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"That's
not the way, that's not the way, Sonya!" cried Natasha turning
her
head and clutching with both hands at her hair which the maid who
was
dressing it had not time to release. "That bow is not right. Come
here!"
Sonya
sat down and Natasha pinned the ribbon on differently.
"Allow
me, Miss! I can't do it like that," said the maid who was holding
Natasha's
hair.
"Oh,
dear! Well then, wait. That's right, Sonya."
"Aren't
you ready? It is nearly ten," came the countess' voice.
"Directly!
Directly! And you, Mamma?"
"I
have only my cap to pin on."
"Don't
do it without me!" called Natasha. "You won't do it right."
"But
it's already ten."
They
had decided to be at the ball by half past ten, and Natasha had
still
to get dressed and they had to call at the Taurida Gardens.
When
her hair was done, Natasha, in her short petticoat from under
which
her
dancing shoes showed, and in her mother's dressing jacket, ran up
to
Sonya,
scrutinized her, and then ran to her mother. Turning her mother's
head
this way and that, she fastened on the cap and, hurriedly kissing
her
gray hair, ran back to the maids who were turning up the hem of
her
skirt.
The
cause of the delay was Natasha's skirt, which was too long. Two
maids
were turning up the hem and hurriedly biting off the ends of
thread.
A third with pins in her mouth was running about between the
countess
and Sonya, and a fourth held the whole of the gossamer garment
up
high on one uplifted hand.
"Mavra,
quicker, darling!"
"Give
me my thimble, Miss, from there..."
"Whenever
will you be ready?" asked the count coming to the door. "Here
is
some scent. Peronskaya must be tired of waiting."
"It's
ready, Miss," said the maid, holding up the shortened gauze dress
with
two fingers, and blowing and shaking something off it, as if by
this
to express a consciousness of the airiness and purity of what she
held.
Natasha
began putting on the dress.
"In
a minute! In a minute! Don't come in, Papa!" she cried to her
father
as
he opened the door--speaking from under the filmy skirt which
still
covered
her whole face.
Sonya
slammed the door to. A minute later they let the count in. He was
wearing
a blue swallow-tail coat, shoes and stockings, and was perfumed
and
his hair pomaded.
"Oh,
Papa! how nice you look! Charming!" cried Natasha, as she stood
in
the
middle of the room smoothing out the folds of the gauze.
"If
you please, Miss! allow me," said the maid, who on her knees was
pulling
the skirt straight and shifting the pins from one side of her
mouth
to the other with her tongue.
"Say
what you like," exclaimed Sonya, in a despairing voice as she
looked
at Natasha, "say what you like, it's still too long."
Natasha
stepped back to look at herself in the pier glass. The dress was
too
long.
"Really,
madam, it is not at all too long," said Mavra, crawling on her
knees
after her young lady.
"Well,
if it's too long we'll tack it up... we'll tack it up in one
minute,"
said the resolute Dunyasha taking a needle that was stuck on
the
front of her little shawl and, still kneeling on the floor, set
to
work
once more.
At
that moment, with soft steps, the countess came in shyly, in her
cap
and
velvet gown.
"Oo-oo,
my beauty!" exclaimed the count, "she looks better than any of
you!"
He
would have embraced her but, blushing, she stepped aside fearing
to
be
rumpled.
"Mamma,
your cap, more to this side," said Natasha. "I'll arrange it,"
and
she rushed forward so that the maids who were tacking up her
skirt
could
not move fast enough and a piece of gauze was torn off.
"Oh
goodness! What has happened? Really it was not my fault!"
"Never
mind, I'll run it up, it won't show," said Dunyasha.
"What
a beauty--a very queen!" said the nurse as she came to the door.
"And
Sonya! They are lovely!"
At
a quarter past ten they at last got into their carriages and
started.
But
they had still to call at the Taurida Gardens.
Peronskaya
was quite ready. In spite of her age and plainness she had
gone
through the same process as the Rostovs, but with less
flurry--for
to
her it was a matter of routine. Her ugly old body was washed,
perfumed,
and powdered in just the same way. She had washed behind her
ears
just as carefully, and when she entered her drawing room in her
yellow
dress, wearing her badge as maid of honor, her old lady's maid
was
as full of rapturous admiration as the Rostovs' servants had
been.
She
praised the Rostovs' toilets. They praised her taste and toilet,
and
at
eleven o'clock, careful of their coiffures and dresses, they
settled
themselves
in their carriages and drove off.
CHAPTER
XV
Natasha
had not had a moment free since early morning and had not once
had
time to think of what lay before her.
In
the damp chill air and crowded closeness of the swaying carriage,
she
for
the first time vividly imagined what was in store for her there
at
the
ball, in those brightly lighted rooms--with music, flowers,
dances,
the
Emperor, and all the brilliant young people of Petersburg. The
prospect
was so splendid that she hardly believed it would come true, so
out
of keeping was it with the chill darkness and closeness of the
carriage.
She understood all that awaited her only when, after stepping
over
the red baize at the entrance, she entered the hall, took off her
fur
cloak, and, beside Sonya and in front of her mother, mounted the
brightly
illuminated stairs between the flowers. Only then did she
remember
how she must behave at a ball, and tried to assume the majestic
air
she considered indispensable for a girl on such an occasion. But,
fortunately
for her, she felt her eyes growing misty, she saw nothing
clearly,
her pulse beat a hundred to the minute, and the blood throbbed
at
her heart. She could not assume that pose, which would have made
her
ridiculous,
and she moved on almost fainting from excitement and trying
with
all her might to conceal it. And this was the very attitude that
became
her best. Before and behind them other visitors were entering,
also
talking in low tones and wearing ball dresses. The mirrors on the
landing
reflected ladies in white, pale-blue, and pink dresses, with
diamonds
and pearls on their bare necks and arms.
Natasha
looked in the mirrors and could not distinguish her reflection
from
the others. All was blended into one brilliant procession. On
entering
the ballroom the regular hum of voices, footsteps, and
greetings
deafened Natasha, and the light and glitter dazzled her still
more.
The host and hostess, who had already been standing at the door
for
half an hour repeating the same words to the various arrivals,
"Charme
de vous voir," * greeted the Rostovs and Peronskaya in the same
manner.
*
"Delighted to see you."
The
two girls in their white dresses, each with a rose in her black
hair,
both curtsied in the same way, but the hostess' eye involuntarily
rested
longer on the slim Natasha. She looked at her and gave her alone
a
special smile in addition to her usual smile as hostess. Looking
at
her
she may have recalled the golden, irrecoverable days of her own
girlhood
and her own first ball. The host also followed Natasha with his
eyes
and asked the count which was his daughter.
"Charming!"
said he, kissing the tips of his fingers.
In
the ballroom guests stood crowding at the entrance doors awaiting
the
Emperor.
The countess took up a position in one of the front rows of
that
crowd. Natasha heard and felt that several people were asking
about
her
and looking at her. She realized that those noticing her liked
her,
and
this observation helped to calm her.
"There
are some like ourselves and some worse," she thought.
Peronskaya
was pointing out to the countess the most important people at
the
ball.
"That
is the Dutch ambassador, do you see? That gray-haired man," she
said,
indicating an old man with a profusion of silver-gray curly hair,
who
was surrounded by ladies laughing at something he said.
"Ah,
here she is, the Queen of Petersburg, Countess Bezukhova," said
Peronskaya,
indicating Helene who had just entered. "How lovely! She is
quite
equal to Marya Antonovna. See how the men, young and old, pay
court
to her. Beautiful and clever... they say Prince--is quite mad
about
her. But see, those two, though not good-looking, are even more
run
after."
She
pointed to a lady who was crossing the room followed by a very
plain
daughter.
"She
is a splendid match, a millionairess," said Peronskaya. "And
look,
here
come her suitors."
"That
is Bezukhova's brother, Anatole Kuragin," she said, indicating a
handsome
officer of the Horse Guards who passed by them with head erect,
looking
at something over the heads of the ladies. "He's handsome, isn't
he?
I hear they will marry him to that rich girl. But your cousin,
Drubetskoy,
is also very attentive to her. They say she has millions. Oh
yes,
that's the French ambassador himself!" she replied to the
countess'
inquiry
about Caulaincourt. "Looks as if he were a king! All the same,
the
French are charming, very charming. No one more charming in
society.
Ah,
here she is! Yes, she is still the most beautiful of them all,
our
Marya
Antonovna! And how simply she is dressed! Lovely! And that stout
one
in spectacles is the universal Freemason," she went on,
indicating
Pierre.
"Put him beside his wife and he looks a regular buffoon!"
Pierre,
swaying his stout body, advanced, making way through the crowd
and
nodding to right and left as casually and good-naturedly as if he
were
passing through a crowd at a fair. He pushed through, evidently
looking
for someone.
Natasha
looked joyfully at the familiar face of Pierre, "the buffoon,"
as
Peronskaya had called him, and knew he was looking for them, and
for
her
in particular. He had promised to be at the ball and introduce
partners
to her.
But
before he reached them Pierre stopped beside a very handsome,
dark
man
of middle height, and in a white uniform, who stood by a window
talking
to a tall man wearing stars and a ribbon. Natasha at once
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