The balls put on by Iogel were the best in Moscow. This is what all the mothers said as they watched their young daughters performing the dances they had been recently learning. So did the boys and girls themselves as they danced till they were ready to drop; so did the grown-up young men and women, who came along thinking these dances were rather beneath them and ended up enjoying every minute. That year two matches had been made at these dances. Two pretty young princesses, the Gorchakov sisters, had both found suitors here and married them, which made the dances more popular than ever. There was one special feature about these dances – they had no host and hostess, only good old Iogel himself, who put his own art to good service with much mincing and bowing as he flitted around his guests like a feather and collected their tickets. Another feature was that these dances were attended only by those who really wanted to dance and enjoy themselves, in the way that girls of thirteen or fourteen do when they are wearing long dresses for the first time. With one or two exceptions they were pretty girls, or they managed to look pretty, with their smiling faces and sparkling eyes. Sometimes the best pupils were allowed to perform the difficult shawl dance, and that included Natasha, who danced more gracefully than anyone else. But at this latest ball they only danced the schottische, the anglaise and the mazurka, which was becoming all the rage. Iogel had taken a ballroom in Bezukhov’s house, and everyone pronounced the evening a great success. There were many pretty girls there, and the Rostov girls were among the prettiest. They both felt particularly happy and high-spirited that evening. Sonya was feeling so proud to have received a proposal from Dolokhov and turned him down and then had things out with Nikolay that, before they had even left for the ball, she had gone twirling around the room, not giving her maid a chance to finish doing her hair, and now she positively glowed with energy and joy.
Natasha was just as proud and even happier – this was her first real ball in a long dress. Both girls wore white muslin dresses with pink ribbons.
Natasha made sure she fell in love the moment she stepped into the ballroom, not with anyone in particular, in love with everyone. Every time she looked at someone she fell in love, and the love lasted no longer than the look. She kept running up to Sonya and saying, ‘Oh, isn’t it marvellous?’
Nikolay and Denisov strolled from room to room, watching the dancers with a kind of protective benevolence.
‘She’s so sweet. She’ll be a weal beauty,’ said Denisov.
‘Who will?’
‘Countess Natasha,’ answered Denisov.
After a short pause he said again, ‘Look at her dancing. So gwaceful!’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Oh, weally, I’m talking about your sister!’ cried Denisov angrily.
Rostov laughed.
‘My dear count, you were one of my best pupils – you must dance,’ said little Iogel, coming up to Nikolay. ‘Look at all these pretty young ladies!’ He turned with the same request to Denisov, also an ex-pupil.
‘No, my dear fellow, I’m a wotten dancer but a good wallflower,’ said Denisov. ‘Don’t you wemember how little cwedit I did to your instwuction?’
‘Oh no!’ said Iogel, quick to reassure him. ‘You didn’t concentrate, but you had talent, plenty of talent.’
The band struck up with a mazurka, the latest thing. Nikolay felt he couldn’t refuse Iogel, so he asked Sonya to dance. Denisov sat down by some elderly ladies and leant towards them with one elbow on his sabre. Tapping his foot in time to the music, he managed to keep them amused while keeping an eye on the young people dancing. Iogel was dancing the first couple with Natasha, his star pupil, his pride and joy. Light as thistledown in his tiny slippers, Iogel led the way, swooping across the room with a diffident Natasha studiously concentrating on her steps. Denisov couldn’t take his eyes off her. He tapped out the rhythm with his sabre, which was meant to imply that if he wasn’t dancing it was because he chose not to, not because he couldn’t dance. While the dancers were in the middle of a figure he saw Rostov walking past and beckoned him over.
‘It’s not wight, you know,’ he said. ‘Is this weckoned to be a Polish mazurka? . . . But she’s such a good dancer.’
Knowing that even in Poland Denisov had been famous for dancing the Polish mazurka, Nikolay ran over to Natasha.
‘Go and invite Denisov. He can dance, you know. He’s marvellous at it!’ he said.
When Natasha’s turn came round again, she got up and tripped rather timidly across the room in her tiny dancing-shoes with their pretty bows to the corner where Denisov was sitting. She could feel everyone’s eyes on her as people waited to see what might happen. Nikolay watched as a little amiable argument took place between Denisov and Natasha, with Denisov saying no to something, but with a broad smile on his face. He ran across.
‘Oh, please, Vasily Dmitrich,’ Natasha was saying. ‘Do come and dance.’
