“What’s needed is action; there is war in Russia. Our foe comes to ruin Russia, to desecrate the tombs of our fathers, to carry away our wives and children.” The gentleman struck himself a blow on the chest. “We will all rise up; we will all go to a man, we will follow our father the Tsar！” he cried, rolling his bloodshot eyes. Several approving voices could be heard in the crowd. “We are Russians and we do not grudge our blood for the defence of our faith, our throne, and our country. But we must put a stop to idle talk, if we are true sons of our fatherland. We will show Europe how Russia can defend Russia！” shouted this gentleman.
Pierre tried to reply, but he could not get in a word. He felt that the sound of his words, apart from any meaning they conveyed, was less audible than the sound of his excited adversary’s voice.
In the rear of the group, Ilya Andreitch was nodding approval; several of the audience turned their shoulders briskly to the orator at the conclusion of a phrase and said：
“That’s so, that’s so, indeed！”
Pierre wanted to say that he was by no means averse to the sacrifice of his money, or his peasants, or himself, but that one ought to know the true position of affairs, in order to be able to assist, but he could not speak.
A number of voices were speaking and shouting together, so much so that Ilya Andreitch had not time to nod approval to all of them. And the group grew larger and broke up into knots, re-formed again, and moved all together with a hum of talk to the big table in the big room. Pierre was not allowed to speak; they rudely interrupted him, indeed hustled him and turned their backs on him as though he were the common foe. This was not really due to their dislike of the tenor of his speech, which they had forgotten, indeed, after the great number of speeches that followed it. But a crowd is always pleased to have a concrete object for its love or its hatred. Pierre furnished it with the latter.
Many orators spoke after the eager nobleman, but all spoke in the same tone. Some spoke eloquently and originally.
The editor of the Russian Messenger, Glinka, who was recognised and greeted with shouts of “the author, the author！” said that hell must be driven back by hell, that he had seen a child smiling at the lightning flash and the thunder clap, but we would not be like that child.
“Yes, yes, at the thunder clap！” was repeated with approval at the back of the crowd.
The crowd approached the great table, where grey or bald old noblemen of seventy were sitting, wearing uniforms and decorations. Almost all of them Pierre had seen with their buffoons in their own homes or playing boston at the club. The crowd drew near the table, still with the same buzz of talk. The orators, squeezed in behind the high chair backs by the surging crowd, spoke one after another and sometimes two at once. Those who stood further back noticed what the speaker had left unsaid and hastened to supply the gap. Others were busy in the heat and crush, ransacking their brains to find some idea and hurriedly uttering it. The old grandees at the table sat looking from one to another, and their expression for the most part betrayed nothing but that they were very hot. Pierre however felt excited, and the general feeling of desire to show that they were ready for anything, expressed for the most part more in tones and looks than in the tenor of the speeches, infected him too. He did not disavow his ideas, but felt somehow in fault and tried to defend himself.
“I only said that we could make sacrifices to better purpose when we know what is needed,” he cried, trying to shout down the other voices.
One old man close by him looked round, but his attention was immediately called off by a shout at the other end of the table.
“Yes, Moscow will be surrendered！ She will be the expiation！” one man was shouting.
“He is the enemy of mankind！” another shouted.
“Allow me to say…”
“Gentlemen, you are crushing me！…”
