War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy
CHAPTER XVI
1392 words | Chapter 141
Suddenly everybody stirred, began talking, and pressed forward and then
back, and between the two rows, which separated, the Emperor entered to
the sounds of music that had immediately struck up. Behind him walked
his host and hostess. He walked in rapidly, bowing to right and left
as if anxious to get the first moments of the reception over. The band
played the polonaise in vogue at that time on account of the words that
had been set to it, beginning: “Alexander, Elisaveta, all our hearts
you ravish quite...” The Emperor passed on to the drawing room, the
crowd made a rush for the doors, and several persons with excited faces
hurried there and back again. Then the crowd hastily retired from
the drawing room door, at which the Emperor reappeared talking to the
hostess. A young man, looking distraught, pounced down on the ladies,
asking them to move aside. Some ladies, with faces betraying complete
forgetfulness of all the rules of decorum, pushed forward to the
detriment of their toilets. The men began to choose partners and take
their places for the polonaise.
Everyone moved back, and the Emperor came smiling out of the drawing
room leading his hostess by the hand but not keeping time to the
music. The host followed with Márya Antónovna Narýshkina; then
came ambassadors, ministers, and various generals, whom Perónskaya
diligently named. More than half the ladies already had partners
and were taking up, or preparing to take up, their positions for the
polonaise. Natásha felt that she would be left with her mother and
Sónya among a minority of women who crowded near the wall, not having
been invited to dance. She stood with her slender arms hanging down,
her scarcely defined bosom rising and falling regularly, and with
bated breath and glittering, frightened eyes gazed straight before
her, evidently prepared for the height of joy or misery. She was
not concerned about the Emperor or any of those great people whom
Perónskaya was pointing out—she had but one thought: “Is it
possible no one will ask me, that I shall not be among the first to
dance? Is it possible that not one of all these men will notice me?
They do not even seem to see me, or if they do they look as if they
were saying, ‘Ah, she’s not the one I’m after, so it’s not worth
looking at her!’ No, it’s impossible,” she thought. “They must
know how I long to dance, how splendidly I dance, and how they would
enjoy dancing with me.”
The strains of the polonaise, which had continued for a considerable
time, had begun to sound like a sad reminiscence to Natásha’s ears.
She wanted to cry. Perónskaya had left them. The count was at the
other end of the room. She and the countess and Sónya were standing by
themselves as in the depths of a forest amid that crowd of strangers,
with no one interested in them and not wanted by anyone. Prince Andrew
with a lady passed by, evidently not recognizing them. The handsome
Anatole was smilingly talking to a partner on his arm and looked at
Natásha as one looks at a wall. Borís passed them twice and each time
turned away. Berg and his wife, who were not dancing, came up to them.
This family gathering seemed humiliating to Natásha—as if there were
nowhere else for the family to talk but here at the ball. She did not
listen to or look at Véra, who was telling her something about her own
green dress.
At last the Emperor stopped beside his last partner (he had danced
with three) and the music ceased. A worried aide-de-camp ran up to the
Rostóvs requesting them to stand farther back, though as it was they
were already close to the wall, and from the gallery resounded the
distinct, precise, enticingly rhythmical strains of a waltz. The Emperor
looked smilingly down the room. A minute passed but no one had yet begun
dancing. An aide-de-camp, the Master of Ceremonies, went up to Countess
Bezúkhova and asked her to dance. She smilingly raised her hand and
laid it on his shoulder without looking at him. The aide-de-camp, an
adept in his art, grasping his partner firmly round her waist, with
confident deliberation started smoothly, gliding first round the edge of
the circle, then at the corner of the room he caught Hélène’s
left hand and turned her, the only sound audible, apart from the
ever-quickening music, being the rhythmic click of the spurs on his
rapid, agile feet, while at every third beat his partner’s velvet
dress spread out and seemed to flash as she whirled round. Natásha
gazed at them and was ready to cry because it was not she who was
dancing that first turn of the waltz.
Prince Andrew, in the white uniform of a cavalry colonel, wearing
stockings and dancing shoes, stood looking animated and bright in the
front row of the circle not far from the Rostóvs. Baron Firhoff was
talking to him about the first sitting of the Council of State to be
held next day. Prince Andrew, as one closely connected with Speránski
and participating in the work of the legislative commission, could give
reliable information about that sitting, concerning which various rumors
were current. But not listening to what Firhoff was saying, he was
gazing now at the sovereign and now at the men intending to dance who
had not yet gathered courage to enter the circle.
Prince Andrew was watching these men abashed by the Emperor’s
presence, and the women who were breathlessly longing to be asked to
dance.
Pierre came up to him and caught him by the arm.
“You always dance. I have a protégée, the young Rostóva, here. Ask
her,” he said.
“Where is she?” asked Bolkónski. “Excuse me!” he added, turning
to the baron, “we will finish this conversation elsewhere—at a ball
one must dance.” He stepped forward in the direction Pierre indicated.
The despairing, dejected expression of Natásha’s face caught his eye.
He recognized her, guessed her feelings, saw that it was her début,
remembered her conversation at the window, and with an expression of
pleasure on his face approached Countess Rostóva.
“Allow me to introduce you to my daughter,” said the countess, with
heightened color.
“I have the pleasure of being already acquainted, if the countess
remembers me,” said Prince Andrew with a low and courteous bow quite
belying Perónskaya’s remarks about his rudeness, and approaching
Natásha he held out his arm to grasp her waist before he had completed
his invitation. He asked her to waltz. That tremulous expression on
Natásha’s face, prepared either for despair or rapture, suddenly
brightened into a happy, grateful, childlike smile.
“I have long been waiting for you,” that frightened happy little
girl seemed to say by the smile that replaced the threatened tears, as
she raised her hand to Prince Andrew’s shoulder. They were the second
couple to enter the circle. Prince Andrew was one of the best dancers of
his day and Natásha danced exquisitely. Her little feet in their white
satin dancing shoes did their work swiftly, lightly, and independently
of herself, while her face beamed with ecstatic happiness. Her slender
bare arms and neck were not beautiful—compared to Hélène’s her
shoulders looked thin and her bosom undeveloped. But Hélène seemed, as
it were, hardened by a varnish left by the thousands of looks that had
scanned her person, while Natásha was like a girl exposed for the first
time, who would have felt very much ashamed had she not been assured
that this was absolutely necessary.
Prince Andrew liked dancing, and wishing to escape as quickly as
possible from the political and clever talk which everyone addressed
to him, wishing also to break up the circle of restraint he disliked,
caused by the Emperor’s presence, he danced, and had chosen Natásha
because Pierre pointed her out to him and because she was the first
pretty girl who caught his eye; but scarcely had he embraced that
slender supple figure and felt her stirring so close to him and smiling
so near him than the wine of her charm rose to his head, and he
felt himself revived and rejuvenated when after leaving her he stood
breathing deeply and watching the other dancers.
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