War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [444]
Pierre wanted to object, but could not say a word. He felt that the sound of his words, regardless of the thought they contained, would be heard less than the sound of the animated nobleman’s words.
Ilya Andreich approved from outside the circle; some briskly turned their shoulders to the orator at the end of each phrase and said:
“Right, right! That’s right!”
Pierre wanted to say that he did not mind donating money, or peasants, or sacrificing himself, but that it was necessary to know the state of affairs in order to help in any way, but he could not speak. Many voices shouted and talked all at once, so that Ilya Andreich had no time to nod to them all; and the group grew in numbers, broke up, came together again, and moved, with a buzz of voices, to the large hall, to the large table. Pierre not only had not succeeded in speaking, he had been rudely interrupted, pushed aside, turned away from as a common enemy. This had happened not because they were displeased with the meaning of what he said—that had been forgotten, after the great number of speeches that followed it—but because, for inspiration, a crowd needs to have a tangible object of love and a tangible object of hatred. Pierre had become the latter. Many orators spoke after the animated nobleman, and they all spoke in the same vein. Many spoke beautifully and originally.
The editor of the Russian Messenger, Glinka, who was recognized (“The writer, the writer!” came from the crowd), said that hell should be repulsed by hell, and that he had seen a child smile at lightning flashes and thunderclaps, but that we were not going to be that child.
“Yes, yes, at thunderclaps!” was repeated approvingly from the back rows.
The crowd came to the large table at which sat the seventy-year-old dignitaries in their uniforms and sashes, gray-haired and bald, almost all of whom Pierre had seen in their homes with their buffoons and in the clubs over Boston. The crowd came to the table, not ceasing to buzz. One after another, and sometimes two together, pressed up against the high backs of the chairs by the pushing crowd behind, the orators spoke. Those standing behind noticed the things that the orator did not say and hastened to say them. Others, in that heat and closeness, racked their brains in search of some sort of thought, and hastily spoke it. The old dignitaries whom Pierre knew sat and glanced now at one, now at another, and their expression for the most part said only that they found it very hot. Pierre, however, felt excited, and the general sense of a wish to show that it was all nothing to us, which was manifested more in sounds and facial expressions than in the meaning of their speeches, communicated itself to him as well. He did not renounce his thoughts, but he felt guilty of something and wanted to vindicate himself.
“I only said that it would be more appropriate if we made donations when we know what’s needed,” he said, trying to outshout the other voices.
The nearest little old man glanced around at him, but was at once distracted by shouting that started at the other end of the table.
“Yes, Moscow will be surrendered! She will be our redeemer!” shouted one.
“He’s the enemy of mankind!” shouted another. “Allow me to speak…Gentlemen, you’re crushing me!…”
XXIII
Just then, stepping briskly through the parting crowd of noblemen, in a general’s uniform, with a sash over his shoulder, with his protruding chin and darting eyes, Count Rastopchin came in.
“The sovereign emperor will be here presently,” said Rastopchin. “I’ve just come from there. I suppose that, in the position in which we find ourselves, there is not much to discuss. The sovereign has deigned to assemble us and the merchants,” said Count Rastopchin. “Millions will pour from there,” he pointed to the merchants’ hall, “and our task is to raise a militia and not spare ourselves…That is the least we can do!”
Deliberations began among the dignitaries sitting at the table. The deliberations all went more than quietly. It even seemed sad