped their chairs back and strolled round the room, stretching their legs, taking their friends by the arm and having a good chat.
‘The Tsar! The Tsar!’ came the sudden call through every room, and the whole crowd swarmed towards the entrance.
The Tsar walked in down a wide aisle formed by two lines of noblemen. Every face was a picture of reverence mixed with alarm and curiosity. Pierre was some way away, and he couldn’t quite catch everything said by the Tsar. He could tell from what he did hear that the Tsar was speaking of the danger that threatened the empire, and his great faith in the Moscow nobility. In response another voice informed the Tsar of the resolution just passed by the assembly.
‘Gentlemen!’ The Tsar’s voice trembled as he spoke.
A ripple of anticipation passed through the crowd, then there was silence and Pierre could hear the Tsar quite clearly. He sounded caring, compassionate and deeply emotional as he said:
‘I have never doubted the loyalty of you Russian noblemen. But this day it has surpassed my expectations. I thank you in the name of the fatherland. Gentlemen, we must act! Time is of the essence . . .’
The Tsar stopped talking, everyone crowded in on him, and cries of delight echoed on all sides.
‘Yes indeed, of the essence . . . from the mouth of the Tsar!’ came the sobbing voice of Count Rostov from the back. He hadn’t heard a word, but in his own way he seemed to understand.
