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.