'Little Countess!' came the count's voice through the door, 'are you still up?'
Natasha snatched up her slippers and skipped off to her room in her bare feet. But she couldn't get to sleep. She kept worrying about no one ever being able to understand everything that she understood, everything deep inside her.
'What about Sonya?' she wondered, looking at her friend sleeping there, curled up like a kitten with her great mass of hair. 'No, she wouldn't. She's too good. She's in love with dear Nikolay, and she's not interested in anything else. Mamma - even she doesn't understand. I'm amazingly clever . . . Oh, she's such a charming girl,' she went on, speaking about herself in the third person and imagining that it was some very clever man, the cleverest and best of all men, who was talking about her . . . 'This girl has everything, absolutely everything,' he continued. 'She's incredibly clever, so charming and so pretty - she's out of this world, she moves so well, she can swim and ride like nobody else, and that voice! - you've got to admit, that's a wonderful voice!' She intoned a bit of her favourite music from a Cherubini opera, flopped down on the bed, laughed out loud at the delightful thought that she would soon be asleep, called across to Dunyasha to blow out the candle, and before Dunyasha had left the room she was in another world, the happier world of dreamland, where everything was as light and beautiful as it was in the real world, only better because it was all different.
Next day the countess sent for Boris and had a word with him, and after that he gave up going the Rostovs'.
CHAPTER 14
On New Year's Eve 1809 an old grandee who had been prominent in Catherine's time gave a ball and a midnight supper. The Tsar and the diplomatic corps were due to attend.
The well-known mansion of this grandee on the English Embankment was ablaze with innumerable lights. Policemen were deployed at the brightly lit, red-carpeted entrance - not just constables but a police chief and dozens of officers. As one carriage drove away another rolled up, with grooms in red livery and grooms in plumed hats. Men in uniforms with stars and ribbons emerged from the carriages, steps clanged down and ladies in satin and ermine stepped out daintily and hurried indoors passing noiselessly over the red baize.
Almost every time a new carriage drove up a whisper ran through the crowd and caps were doffed. 'Is it the Emperor? . . . No, it's only a minister . . . a prince . . . an ambassador . . . Look at those plumes! . . .' came various voices in the crowd. One man better dressed than anyone else seemed to know everyone, and as the dignitaries of the day arrived he would say who they were.
A third of the guests were already there at the ball, but the Rostovs, who had been invited, were still getting ready.
There had been many a discussion and much fuss in the Rostov family ahead of this ball, and much worrying that they might not be invited, that the dresses wouldn't be ready in time, and nothing would go right.
The Rostovs were to be accompanied to the ball by Marya Peronsky, friend and relative of the countess, a thin lady with a sallow complexion who, as maid-of-honour at the court of the Dowager Empress, was needed by the provincial Rostovs to guide them around the higher circles of Petersburg society.
The Rostovs were due to pick her up by ten o'clock at the Tavrichesky Garden, but it was now five to ten and the young ladies were still not ready.
Natasha was going to her first grand ball. She had got up that morning at eight o'clock, and spent the whole day in feverish worry and a whirl of activity. All her energies had been directed since early morning to the single aim of getting herself, her mother and Sonya turned out as nicely as they could possibly be. Sonya and her mother had placed themselves entirely in her hands. The countess was to wear a burgundy velvet dress, her two daughters white tulle dresses over pink silk slips with roses on their bodices. Hairstyles would be a la grecque.
The basic essentials were out of the way, everybody's feet, arms, necks and ears having been scrupulously scrubbed, powdered and perfumed in readiness for the ball. Legs and feet were adorned with open-work silk stockings and white satin shoes; everyone's hair was almost done. Sonya was at the stage of finishing touches, as was the countess, but Natasha had spent so much time looking after everybody else that she was now running late. She was still sitting at the mirror with a housecoat over her thin little shoulders. Sonya stood in the middle of the room, dressed and ready, fastening down one last recalcitrant ribbon and hurting her tiny finger as she pushed a pin squeakily through the silk.
'No, Sonya, not like that!' said Natasha, looking round, both hands clutching her hair, which the maid who was arranging it wasn't quick enough to let go of. 'It doesn't go like that. Come here.' Sonya squatted down. Natasha adjusted the ribbon.
'Please, miss, you mustn't move like that,' said the maid, still holding Natasha's hair.
'Oh, my goodness! Can't you wait a minute? There you are, Sonya.'
'Are you nearly ready?' came the countess's voice. 'It's nearly ten.'
'Yes, yes, two minutes . . . Are you ready, Mamma?'
'Only my cap to pin on.'
'Don't do it without me,' shouted Natasha. 'You don't know how!'
'But it's ten o'clock.'
They had agreed on half-past ten as a good time to arrive at the ball, and here was Natasha still not dressed - and they had to go via the Tavrichesky Garden.
With her hair done at last, Natasha, wearing her mother's dressing-jacket and a short petticoat, which made her dancing-shoes very noticeable, ran over to Sonya, examined her from head to foot, and then ran across to her mother. Turning her mother's head round, she pinned the cap on, gave her a quick peck on her grey hair and ran back to the maids, who were still taking the skirt up.
Natasha's skirt was the problem: it had been too long. Two maids were finishing the hem, hurriedly biting off the threads. A third one, with pins sticking out between teeth and lips, was running back and forwards between the countess and Sonya; a fourth was holding up the whole tulle creation in her arms.
'Mavrushka, darling, do please hurry!'
'Pass me that thimble, miss.'
'How much longer?' said the count from the doorway, as he started into the room. 'Get your perfume on. Madame Peronsky must be fed up with waiting.'
'Ready, miss,' said the maid, holding up the shortened tulle skirt between finger and thumb, blowing something off it, and shaking it out to show off the pure airy fluffiness of what she held in her hands.
Natasha began to get into the dress.
'In a minute, in a minute! Don't come in, Papa!' she shouted to her father as he opened the door, her face drowned in a sea of tulle. Sonya banged the door to. A moment later the count was allowed in. He was dressed in his blue swallowtail coat, long stockings and light shoes, all nicely perfumed and pomaded.
'Oh, Papa, you do look nice! You really do,' said Natasha, standing in the middle of the room, smoothing out the folds of her tulle.
'Just a minute, miss, if you don't mind . . .' said one of the maids, lifting the skirt and switching the pins from one corner of her mouth to the other with her tongue.
'You can say what you like!' cried Sonya in despairing tones as she gazed at Natasha's dress. 'You can say what you like - it's still too long!'
Natasha stepped back a little to inspect herself in the long glass. The skirt did seem too long.
'Lord bless 'e, ma'am, it bain't be too long at all,' said Mavrushka, scrambling along on her knees after her young lady.
'Well, if it is, we can tack it up. It'll only take a minute,' said Dunyasha, getting a grip on things. And pulling a needle from the cloth on her chest she set to work again on the floor.
At this point the countess, arrayed in cap and velvet gown, walked diffidently back into the room, stepping softly.
'Oh, I say! Look at this beautiful woman of mine!' cried the count. 'She's prettier than all of you!' He made as if to embrace her, but she drew back with a blush on her face to avoid getting crumpled.
'Mamma, your cap should be at an angle,' said Natasha.
'Let me do it again,' and she darted forward. The maids turning up her skirt were not ready for a lunge like this and a piece of tulle was torn off.
'Mercy on us, what's happened? Hey, it wasn't my fault . . .'
'It's all right, I can run it up, it won't show,' said Dunyasha.
'Oh, my beauty, my little queen!' said the old nurse coming in at the doorway. 'And little Sonya, too. Oh, you beautiful girls!'
It was a quarter past ten when at last they were seated in their carriage and able to drive off. And they still had to go round by the Tavrichesky Garden. Madame Peronsky was there, ready and waiting. For all her age and plainness, she had been undergoing the same thing as the Rostovs, but without all the fluster, because it was all a matter of routine to her. Her ageing and unattractive body had been subjected to a similar process of scrubbing and scenting and powdering, she had been washed no less scrupulously behind her ears, and like the Rostovs' nurse, her old maid had gone into raptures over her mistress's outfit when she had come into the drawing-room dressed in her yellow gown adorned with the royal monogram. Madame Peronsky waxed lyrical about the Rostovs in their finery, and they did likewise about her fine dress and remarkable taste. Then, at eleven o'clock, fussing a good deal over their coiffures and their ballgowns, they seated themselves in the carriages and drove off.
CHAPTER 15
Natasha had not had a minute to herself all day, and it had never occurred to her to wonder what lay ahead.
In the damp, chill air and the semi-dark confines of the swaying carriage she now began to imagine for the first time what was in store for her there, at the ball, in the brightly lit halls - the music, the flowers, the dancing, the Tsar, all the brilliant young people of Petersburg. The prospect before her was so wonderful she couldn't really believe it would come true: it was all so out of keeping with the chilly darkness of the cramped carriage. Everything that lay ahead began to dawn on her only when she had walked across the red cloth, entered the vestibule, taken off her fur-coat and begun to walk up the brilliantly lit staircase with Sonya at her side, her mother just behind and flowers on all sides. It was then that she remembered how to behave on such an occasion, and she did her best to assume the majestic manner that she considered essential for a girl to adopt at a ball. But as luck would have it she was too dazzled to see anything clearly, her pulse thumped a hundred beats to a minute and the blood rushed to her heart, so she was unable to strike a pose that might have made her look silly. She walked on, almost swooning with excitement and struggling to hide it. And this was the manner that suited her best. Ahead of them and behind, guests were walking along dressed in similar ballgowns and talking to each other in similarly subdued tones. All the way up the staircase mirrors reflected ladies in white, blue and pink dresses, with diamonds and pearls on their bare arms and necks.
Natasha looked in the mirrors but couldn't make out her own reflection among all the others. Everybody blurred together in one glittering procession. At the entrance to the first room the steady hum of conversation, footsteps and greetings deafened Natasha; the light and the glare dazzled her still more. The host and hostess, who had been standing by the door for the last half-hour saying exactly the same thing, 'So pleased to see you,' to every new arrival, welcomed the Rostovs and Madame Peronsky with the same greeting. The two young girls in their white dresses, with identical roses in their black hair, made identical curtseys, but the hostess's eyes lingered instinctively on the slender figure of Natasha. She looked at her and gave her a special smile that went beyond her duty as a hostess. Looking at her, she was perhaps reminded of the golden days of her girlhood, now gone for ever, and her own first ball. The host too gave Natasha a close scrutiny, and asked the count which one of the girls was his daughter.
'Charming girl!' he said, kissing his fingertips.
The ballroom was full of guests crowding round the doorway where the Tsar was expected. The countess worked her way to the front of the crowd. Natasha could hear people asking who she was, and sense their eyes on her. She knew she was making a good impression on those who noticed her, and this helped to calm her nerves.
'There are plenty of people like us, and some of them are worse off,' she thought.
Madame Peronsky was pointing out to the countess the most distinguished persons at the ball.
'That's the Dutch ambassador, look, that grey-haired man over there,' Madame Peronsky was saying, indicating a little old gentleman with a mane of silvery grey curls, who was surrounded by ladies laughing at something he was saying. 'And look who's here, the Queen of Petersburg, Countess Bezukhov,' she said, pointing to Helene, who had just come in.
'Isn't she gorgeous! She's the equal of Marya Antonovna. Look at all the men fussing round her, young and old. She's so pretty, and clever too . . . They say Prince So-and-so is wild about her. But look at these two - they're not pretty, but they've got even more followers.'
She pointed to two ladies crossing the room, a mother with her very plain daughter.
'Worth millions as a bride,' said Madame Peronsky. 'And here come the suitors . . . That's Countess Bezukhov's brother, Anatole Kuragin,' she said, pointing to a handsome horse guards officer, who raised his head and looked somewhere over the ladies' heads as he went by. 'Handsome, isn't he? They say he's going to marry that heiress. But your cousin, Drubetskoy, he's dancing round her too. She's worth millions, so they say. Oh, that's no less a person than the French ambassador,' she said when the countess saw Caulaincourt and asked who he was. 'Look at him strutting like a king. But they're so nice, you know, the French are so very nice. No nicer people in society. Oh, look, she's here! Yes, she's still the prettiest, our Marya Antonovna! What a simple outfit! Exquisite!'
'And that fat fellow with the glasses on, he's the great freemason,' said Madame Peronsky, indicating Bezukhov. 'Stand him alongside his wife and you'll see what a clown he is!'
Stout as ever, Pierre was waddling through the crowd, nodding to right and to left, with the easy sweetness of a man in a market crowd. He was squeezing through the throng evidently in search of a particular person.
Natasha was delighted to see the familiar face of the man described by Madame Peronsky as a clown, and she knew he was searching the crowd for them, and especially her. Pierre had promised to be there at the ball and find some partners for her. But on his way over Pierre stopped beside a very handsome, dark-haired man of medium height in a white uniform, who was standing by a window talking to a tall man with stars and a ribbon across his chest.
Natasha instantly recognized the splendid young man in white; it was Andrey Bolkonsky, looking altogether younger, happier and more handsome than before.
'There's someone else we know, Bolkonsky, over there, Mamma,' said Natasha, pointing him out. 'You remember, he stayed the night with us at Otradnoye.'
'Oh, do you know him?' said Madame Peronsky. 'I can't abide him. He's top dog at the moment. And so conceited - you wouldn't believe it! Takes after his father. And he's hobnobbing with Speransky, making all sorts of plans. And look how he treats the ladies! That lady over there was talking to him, and he just turned his back on her,' she said, pointing across. 'I'd give him a piece of my mind if he treated me like that.'
CHAPTER 16
There was a sudden stir, a murmur ran through the crowd, everyone surged forward and then moved back again, and through the space that had opened up in walked Tsar Alexander to the strains of a polonaise struck up by the orchestra. Behind him came the host and hostess. The Tsar strode in rapidly, bowing to right and left, as if he wanted to get through the preliminaries of the welcome as quickly as possible. This piece of music had become popular because new words had recently been set to it. They began, 'Alexander, Elisaveta, we rejoice to see you here . . .' The Tsar went into the drawing-room, the crowd swarmed over to the doorway, many of them hurrying across and coming straight back with their faces transformed. Again the crowd pressed back, away from the drawing-room door where the Tsar now appeared, talking to the hostess.
An anxious-looking young man bore down on the ladies and begged them to move to one side. Several of them, with faces set to defy all etiquette, squeezed forward, at great risk to all their finery. Then the men began walking over to the ladies, forming couples for the polonaise.
There was a general stepping back, and out strode the Tsar, all smiles, leading the lady of the house with no attempt to follow the music. After him came the host along with Marya Naryshkin, and then the ambassadors, ministers and an assortment of generals, whose names Madame Peronsky never tired of reciting. More than half the ladies were already partnered and were moving off into the polonaise or preparing to do so.
Natasha sensed she was going to be left with her mother and Sonya, in the minority trapped at the side like wall-flowers. She stood there, with her thin arms dangling at her sides and her scarcely defined bosom steadily heaving, then she held her breath and gazed out with gleaming, frightened eyes, a picture of readiness for absolute joy or absolute misery. She wasn't bothered about the Tsar or any of the bigwigs being pointed out by Madame Peronsky; her only thought was, 'Isn't anybody going to come over to me? Am I going to be left out of the first dance? Am I going to be ignored by all these men? They don't seem to have noticed me, and if they do look at me they seem to be saying, "Not my type - not worth looking at". Surely not!' she thought. 'They must know I'm dying to dance, and I'm a good dancer and they'd really enjoy dancing with me.'
The polonaise had been going on for some time, and soon its strains began to fade away, echoing in Natasha's ears like an unhappy memory. She was almost in tears. Madame Peronsky had left them and the count was at the other end of the room, which left the old countess, Sonya and her stranded amid a crowd of strangers, of no interest, no use to anyone. Prince Andrey walked past with a lady on his arm, obviously without recognizing them. The handsome Anatole grinned as he spoke to his lady, and when he glanced at Natasha it was like someone glancing at a wall. Boris passed them twice, and each time turned away. Berg and his wife, who were not dancing, came over to them.