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.
A family get-together here in the ballroom was particularly galling to Natasha – was there nowhere else for the family to talk but here at the ball? She didn’t listen, and didn’t look at Vera, who was going on about her green dress.
At last the Tsar stopped dancing and stood beside his latest partner (he had danced with three) as the music came to an end. A worried adjutant ran over to the Rostovs and begged them to move a bit further away, though they were already up against the wall, and then the orchestra struck up again, this time with the measured rhythm and inviting strains of a waltz. The Tsar glanced down the ballroom with a smile on his face. A moment passed; no one came out to begin. The adjutant who had been appointed Master of Ceremonies went over to Countess Bezukhov and asked her to dance. She gave a smile, raised a hand and placed it on the adjutant’s shoulder without a single glance at him. The adjutant knew what he was doing. Taking a firm hold of his partner, he guided her casually, confidently, into a smooth gliding movement round the edge of the circle, then at the corner of the ballroom he turned his partner with an upward swoop of her left hand, and not a sound was heard against the quickening strains of the music beyond the measured jingle of the spurs on the adjutant’s expertly flashing feet and the swish of his partner’s swirling velvet skirt as every third beat brought her whisking through a turn.
Natasha watched them on the verge of tears, so disappointed that someone else was dancing that first round of the waltz.
