While waiting for the announcement of his appointment to the committee, Prince Andrew looks up former acquaintances, particularly those in power whose aid he might need. In Petersburg he feels as he once felt on the eve of a battle: anxious curiosity, irresistibly attracted to the ruling circles where the future of millions is being shaped. From the irritation of older men, the curiosity of the uninitiated, the reserve of the initiated, everyone's hurry, and innumerable committees whose existence he learns daily, he feels that in 1809 a vast civil conflict is in preparation, its commander in chief a mysterious person supposed to be a man of genius, Speránski. Reconstruction begins to interest him so keenly that army regulations recede to second place. He is well placed in the highest and most diverse circles. Reformers court him because he is reputed clever and well read, and because by liberating his serfs he has the reputation of a liberal. The old and dissatisfied turn to him as his father's son. Feminine society welcomes him because he is rich, distinguished, a good match, almost a newcomer, with a halo of romance from his supposed death and the tragic loss of his wife. Those who knew him before say he has greatly improved in five years: softened, more manly, without former affectation, pride, and contemptuous irony, with the serenity that comes with years. People want to meet him.
The day after Arakchéev, he spends the evening at Count Kochubéy's and tells of Síla Andréevich, the nickname Kochubéy uses with the same vague irony Andrew heard in the anteroom. Even in this case, Kochubéy says, he cannot do without Michael Mikháylovich Speránski, who manages everything and has promised to come this evening. They were talking of Andrew a few days ago, and of his freed plowmen. An old man of Catherine's day turns contemptuously: is it you who have freed your serfs? Who will plow the land? It is easy to write laws, difficult to rule. Who will head departments when everybody must pass examinations? Those who pass, Kochubéy supposes. Pryánichnikov is sixty: is he to go up? Kochubéy does not finish. He rises, takes Andrew's arm, and meets a tall, bald, fair man of about forty, large open forehead, long face of unusual whiteness, blue swallow-tail coat, a cross at the neck, a star on the left breast. Andrew recognises Speránski at once and feels a throb, whether from respect, envy, or anticipation he does not know. Awkward, clumsy gestures with calm self-assurance; half-closed, rather humid eyes; a firm smile that expresses nothing; a refined, smooth, soft voice; delicate whiteness of face and of broad, plump, soft hands such as Andrew has seen only on soldiers long in hospital. This is the Secretary of State, reporter to the Emperor, companion at Erfurt who has talked with Napoleon.
Speránski does not shift his eyes from face to face, is in no hurry to speak, speaks slowly with assurance that he will be listened to. He is sorry he was detained at the palace; he does not say the Emperor kept him, an affectation of modesty Andrew notices. Introduced, he looks at Bolkónski in silence, then is glad to make his acquaintance; he had heard of him, as everyone has. The chairman of the Committee on Army Regulations is his good friend Magnítski; he can put Andrew in touch. A circle forms. Andrew watches this man, not long since an insignificant divinity student, who now holds in those plump white hands the fate of Russia. He answers an old man from an immeasurable height: he cannot judge what pleases the sovereign. Then he takes Andrew to the other end of the room. He has known of him from the serf example, of which more imitators are desirable, and because Andrew is one of the gentlemen of the chamber who have not considered themselves offended by the new decree on court ranks. Andrew's father did not wish him to take the privilege; he began from the lower grade. Speránski calls the father a man of the last century, above contemporaries who condemn a measure that re-establishes natural justice. Andrew tries to resist, citing Montesquieu: the principle of monarchies is honour; certain rights of the nobility sustain that sentiment. The smile vanishes; the white face is improved by the change. Honour, Speránski says, pronouncing French with difficulty, cannot be upheld by privileges harmful to the service; an institution like Napoleon's Légion d'honneur helps, class privilege does not. If Andrew will do him the honour of calling on Wednesday, after talking with Magnítski he will say what may interest him. Closing his eyes, he bows à la française, without taking leave, and leaves trying to attract as little attention as possible.
