War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
Give me a kiss,' said Sonya.
Natasha looked up and kissed her friend on the lips, pressing her wet face against hers.
'I can't tell you. I don't know. It's nobody's fault,' said Natasha. 'It's my fault. But it hurts, it hurts so much. Oh, why doesn't he come?'
She went down to dinner with red eyes. Marya Dmitriyevna, fully aware of how the old prince had received the Rostovs, pretended not to notice Natasha's worried face and over dinner she kept a constant stream of loud jokes going with the count and the other guests.
CHAPTER 8
That evening the Rostovs went to the opera, where Marya Dmitriyevna had taken a box for them.
Natasha didn't feel like going, but it was impossible to refuse a treat that Marya Dmitriyevna had arranged especially for her benefit. When she was all dressed up and waiting for her father in the big hall, she glanced at herself in the big mirror and saw that she looked pretty, very pretty, which made her feel even sadder than before, though it was a sweet and tender sadness.
'Oh God, if only he was here with me now, I wouldn't be like I used to be, silly and shy, I'd be quite different, I'd give him a hug, cuddle up to him and force him to look at me with those searching, questioning eyes, the way he used to look at me before, and then I'd make him laugh, the way he used to laugh, and his eyes - oh, I can see those eyes!' thought Natasha. 'And why should I bother about his father and sister? I don't love anybody else but him, him, him, with that face and those eyes, with his smile, a man's smile yet also a little boy's . . . No, it's better if I don't think about him, don't think, forget him, completely forget him for the time being. I can't bear all this waiting. I'll be sobbing any minute now,' and she turned away from the mirror in a great effort to avoid tears. 'How can Sonya love Nikolay so calmly, so easily, and keep on waiting so patiently?' she wondered, looking at Sonya, who had just come in, smartly dressed and holding a fan. 'No, she's not a bit like me. I can't manage it.'
At that moment Natasha felt so overwhelmed by softness and tenderness that it wasn't enough for her to love and know she was loved in return - now was what mattered, she wanted to embrace the man she loved now, to talk about love and hear love-talk from him, because her heart was filled with words of love. As she sat there in the carriage beside her father, staring moodily at the lights of the street lamps as they flashed by the frozen window, she began to feel even sadder and more love-stricken, until she forgot where she was going and who she was with. The Rostovs' carriage fell into line with all the other carriages and trundled slowly up to the theatre, its wheels creaking over the snow. Natasha and Sonya hopped out holding up their skirts, followed by the count, assisted down by the footmen, and the three of them made their way through the stream of opera-goers and programme-sellers towards the corridor leading to the boxes. The music had started, as they could hear through the closed doors.
'Natasha, your hair!' whispered Sonya. The box-keeper slithered past the ladies deferentially, nipped ahead and opened the door into their box. The music was suddenly louder and clearer, and from the doorway they could see the brightly lit rows of boxes, the bare arms and shoulders of the ladies, and the stalls down below, noisy and glittering with uniforms. A lady going into a nearby box stole an envious woman's glance at Natasha. The curtain was still down but the overture was under way. Natasha smoothed down her dress, walked in with Sonya, sat down and gazed across at the brightly lit tiers of boxes opposite. Suddenly, there it was again, a sensation she had not experienced for some time - hundreds of eyes staring at her bare arms and neck; it was a pleasant and yet unpleasant sensation that brought back a swarm of associated memories, desires and emotions.
There they were: two extremely pretty girls, Natasha and Sonya, in the company of Count Ilya Rostov, who had been away from Moscow for some time, and all eyes were on them. Besides that, everybody had heard something of Natasha's engagement to Prince Andrey, they all knew the Rostovs had been living in the country ever since, and they looked with great curiosity at the girl who was about to make one of the best matches in Russia.
Natasha was even prettier after her stay in the country, as everyone had been telling her, and this evening, in her present state of excitement, she looked particularly attractive. She seemed to be brimming with life and beauty, and impervious to everything around her. Her black eyes scanned the crowd without looking for anyone in particular while her slender arm, exposed almost to the shoulder, rested on the velvet edge of the box and, quite unconsciously, her hand squeezed the programme rhythmically in time to the overture.
'Look, that's Alenina,' said Sonya, 'with her mother, isn't it?'
'Good heavens, Mikhail Kirillych has put some more weight on,' said the old count.
'Look! Anna Mikhaylovna. Fancy wearing a cap like that!'
'The Karagins are over there. Julie and Boris are with them. You can tell they're engaged.'
'Drubetskoy has proposed! Oh yes, I found out today,' said Shinshin, joining the Rostovs in their box.
Natasha glanced over where her father was looking, and there was Julie with a string of pearls round her thick red neck (which Natasha knew to be well-powdered), sitting next to her mother, a picture of contentment.
Behind them sat Boris, with his handsome, neatly brushed head of hair, all smiles as he lent an ear to what Julie was saying. He squinted across at the Rostovs and smiled again as he spoke to his fiancee.
'They're talking about us, me and him!' thought Natasha. 'And she's probably jealous of me, and he's reassuring her. They don't have a thing to worry about. If only they knew. I couldn't care less about any of them.'
Behind them sat Anna Mikhaylovna, decked out in a green headpiece; she was in celebratory mood, with happiness and resignation to the will of God written all over her face. Their box was full of the atmosphere generated by an engaged couple, which Natasha knew all about and was so fond of. She turned away from them, and suddenly all the events of that humiliating morning visit surged up in her mind again.
'What right has he to keep me out of his family? Oh well, better not think about it, till he comes back!' she said to herself, and she began to scan the faces, familiar and unfamiliar, down in the stalls.
There in the middle of the front stalls, leaning back against the orchestra-rail, stood Dolokhov, in Persian costume, with his curls brushed up into a huge shock of hair. He was standing in full view, deliberately inviting the attention of the whole audience, yet as casual as if he had been at home standing alone in his room. The most brilliant set of young Muscovites thronged round him, and he was clearly the cock of the roost.
Count Ilya laughed as he nudged the blushing Sonya and pointed out her former admirer.
'Didn't you recognize him?' he asked. 'But what's he doing here?' he asked, turning to Shinshin. 'I thought he'd gone off somewhere.'
'Yes, he did,' answered Shinshin. 'He went down to the Caucasus, then he ran away, and I believe he became a minister with some sort of ruling prince down in Persia, and he went and killed the Shah's brother. Anyway, all the Moscow ladies are crazy about him! "Dolokhov - the man from Persia" - that's all you need to say. Nowadays you hear nothing but Dolokhov. They all kowtow to him. It's a rare treat to be asked to meet him,' said Shinshin. 'Dolokhov and Anatole Kuragin, they've got the ladies swooning all right.'
Into the adjoining box walked a gorgeous tall woman with a huge pile of hair, superb arms and shoulders ostentatiously exposed and a double string of large pearls round her neck. She took some time to settle down, with much rustling of her thick silk evening-dress.
Natasha couldn't resist staring at this lady's neck and shoulders, her pearls and her elaborate hairstyle and admiring the beauty of those shoulders and pearls. When she turned for a second look the lady glanced round, met the eyes of Count Ilya Rostov and gave him a nod and a smile. It was Countess Bezukhov, Pierre's wife. The count, who knew everyone in society, leant across and addressed a few words to her.
'Have you been here long, Countess?' he began. 'I've been meaning to call in and kiss your hand. I'm in town on business and I've brought my girls with me. I hear Semyonova's a wonderful actress,' the count went on. 'Your good husband never used to forget us. Is he here?'
'Yes, he did say he'd drop in,' said Helene, with a close eye on Natasha.
Count Ilya sat back in his place.
'Lovely woman, isn't she?' he whispered to Natasha.
'Out of this world!' said Natasha. 'It would be easy to fall in love with her!'
At that moment the final chords of the overture rang out, and the conductor rapped on the stand with his baton. Late-comers scurried to their seats in the stalls, and the curtain rose.
Immediately a hush fell on boxes and stalls, and all the men, old and young, in evening-dress or uniform, and all the women with jewels draped across their exposed flesh turned with eager anticipation to watch the stage. Natasha too turned to watch.
CHAPTER 9
The stage consisted of flat boards down the middle with painted cardboard representing trees at both sides and cloth-covered boards at the back. Several young girls in red tops and white skirts were sitting in the middle of the stage. One very fat girl in a white silk dress sat to one side on a low bench with green cardboard glued on the back of it. They were all singing something. When they had finished their song the woman in white came forward to the prompter's box, and a man with fat legs squeezed into silk tights, with a feather in his hat and a dagger in his belt, came up to her and burst into song with much waving of his arms.
The man in tights sang alone, then she sang alone, then they both held back while the music played on and the man fingered the hand of the woman in white, obviously waiting for the right moment to start up again and sing a piece with her. They did sing together, after which the theatre erupted in applause and loud shouting, while the man and woman on the stage, representing two lovers, beamed as they held out their arms and took bows.
Just back from the country, and now in a serious frame of mind, Natasha saw all this as astonishingly grotesque. She couldn't follow the opera and couldn't hear any music; all she could see was painted cardboard and oddly dressed men and women, talking, singing and prancing about just as oddly under bright lights. She knew what it was supposed to represent, but it was all so grotesquely forced and unnatural that she found herself alternating between embarrassment and amusement at the actors' expense. She glanced round at faces in the audience, looking for signs of the same amusement and bewilderment that she was feeling. But all the faces were absorbed in what was happening on the stage, and they displayed a kind of rapture that Natasha could only assume to be affected. 'I suppose it has to be like this!' thought Natasha. She looked alternately at the rows of pomaded men's heads in the stalls and the half-naked women in the boxes, especially Helene in the next box who was sitting there so openly exposed, staring fixedly at the stage with a quiet and serene smile on her face, and basking in the bright light that flooded the theatre and the close atmosphere warmed up by the crowd. Natasha was beginning to glide steadily into a state of light-headedness the like of which she hadn't experienced for some time. She lost all sense of what she was and where she was and what was going on before her eyes. She gazed ahead, letting her thoughts wander, and the weirdest of disconnected ideas suddenly flashed through her mind. One moment she felt like leaping over the footlights and singing along with the actress; then she felt an urge to dig an old gentleman sitting near by with her fan, or lean over towards Helene and tickle her.
In a moment of silence on the stage with a new aria about to begin, a stalls door creaked open on the Rostovs' side of the theatre, and a man's footsteps could be heard padding over the carpet. 'That's him, Kuragin!' whispered Shinshin. Countess Bezukhov turned and beamed at the late arrival. Natasha followed Countess Bezukhov's eyes and saw a strikingly handsome adjutant walking towards their box with a confident stride and a courteous manner. It was Anatole Kuragin, whom she had seen and noticed some time before at a ball in Petersburg. He was wearing his adjutant's uniform, with one epaulette and a shoulder knot. He walked with a jaunty little swagger that would have looked ridiculous if he hadn't been so handsome, and if his fine features hadn't expressed such open-hearted self-assurance and high spirits. Although the performance was in full swing he didn't hurry as he strode down the sloping, carpeted aisle, his perfumed, handsome head held high and his spurs and sword gently jingling. With a quick glance at Natasha he went over to his sister, laid a tightly gloved hand on the edge of her box, nodded to her and leant over to asked her something, with a gesture towards Natasha.
'Delightful girl!' he said, obviously referring to Natasha, who could not hear his words but could read his lips. Then he proceeded to the front row and sat down beside Dolokhov, giving him a casual, friendly elbow in the ribs - and this was Dolokhov, the man who inspired such deference in everybody else. With a cheeky wink and a merry smile at him Anatole put one foot up on the orchestra-screen.
'Brother and sister, and they're so like each other,' said the count. 'Handsome pair!'
Shinshin lowered his voice and began telling the count about one of Kuragin's escapades in Moscow, and Natasha listened, not least because he had called her a delightful girl.
The first act came to an end. Everyone stood up in the stalls, they left their places and there was much coming and going.
Boris came over to the Rostovs' box, accepted their congratulations without any fuss, raised his eyebrows with a distracted smile, told Natasha and Sonya that his fiancee wished to invite them both to the wedding, and then left. Natasha had been chatting to him with a cheery, flirtatious smile on her lips, and she had congratulated him on his approaching marriage, the same Boris she had once been in love with. In the kind of light-headed mood she was in, everything seemed perfectly straightforward and natural.
Helene was sitting near by in all her semi-nakedness, beaming at all and sundry, and Natasha beamed at Boris in exactly the same way.
Helene's box had filled up inside and was surrounded from the stalls by the cleverest and most distinguished men, falling over each other in their eagerness to let everyone see that they were known to her.
Kuragin spent the entire interval standing with Dolokhov in front of the footlights staring across at the Rostovs' box. Natasha sensed that he was talking about her and the knowledge gave her a thrill of pleasure. She even adjusted her position so that he could see her in profile, which she considered her best angle. Before the beginning of the second act the figure of Pierre, whom the Rostovs hadn't seen since their arrival, appeared in the stalls. He had a sad look on his face, and he had put on even more weight since Natasha had last seen him. He walked down to the front rows without noticing anyone. Anatole went over to him and started talking, with the occasional glance and gesture towards the Rostovs' box. Pierre's face lit up when he saw Natasha and he hurried past rows of stalls towards their box. When he reached them he leant an elbow on the edge of their box and chatted to Natasha at some length, smiling all the time.
While she was talking to Pierre Natasha heard the sound of a man's voice from Countess Bezukhov's box, and something told her it was Kuragin. She glanced round and their eyes met. With a half-smile on his face and a look of such warmth and admiration he stared straight at her in such a way that it seemed odd for her to be standing so close to him and to be looking at him like that, absolutely certain that he liked her, without their knowing each other.
In the second act a cemetery was depicted on the painted cardboard, there was a hole in the back-cloth to represent the moon, the footlights were shaded, horns and double-basses sounded forth, and a number of people emerged from right and left dressed in black cloaks. These people began waving their arms about, with things that looked like daggers in their hands. Then some more people ran on and began dragging away the girl who had been in white but was now wearing a pale-blue dress. Instead of dragging her off straightaway they spent a long time singing with her, but then they did drag her away, and behind the scenes someone banged three times on a piece of iron, whereupon they all fell to their knees and sang a prayer. This action was interrupted more than once by wild cries from the audience.
All through the act, whenever Natasha glanced across at the stalls she saw Anatole Kuragin, with one arm flung along the back of his chair, staring up at her. She was delighted to see that he was so taken with her, and it never entered her head that there could be anything wrong with this.
When the second act came to an end Countess Bezukhov got to her feet, turned towards the Rostovs' box (with her bosom completely exposed), crooked a tiny gloved finger to beckon the old count over, ignored all the men crowding round her box, and engaged him in conversation with the sweetest of smiles.
'Oh, please introduce me to your lovely daughters,' she said. 'The whole town is singing their praises and I don't even know them.'
Natasha got up and curtsied to the magnificent countess. She was so delighted at being praised by such a brilliant beauty that she blushed with pleasure.
'I've every intention of becoming a Moscow resident myself,' said Helene. 'Shame on you for burying pearls like these in the country!'
Countess Bezukhov's reputation as a woman of great charm was well founded. Saying what she didn't think, especially when it was flattering, came so naturally to her it was simplicity itself.
'No, my dear count, you must let me take your daughters in hand. Actually I'm not here for very long this time, and neither are you. But I'll do what I can to amuse them. I heard so much about you in Petersburg, and I've been wanting to meet you,' she said to Natasha, with that beautiful smile that never varied. 'I've heard of you from my page, too, Drubetskoy - you'll have heard that he's getting married - and also from my husband's friend, Bolkonsky, Prince Andrey Bolkonsky,' she said, with special emphasis and a strong hint that she knew how things stood between him and Natasha. She asked for one of the young ladies to be allowed to sit through the rest of the performance in her box so that they could get to know each other, and Natasha moved acro
Natasha looked up and kissed her friend on the lips, pressing her wet face against hers.
'I can't tell you. I don't know. It's nobody's fault,' said Natasha. 'It's my fault. But it hurts, it hurts so much. Oh, why doesn't he come?'
She went down to dinner with red eyes. Marya Dmitriyevna, fully aware of how the old prince had received the Rostovs, pretended not to notice Natasha's worried face and over dinner she kept a constant stream of loud jokes going with the count and the other guests.
CHAPTER 8
That evening the Rostovs went to the opera, where Marya Dmitriyevna had taken a box for them.
Natasha didn't feel like going, but it was impossible to refuse a treat that Marya Dmitriyevna had arranged especially for her benefit. When she was all dressed up and waiting for her father in the big hall, she glanced at herself in the big mirror and saw that she looked pretty, very pretty, which made her feel even sadder than before, though it was a sweet and tender sadness.
'Oh God, if only he was here with me now, I wouldn't be like I used to be, silly and shy, I'd be quite different, I'd give him a hug, cuddle up to him and force him to look at me with those searching, questioning eyes, the way he used to look at me before, and then I'd make him laugh, the way he used to laugh, and his eyes - oh, I can see those eyes!' thought Natasha. 'And why should I bother about his father and sister? I don't love anybody else but him, him, him, with that face and those eyes, with his smile, a man's smile yet also a little boy's . . . No, it's better if I don't think about him, don't think, forget him, completely forget him for the time being. I can't bear all this waiting. I'll be sobbing any minute now,' and she turned away from the mirror in a great effort to avoid tears. 'How can Sonya love Nikolay so calmly, so easily, and keep on waiting so patiently?' she wondered, looking at Sonya, who had just come in, smartly dressed and holding a fan. 'No, she's not a bit like me. I can't manage it.'
At that moment Natasha felt so overwhelmed by softness and tenderness that it wasn't enough for her to love and know she was loved in return - now was what mattered, she wanted to embrace the man she loved now, to talk about love and hear love-talk from him, because her heart was filled with words of love. As she sat there in the carriage beside her father, staring moodily at the lights of the street lamps as they flashed by the frozen window, she began to feel even sadder and more love-stricken, until she forgot where she was going and who she was with. The Rostovs' carriage fell into line with all the other carriages and trundled slowly up to the theatre, its wheels creaking over the snow. Natasha and Sonya hopped out holding up their skirts, followed by the count, assisted down by the footmen, and the three of them made their way through the stream of opera-goers and programme-sellers towards the corridor leading to the boxes. The music had started, as they could hear through the closed doors.
'Natasha, your hair!' whispered Sonya. The box-keeper slithered past the ladies deferentially, nipped ahead and opened the door into their box. The music was suddenly louder and clearer, and from the doorway they could see the brightly lit rows of boxes, the bare arms and shoulders of the ladies, and the stalls down below, noisy and glittering with uniforms. A lady going into a nearby box stole an envious woman's glance at Natasha. The curtain was still down but the overture was under way. Natasha smoothed down her dress, walked in with Sonya, sat down and gazed across at the brightly lit tiers of boxes opposite. Suddenly, there it was again, a sensation she had not experienced for some time - hundreds of eyes staring at her bare arms and neck; it was a pleasant and yet unpleasant sensation that brought back a swarm of associated memories, desires and emotions.
There they were: two extremely pretty girls, Natasha and Sonya, in the company of Count Ilya Rostov, who had been away from Moscow for some time, and all eyes were on them. Besides that, everybody had heard something of Natasha's engagement to Prince Andrey, they all knew the Rostovs had been living in the country ever since, and they looked with great curiosity at the girl who was about to make one of the best matches in Russia.
Natasha was even prettier after her stay in the country, as everyone had been telling her, and this evening, in her present state of excitement, she looked particularly attractive. She seemed to be brimming with life and beauty, and impervious to everything around her. Her black eyes scanned the crowd without looking for anyone in particular while her slender arm, exposed almost to the shoulder, rested on the velvet edge of the box and, quite unconsciously, her hand squeezed the programme rhythmically in time to the overture.
'Look, that's Alenina,' said Sonya, 'with her mother, isn't it?'
'Good heavens, Mikhail Kirillych has put some more weight on,' said the old count.
'Look! Anna Mikhaylovna. Fancy wearing a cap like that!'
'The Karagins are over there. Julie and Boris are with them. You can tell they're engaged.'
'Drubetskoy has proposed! Oh yes, I found out today,' said Shinshin, joining the Rostovs in their box.
Natasha glanced over where her father was looking, and there was Julie with a string of pearls round her thick red neck (which Natasha knew to be well-powdered), sitting next to her mother, a picture of contentment.
Behind them sat Boris, with his handsome, neatly brushed head of hair, all smiles as he lent an ear to what Julie was saying. He squinted across at the Rostovs and smiled again as he spoke to his fiancee.
'They're talking about us, me and him!' thought Natasha. 'And she's probably jealous of me, and he's reassuring her. They don't have a thing to worry about. If only they knew. I couldn't care less about any of them.'
Behind them sat Anna Mikhaylovna, decked out in a green headpiece; she was in celebratory mood, with happiness and resignation to the will of God written all over her face. Their box was full of the atmosphere generated by an engaged couple, which Natasha knew all about and was so fond of. She turned away from them, and suddenly all the events of that humiliating morning visit surged up in her mind again.
'What right has he to keep me out of his family? Oh well, better not think about it, till he comes back!' she said to herself, and she began to scan the faces, familiar and unfamiliar, down in the stalls.
There in the middle of the front stalls, leaning back against the orchestra-rail, stood Dolokhov, in Persian costume, with his curls brushed up into a huge shock of hair. He was standing in full view, deliberately inviting the attention of the whole audience, yet as casual as if he had been at home standing alone in his room. The most brilliant set of young Muscovites thronged round him, and he was clearly the cock of the roost.
Count Ilya laughed as he nudged the blushing Sonya and pointed out her former admirer.
'Didn't you recognize him?' he asked. 'But what's he doing here?' he asked, turning to Shinshin. 'I thought he'd gone off somewhere.'
'Yes, he did,' answered Shinshin. 'He went down to the Caucasus, then he ran away, and I believe he became a minister with some sort of ruling prince down in Persia, and he went and killed the Shah's brother. Anyway, all the Moscow ladies are crazy about him! "Dolokhov - the man from Persia" - that's all you need to say. Nowadays you hear nothing but Dolokhov. They all kowtow to him. It's a rare treat to be asked to meet him,' said Shinshin. 'Dolokhov and Anatole Kuragin, they've got the ladies swooning all right.'
Into the adjoining box walked a gorgeous tall woman with a huge pile of hair, superb arms and shoulders ostentatiously exposed and a double string of large pearls round her neck. She took some time to settle down, with much rustling of her thick silk evening-dress.
Natasha couldn't resist staring at this lady's neck and shoulders, her pearls and her elaborate hairstyle and admiring the beauty of those shoulders and pearls. When she turned for a second look the lady glanced round, met the eyes of Count Ilya Rostov and gave him a nod and a smile. It was Countess Bezukhov, Pierre's wife. The count, who knew everyone in society, leant across and addressed a few words to her.
'Have you been here long, Countess?' he began. 'I've been meaning to call in and kiss your hand. I'm in town on business and I've brought my girls with me. I hear Semyonova's a wonderful actress,' the count went on. 'Your good husband never used to forget us. Is he here?'
'Yes, he did say he'd drop in,' said Helene, with a close eye on Natasha.
Count Ilya sat back in his place.
'Lovely woman, isn't she?' he whispered to Natasha.
'Out of this world!' said Natasha. 'It would be easy to fall in love with her!'
At that moment the final chords of the overture rang out, and the conductor rapped on the stand with his baton. Late-comers scurried to their seats in the stalls, and the curtain rose.
Immediately a hush fell on boxes and stalls, and all the men, old and young, in evening-dress or uniform, and all the women with jewels draped across their exposed flesh turned with eager anticipation to watch the stage. Natasha too turned to watch.
CHAPTER 9
The stage consisted of flat boards down the middle with painted cardboard representing trees at both sides and cloth-covered boards at the back. Several young girls in red tops and white skirts were sitting in the middle of the stage. One very fat girl in a white silk dress sat to one side on a low bench with green cardboard glued on the back of it. They were all singing something. When they had finished their song the woman in white came forward to the prompter's box, and a man with fat legs squeezed into silk tights, with a feather in his hat and a dagger in his belt, came up to her and burst into song with much waving of his arms.
The man in tights sang alone, then she sang alone, then they both held back while the music played on and the man fingered the hand of the woman in white, obviously waiting for the right moment to start up again and sing a piece with her. They did sing together, after which the theatre erupted in applause and loud shouting, while the man and woman on the stage, representing two lovers, beamed as they held out their arms and took bows.
Just back from the country, and now in a serious frame of mind, Natasha saw all this as astonishingly grotesque. She couldn't follow the opera and couldn't hear any music; all she could see was painted cardboard and oddly dressed men and women, talking, singing and prancing about just as oddly under bright lights. She knew what it was supposed to represent, but it was all so grotesquely forced and unnatural that she found herself alternating between embarrassment and amusement at the actors' expense. She glanced round at faces in the audience, looking for signs of the same amusement and bewilderment that she was feeling. But all the faces were absorbed in what was happening on the stage, and they displayed a kind of rapture that Natasha could only assume to be affected. 'I suppose it has to be like this!' thought Natasha. She looked alternately at the rows of pomaded men's heads in the stalls and the half-naked women in the boxes, especially Helene in the next box who was sitting there so openly exposed, staring fixedly at the stage with a quiet and serene smile on her face, and basking in the bright light that flooded the theatre and the close atmosphere warmed up by the crowd. Natasha was beginning to glide steadily into a state of light-headedness the like of which she hadn't experienced for some time. She lost all sense of what she was and where she was and what was going on before her eyes. She gazed ahead, letting her thoughts wander, and the weirdest of disconnected ideas suddenly flashed through her mind. One moment she felt like leaping over the footlights and singing along with the actress; then she felt an urge to dig an old gentleman sitting near by with her fan, or lean over towards Helene and tickle her.
In a moment of silence on the stage with a new aria about to begin, a stalls door creaked open on the Rostovs' side of the theatre, and a man's footsteps could be heard padding over the carpet. 'That's him, Kuragin!' whispered Shinshin. Countess Bezukhov turned and beamed at the late arrival. Natasha followed Countess Bezukhov's eyes and saw a strikingly handsome adjutant walking towards their box with a confident stride and a courteous manner. It was Anatole Kuragin, whom she had seen and noticed some time before at a ball in Petersburg. He was wearing his adjutant's uniform, with one epaulette and a shoulder knot. He walked with a jaunty little swagger that would have looked ridiculous if he hadn't been so handsome, and if his fine features hadn't expressed such open-hearted self-assurance and high spirits. Although the performance was in full swing he didn't hurry as he strode down the sloping, carpeted aisle, his perfumed, handsome head held high and his spurs and sword gently jingling. With a quick glance at Natasha he went over to his sister, laid a tightly gloved hand on the edge of her box, nodded to her and leant over to asked her something, with a gesture towards Natasha.
'Delightful girl!' he said, obviously referring to Natasha, who could not hear his words but could read his lips. Then he proceeded to the front row and sat down beside Dolokhov, giving him a casual, friendly elbow in the ribs - and this was Dolokhov, the man who inspired such deference in everybody else. With a cheeky wink and a merry smile at him Anatole put one foot up on the orchestra-screen.
'Brother and sister, and they're so like each other,' said the count. 'Handsome pair!'
Shinshin lowered his voice and began telling the count about one of Kuragin's escapades in Moscow, and Natasha listened, not least because he had called her a delightful girl.
The first act came to an end. Everyone stood up in the stalls, they left their places and there was much coming and going.
Boris came over to the Rostovs' box, accepted their congratulations without any fuss, raised his eyebrows with a distracted smile, told Natasha and Sonya that his fiancee wished to invite them both to the wedding, and then left. Natasha had been chatting to him with a cheery, flirtatious smile on her lips, and she had congratulated him on his approaching marriage, the same Boris she had once been in love with. In the kind of light-headed mood she was in, everything seemed perfectly straightforward and natural.
Helene was sitting near by in all her semi-nakedness, beaming at all and sundry, and Natasha beamed at Boris in exactly the same way.
Helene's box had filled up inside and was surrounded from the stalls by the cleverest and most distinguished men, falling over each other in their eagerness to let everyone see that they were known to her.
Kuragin spent the entire interval standing with Dolokhov in front of the footlights staring across at the Rostovs' box. Natasha sensed that he was talking about her and the knowledge gave her a thrill of pleasure. She even adjusted her position so that he could see her in profile, which she considered her best angle. Before the beginning of the second act the figure of Pierre, whom the Rostovs hadn't seen since their arrival, appeared in the stalls. He had a sad look on his face, and he had put on even more weight since Natasha had last seen him. He walked down to the front rows without noticing anyone. Anatole went over to him and started talking, with the occasional glance and gesture towards the Rostovs' box. Pierre's face lit up when he saw Natasha and he hurried past rows of stalls towards their box. When he reached them he leant an elbow on the edge of their box and chatted to Natasha at some length, smiling all the time.
While she was talking to Pierre Natasha heard the sound of a man's voice from Countess Bezukhov's box, and something told her it was Kuragin. She glanced round and their eyes met. With a half-smile on his face and a look of such warmth and admiration he stared straight at her in such a way that it seemed odd for her to be standing so close to him and to be looking at him like that, absolutely certain that he liked her, without their knowing each other.
In the second act a cemetery was depicted on the painted cardboard, there was a hole in the back-cloth to represent the moon, the footlights were shaded, horns and double-basses sounded forth, and a number of people emerged from right and left dressed in black cloaks. These people began waving their arms about, with things that looked like daggers in their hands. Then some more people ran on and began dragging away the girl who had been in white but was now wearing a pale-blue dress. Instead of dragging her off straightaway they spent a long time singing with her, but then they did drag her away, and behind the scenes someone banged three times on a piece of iron, whereupon they all fell to their knees and sang a prayer. This action was interrupted more than once by wild cries from the audience.
All through the act, whenever Natasha glanced across at the stalls she saw Anatole Kuragin, with one arm flung along the back of his chair, staring up at her. She was delighted to see that he was so taken with her, and it never entered her head that there could be anything wrong with this.
When the second act came to an end Countess Bezukhov got to her feet, turned towards the Rostovs' box (with her bosom completely exposed), crooked a tiny gloved finger to beckon the old count over, ignored all the men crowding round her box, and engaged him in conversation with the sweetest of smiles.
'Oh, please introduce me to your lovely daughters,' she said. 'The whole town is singing their praises and I don't even know them.'
Natasha got up and curtsied to the magnificent countess. She was so delighted at being praised by such a brilliant beauty that she blushed with pleasure.
'I've every intention of becoming a Moscow resident myself,' said Helene. 'Shame on you for burying pearls like these in the country!'
Countess Bezukhov's reputation as a woman of great charm was well founded. Saying what she didn't think, especially when it was flattering, came so naturally to her it was simplicity itself.
'No, my dear count, you must let me take your daughters in hand. Actually I'm not here for very long this time, and neither are you. But I'll do what I can to amuse them. I heard so much about you in Petersburg, and I've been wanting to meet you,' she said to Natasha, with that beautiful smile that never varied. 'I've heard of you from my page, too, Drubetskoy - you'll have heard that he's getting married - and also from my husband's friend, Bolkonsky, Prince Andrey Bolkonsky,' she said, with special emphasis and a strong hint that she knew how things stood between him and Natasha. She asked for one of the young ladies to be allowed to sit through the rest of the performance in her box so that they could get to know each other, and Natasha moved acro