 War and Peace, Book 9, Chapter 21, read for LibriVox.org by Andrew Coleman. After the definite refusal he had received, Petia went to his room, and there locked himself in and wept bitterly. When he came into tea, silent, morose, and with tear-stained face, everybody pretended not to notice anything. Next day the emperor arrived in Moscow, and several of the Rostov's domestic serfs begged permission to go to have a look at him. That morning Petia was a long time dressing and arranging his hair and collar to look like a grown-up man. He frowned before his looking-glass, gesticulated, shrugged his shoulders, and finally, without saying a word to any one, took his cap and left the house by the back door, trying to avoid notice. Petia had decided to go straight to where the emperor was, and to explain frankly to some gentlemen in waiting, he imagined the emperor to be always surrounded by gentlemen in waiting, that he, Count Rostov, in spite of his youth, wished to serve his country, that youth could be no hindrance to loyalty, and that he was ready to, while dressing, Petia had prepared many fine things he meant to say to the gentlemen in waiting. It was on the very fact of being so young, that Petia accounted for success in reaching the emperor. He even thought how surprised everyone would be at his youthfulness, and yet in the arrangement of his collar and hair, and by his sedate deliberate walk, he wished to appear a grown-up man. But the further he went, and the more his attention was diverted by the ever-increasing crowds moving towards the Kremlin, the less he remembered to walk with the sedateness and liberation of a man. As he approached the Kremlin, he even began to avoid being crushed, and resolutely stuck out his elbows in a menacing way. But within the Trinity gateway, he was so pressed to the wall by people who probably were unaware of the patriotic intentions with which he had come, that in spite of all his determination he had to give in, and stop while carriages passed in, rumbling beneath the archway. Beside Petia stood a peasant woman, a footman, two tradesmen, and a discharged soldier. After standing some time in the gateway, Petia tried to move forward in front of the others without waiting for all the carriages to pass, and he began resolutely working his way with his elbows. But the woman just in front of him, who was the first against whom he directed his efforts, angrily shouted at him, What are you shoving for, young Lord Ling? Don't you see we're all standing still? Then why push? Anybody can shove! said the footman, and also began working his elbows to such effect that he pushed Petia into a very filthy corner of the gateway. Petia wiped his perspiring face with his hands, and pulled up the damp collar though, which he had arranged so well at home to seem like a man's. He felt that he no longer looked presentable, and feared that if he presented himself to the gentleman in waiting in that plight he would not be admitted to the emperor. But it was impossible to smarten oneself up, or move to another place, because of the crowd. One of the generals who drove past was an acquaintance of the Rostovs, and Petia thought of asking his help, but came to the conclusion that that would not be a manly thing to do. When the carriages had all passed in, the crowd, carrying Petia with it, streamed forward into the Kremlin Square, which was already full of people. There were people not only in the square, but everywhere, on the slopes and on the roofs. As soon as Petia found himself in the square, he clearly heard the sound of the bells, and the joyous voices of the crowd that filled the whole Kremlin. For a while the crowd was less dense, but suddenly all heads were bared, and everyone rushed forward in one direction. Petia was being pressed so that he could scarcely breathe, and everybody shouted, Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Petia stood on tiptoe, and pushed and pinched, but could see nothing except the people about him. All the faces bore the same expression of excitement and enthusiasm. A tradesman's wife standing beside Petia sobbed, and the tears ran down her cheeks. Father, angel, dear one! She kept repeating, wiping away her tears with her fingers. Hurrah! Was heard on all sides. For a moment the crowd stood still, but then it made another rush forward. Right beside himself, Petia, clenching his teeth and rolling his eyes ferociously, pushed forward, elbowing his way, and shouting Hurrah! As if he were prepared that instant to kill himself and everyone else. But on both sides of him, other people with similarly ferocious faces, pushed forward, and everybody shouted Hurrah! So this is what the emperor is, thought Petia. No, I can't petition him myself. That would be too bold. But in spite of this, he continued to struggle desperately forward, and from between the backs of those in front he caught glimpses of an open space with a strip of red cloth spread out on it. But just then the crowd swayed back. The police in front were pushing back those who had pressed too close to the procession. The emperor was passing from the palace to the cathedral of the assumption, and Petia unexpectedly received such a blow on his side and ribs, and was squeezed so hard that suddenly everything grew dim before his eyes, and he lost consciousness. When he came to himself, a man of clerical appearance, with a tuft of grey hair at the back of his head, and wearing a shabby blue cassock, probably a church clerk and chanter, was holding him under the arm with one hand, while warding off the pressure of the crowd with the other. You've crushed the young gentleman, said the clerk. What are you up to? Gently. They've crushed him, crushed him. The emperor entered the cathedral of the assumption. The crowd spread out again more evenly, and the clerk led Petia, pale and breathless, to the czar cannon. Several people were sorry for Petia, and suddenly a crowd turned towards him, and crushed round him. Those who stood nearest, attended to him, unbuttoned his coat, seated him on the raised platform of the cannon, and who approached those others, whoever they might be, who had crushed him. One might easily get killed that way. What do they mean by it? Killing people! Poor dear! He's as white as a sheet. Various voices were heard saying. Petia soon came to himself. The colour returned to his face. The pain had passed, and at the cost of that temporary unpleasantness, he had obtained a place by the cannon, from where he hoped to see the emperor, who would be returning that way. Petia no longer thought of presenting his petition. If he could only see the emperor, he would be happy. While the service was proceeding in the cathedral of the assumption, it was a combined service of prayer on the occasion of the emperor's arrival, and of thanksgiving for the conclusion of peace with the Turks. The crowd outside spread out, and hawkers appeared, selling kvars, gingerbread, and poppy seed sweets, of which Petia was particularly fond, and ordinary conversation could gain be heard. A tradesman's wife was showing a rent in her shore, and telling how much the shore had cost. Petia was saying that all silk goods had now got dear. The clerk who had rescued Petia was talking to a functionary about the priests who were officiating that day with the bishop. The clerk several times used the word plenary of the service. A word Petia did not understand. Two young citizens were joking with some surf girls who were cracking nuts. All these conversations, especially the joking with the girls, were such as might have had a particular charm for Petia at his age, but they did not interest him now. He sat on his elevation, the pedestal of the canon, still agitated as before by the thought of the emperor, and by his love for him. The feeling of pain and fear he had experienced when he was being crushed, together with that of rapture, still further intensified his sense of the importance of the occasion. Suddenly the sound of a firing of cannon was heard from the embankment to celebrate the signing of peace with the Turks, and the crowd rushed impetuously towards the embankment to watch the firing. Petia too would have run there, but the clerk who had taken the young gentleman under his protection stopped him. The firing was still proceeding when officers, generals, and gentlemen in waiting came running out of the cathedral, and after them others in a more leisurely manner. Caps were again raised, and those who had run to look at the cannon ran back again. At last four men in uniforms and sashes emerged from the cathedral doors. Hurrah! Hurrah! shouted the crowd again. Which is he? Which? asked Petia in a tearful voice of those around him. But no one answered him. Everybody was too excited, and Petia, fixing on one of those four men whom he could not clearly see for the tears of joy that filled his eyes, concentrated all his enthusiasm on him, though it had not been the emperor. Frantically shouted, Hurrah! and resolved that tomorrow, come what might, he would join the army. The crowd ran after the emperor, followed him to the palace, and began to disperse. It was already late, and Petia had not eaten anything, and was drenched with perspiration. Yet he did not go home, but stood with that diminishing, but still considerable, crowd before the palace while the emperor dined. Looking in at the palace windows, expecting he knew not what, and envying alike the notables he saw arriving at the entrance to dine with the emperor, and the court footmen who served at table, glimpses of whom could be seen through the windows. While the emperor was dining, Valuuev, looking out of the window, said, the people are still hoping to see your majesty again. The dinner was nearly over, and the emperor, munching a biscuit, rose and went out onto the balcony. The people, with Petia among them, rushed towards the balcony. Angel, dear one, hurrah, father! cried the crowd, and Petia with it, and again the women and men of weaker mould, Petia among them, wept with joy. A largeish piece of the biscuit the emperor was holding in his hand, broke off, fell on the balcony parapet, and then to the ground. A coachman in a jerkin, who stood nearest, sprang forward, and snatched it up. Four people in the crowd rushed at the coachman. Seeing this, the emperor had a plate full of biscuits brought him, and began throwing them down from the balcony. Petia's eyes grew bloodshot, and still more excited by the danger of being crushed, he rushed at the biscuits. He did not know why, but he had to have a biscuit from the czar's hand, and he felt that he must not give way. He sprang forward, and upset an old woman who was catching at a biscuit. The old woman did not consider herself defeated, though she was lying on the ground. She grabbed at some biscuits, but her hand did not reach them. Petia pushed her hand away with his knee, seized a biscuit, and as if fearing to be too late, again shouted, Harrah! with a voice already hoarse. The emperor went in, and after that the greater part of the crowd began to disperse. There, I said if only we waited, and so it was, was being joyfully said by various people. Happy as Petia was, he felt sad at having to go home, knowing that all the enjoyment of that day was over. He did not go straight home from the Kremlin, but called on his friend Obolenski, who was fifteen, and was also entering the regiment. On returning home Petia announced resolutely and firmly that if he was not allowed to enter the service he would run away. The next day Count Ilya Rostov, though he had not yet quite yielded, went to inquire how he could arrange for Petia to serve, where there would be least danger. End of Chapter 21. War and Peace, Book 9, Chapter 22, read for Librovox.org by Ernst Patinama. Two days later, on the 15th of July, an immense number of carriages were standing outside the Sloboda palace. The great halls were full. In the first were the nobility and gentry in their uniforms. In the second, bearded merchants in full skirted coats of blue cloth and wearing medals. In the nobleman's hall, there was an incessant movement and buzz of voices. The chief magnets sat on high back chairs at a large table under the portrait of the emperor, but most of the gentry was telling about the room. All these nobles, whom Pierre met every day at the club or in their own houses, were in uniform. Some in that of Catherine's day, others in that of emperor Paul, others again in the new uniforms of Alexander's time, or the ordinary uniform of the nobility, and the general characteristic of being in uniform, imparted something strange and fantastic to these diverse and familiar personalities, both old and young. The old men, dim-ight, toothless, bored, sallow and bloated, or gaunt and wrinkled, were especially striking. For the most part, they sat quietly in their places and were silent, or, if they walked about and talked, attached themselves to someone younger. On all these faces, as on the faces of the crowd Petia had seen in the square, there was a striking contradiction, the general expectation of a solemn event, and at the same time, the everyday interests in a Boston card party, Peter the Cook, Zeneide, Dmitriyevna's health, and so on. Pierre was there too, buttoned up since early morning in a nobleman's uniform that had to become too tight for him. He was agitated. This extraordinary gathering, not only of nobles, but also of the merchant class, Les Etats Generaux, stage general, evoked in him a whole series of ideas he had long laid aside, but which were deeply graven in his soul. Thoughts of the Contra Social and the French Revolution. The words that had struck him in the emperor's appeal, that the sovereign was coming to the capital for consultation with his people, strengthened this idea. And imagining that in this direction, something important, which he had long awaited was drawing near, he strode about, watching and listening to conversations, but nowhere finding any confirmation of the ideas that occupied him. The emperor's manifesto was read, evoking enthusiasm, and then all moved about discussing it. Besides the ordinary topics of conversation, Pierre heard questions of where the marshals of the nobility were to stand when the emperor entered, when a bore should be given in the emperor's honor, whether they should group themselves by districts or by whole provinces, and so on. But as soon as the war was touched on, or what the nobility had been convened for, the talk became undecided and indefinite. Then all preferred listening to speaking. A middle-aged man, Hansen Menvirile, in the uniform of a retired naval officer, was speaking in one of the rooms, and a small crowd was pressing around him. Pierre went up to the circle that had formed around the speaker, and listened. Count Ilya Rostov, in a military uniform of Catherine's time, was sauntering with a pleasant smile among the crowd, with all of whom he was acquainted. He too approached that group and listened with a kindly smile and nods of approval, as he always did, to what the speaker was saying. The retired naval man was speaking very boldly, as was evident from the expression on the faces of the listeners, and from the fact that some people, Pierre knew as the meekest and quietest of men, walked away disapprovingly, or expressed disagreement with him. Pierre pushed his way into the middle of the group, listened and convinced himself that the man was indeed a liberal, but of views quite different from his own. The naval officer spoke in a particularly sonorous, musical and aristocratic baritone voice, pleasantly swallowing his arse, and generally slurring his consonants, the voice of a man calling out to his servant, Here bring me my pipe. It was indicative of dissipation and the exercise of authority. What if the Smolensk people have offered to waste military for the Emperor? Are we to take Smolensk as our pattern? If the noble aristocracy of the province of Moscow thinks fit, it can show its loyalty to our sovereign, the Emperor in other ways. Have we forgotten the racing of the militia in the year seven? All that did was to enrich the priests, sons and thieves and robbers. Cantilia Rostov smiled bluntly and nodded approval. And was our militia of any use to the Empire? Not at all. It only ruined our farming, let have another conscription, or our men will return neither soldiers nor peasants and will get only depravity from them. The nobility don't watch their lives. Every one of us will go and wing in more wecoots and sovereign. That was the way he referred to the Emperor. He'd only say the word and we'll all die for him. Added the orator with animation. Cant Rostov smiled watered with pleasure, and he nudged Pierre, but Pierre wanted to speak himself. He pushed forward, feeling stirred, but not yet sure what stirred him or what he would say. Scarcely had he opened his mouth when one of the senators, a man without a tooth in his head with his shrewd though angry expression standing near the first speaker interrupted him. Evidently accustomed to managing debates and to maintaining an argument, he began in low but distinct tones. I imagined, sir, said he, mumbling with his toothless mouth, that we have been summoned here not to discuss whether it's best for the Empire at the present moment to adopt conscription or to call out to militia. We have been summoned to reply to the appeal with which a sovereign the Emperor has honoured us. But to judge what is best conscription for the militia, we can leave to the supreme authority. Pierre suddenly saw an outlet for his excitement. He hardened his heart against the senator who was introducing this set and narrow attitude into the deliberations of the nobility. Pierre stepped forward and interrupted him. He himself did not yet know what he would say, but he began to speak eagerly, occasionally lapsing into French or expressing himself in bookish Russian. Excuse me, Your Excellency. He began. He was well acquainted with the senator, but thought it necessary on this occasion to address him formally. Though I don't agree with the gentleman. He hesitated. He wished to say, mon très honorable préopinant, my very honourable opponent. With the gentleman whom I have not the honour of knowing, I suppose that the nobility have been summoned not merely to express their sympathy and enthusiasm, but also to consider the means by which we can assist our fatherland. I imagine, he went on, warming to a subject, that the Emperor himself would not be satisfied to find in us merely owners of serves whom we are willing to devote to his service and share a canon foot for canon. We are ready to make of ourselves and not to obtain from us any counsel. Many purses withdrew from the circle, noticing the senator's sarcastic smile and a freedom of Pierre's remarks. Only Count Rostov was pleased with him, as he had been pleased with those of the naval officer, the senator, and in general with whatever speech he had last heard. I think that before discussing these questions, Pierre continued, we should ask the Emperor, most respectfully ask His Majesty, to let us know the number of our troops and the position in which our army and our forces now are. And then... But scarcely had Pierre uttered these words before he was attacked from three sides. The most vigorous attack came from an old acquaintance, a Boston player, who had always been well disposed toward him. Stepan Stepanovich Adraxin. Adraxin was in uniform. And whether as a result of the uniform or from some other course, Pierre saw before him quite a different man. With a sudden expression of malevolence on his aged face, Adraxin shouted at Pierre. In the first place, I tell you we have no right to question the Emperor about that. And secondly, if the Russian ability had that right, the Emperor could not answer such a question. The troops are moved according to the enemy's movements and the number of men increases and decreases. Another voice, that of a nobleman of medium height and about 40 years of age, whom Pierre had formerly met at the Gypsies and knew as a bad card player and who, also transformed by his uniform, came up to Pierre, interrupted Adraxin. Yes, and this is not the time for discussing. He continued. But for acting, there is war in Russia. The enemy is advancing to destroy Russia, to desecrate the tombs of our fathers, to carry over wives and children. The nobleman's throat is pressed. We will all arise. Every one of us will go for our father the Tsar. He shouted, rolling his bloodshot eyes. Several approving voices were heard in the crowd. We are Russians and will not grudge our blood in defense of our faith, the throne and the fatherland. We must seize raving if we are sons of our fatherland. We will show Europe how Russia rises to the defense of Russia. Pierre wished to reply, but could not get in a word. He felt that his words, apart from what meaning they conveyed, were less audible than the sound of his opponent's voice. Dandrostov, at the back of the crowd, was expressing approval. Several persons, briskly turning a shoulder to the auditor at the end of a phrase, said, That's right, quite right, just so. Pierre wished to say that he was ready to sacrifice his money, his serves, or himself. Only one ought to know the state of affairs in order to be able to improve it. But he was unable to speak. Many voices shouted and talked at the same time, so that Dandrostov had not time to signify his approval of them all. And a group increased, dispersed, reformed, and then moved with a hum of talk into the largest hall and to the big table. Not only was Pierre's attempt to speak unsuccessful, but he was rudely interrupted, pushed aside, and people turned away from him as from a common enemy. This happened not because they were displeased by the substance of his speech, which had even been forgotten after the many subsequent speeches, but to animate it, the crowd needed a tangible object to love and a tangible object to hate. Pierre became the latter. Many other auditors spoke after the excited nobleman, and all in the same tone. Many spoke eloquently and with originality. Blinka, the editor of the Russian messenger who was recognized, cries of, Author, author, were heard in the crowd, said that hell must be repulsed by hell, and that he had seen a child smiling at lightning flashes and thunderclaps, but we will not be that child. Yes, yes, a thunderclaps was repeated approvingly in the back rows of the crowd. The crowd drew up to the large table at which sat gray-haired or bored 70-year-old magnets, uniformed and besashed, almost all of whom Pierre had seen in their own homes with their buffoons or playing Boston at the clubs. With an incessant humble voices, the crowd advanced to the table. Pressed by the throng against the high backs of the chairs, the auditors spoke one after another and sometimes two together. Those standing behind noticed what the speaker admitted to say and hastened to supply it. Others, in that heat and crush, racked their brains to find some thought and hastened to utter it. The old magnets, whom Pierre knew, sat and turned to look first at one and then at another, and their faces, for the most part, only expressed the fact that they found it very hot. Pierre, however, felt excited and a general desire to show that they were ready to go to all lengths, which found expression in the tones and looks more than in the substance of the speeches infected him too. He did not renounce his opinions, but felt himself in some way to blame and wished to justify himself. I only said that it would be more to the purpose to make sacrifices when we know what is needed, said he, trying to be heard above the other voices. One of the old men nearest to him looked round, but his attention was immediately diverted by an exclamation at the other side of the table. Yes, Bosco will be surrendered. She will be our expiation. Shouted one man. He is the enemy of mankind. Cried another. Allow me to speak. Gentlemen, you are crushing me. End of Chapter 22. Recording by Ernst Patinama, Amsterdam, the Netherlands. War and Peace, Book 9, Chapter 23. Read for LibriVox.org, why I should leave on Malachem. At that moment, Count Rossopchin, with his protruding chin and alert eyes, bearing the uniform all for general with his sash over his shoulder, entered the room, stepping riskily to the front of the crowd of gentry. Our sovereign, the Emperor, will be here in a moment, said Rossopchin. I am straight from the palace. Seeing the position we are in, I think there is little need for discussion. The Emperor has designed to summon us and the merchants. Millions will pull forth from there, he pointed to the merchant's hole, but our business is to supply men and not spare ourselves. That is the least we can do. A conference took place confined to the magnate sitting at the table. The whole consultation passed more than quietly. After all the preceding noise, the sound of their old voices saying one after another, I agree of all variety, I too am of that opinion, and one had even a mournful effect. The Secretary was told to write down the resolution of the Moscow nobility and gentry, that they would furnish ten men fully equipped out of every thousand serves, as a small-end gentry had done. Their chairs made a scraping noise as the gentleman, who had conferred rose with apparent relief, began walking up and down, arm in arm, to stretch their legs and converse in couples. The Emperor! The Emperor! A sudden cry resounded through the halls, and a whole throng hurried to the entrance. The Emperor entered the hall through a broad patch between two lines of nobles. Every face expressed respectful or struck curiosity. Pierre stood rather far off, and could not hear all that the Emperor said. From what he did here, he understood that the Emperor spoke of the danger, threatening the Empire, and of the hopes he plays on the Moscow nobility. He was answered by a voice which informed him of the resolution just arrived at. Gentlemen! said the Emperor, with a quivering voice. There was a rustling among the crowd, and it again subsided, so that Pierre distinctly heard the pleasantly human voice of the Emperor singing with emotion. I never doubted the devotion of the Russian nobles, but today it has surpassed my expectations. I thank you in the name of the Fatherland. Gentlemen! Letters! Act! Time is the most precious!" The Emperor seized speaking, the crowd began pressing round him, and rapturous exclamations were heard from all sides. Yes, most precious, a royal word, said Count Rostov, with a sob. He stood at the back, and though he had heard hardly anything, understood everything in his own way. From the hall of the nobility the Emperor went to that of the Merchants. There he remained about ten minutes. Pierre was among those who saw him come out from the Merchant's hall, with tears of emotion in his eyes. As became known later, he had scarcely begun to address the Merchants before tears gushed from his eyes, and he concluded in a trembling voice. When Pierre saw the Emperor, he was coming out accompanied by two Merchants, one of whom Pierre knew, a fat Odgupchik, the other was Meier, a man with a thin, salam face, and narrow beard. Both were weeping. Tears filled the thin man's eyes, and the fat Odgupchik sobbed outright like a child in cat-repeating,—'Our lives and property, take them, Your Majesty!' As one feeling at the moment was a desire to show that he was ready to go all lengths, and was prepared to sacrifice everything. He now felt ashamed of his speech with its constitutional tenancy, and sought an opportunity of effacing it. Having heard that Count Mamenov was furnishing a regiment, Bezucov had once informed Rostov-Chin that he would give a thousand men of their maintenance. Lord Rostov could not tell his wife of what had passed without tears, and had once consented to Petia's request, and rent himself to enter his name. Next day the Emperor left Moscow. The assembled nobles all took off their uniforms, and settled down again in their homes and clubs, and, not without some groans, gave orders to their stewards about the enrolment, feeling amazed of themselves at what they had done. End of Chapter 23 End of War and Peace, Book 9, by Leo Tolstoy.