War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [296]
“Ah, my God, wait, then! Like that, Sonya.”
“Won’t you hurry?” the countess’s voice was heard. “It’s already ten.”
“Right away, right away. Are you ready, mama?”
“I only have to pin on my toque.”
“Don’t do it without me,” cried Natasha, “you won’t manage!”
“But it’s already ten.”
It had been decided to appear at the ball at half past ten, but Natasha still had to dress, and they still had to drive to the Tavrichesky Garden.
Having finished doing her hair, Natasha, in a short petticoat, her ball slippers showing from under it, and wearing her mother’s bed jacket, ran up to Sonya, looked her over, and then ran to her mother. She turned her mother’s head, pinned on the toque, and, quickly kissing her gray hair, again ran to the maids who were taking up her skirt.
The only thing now was Natasha’s skirt, which was too long. Two maids were taking it up, hurriedly biting off the thread. A third, holding pins in her lips and between her teeth, kept running from the countess to Sonya; a fourth held the whole gauze dress on her high-raised arm.
“Mavrusha, darling, be quick!”
“Hand me the thimble there, miss.”
“Will you hurry up, finally?” the count said, coming through the door. “Here’s your scent. Mme Peronsky must be waiting.”
“It’s ready, miss,” said the maid, lifting the taken-up gauze dress with two fingers, and shaking it and blowing at something, showing by this gesture an awareness of the airiness and purity of what she was holding.
Natasha began to put the dress on.
“One moment, one moment, don’t come in, papa!” she cried to her father, who had opened the door, still under the gauze of her skirt, which covered her whole face. Sonya slammed the door. A moment later the count was admitted. He was wearing a dark blue tailcoat, stockings and shoes, was perfumed and pomaded.
“Papa, you look so handsome, it’s lovely!” said Natasha, standing in the middle of the room and spreading the folds of the gauze.
“Let me, miss, let me,” said the maid, getting on her knees, pulling at the dress, and moving the pins with her tongue from one side of her mouth to the other.
“Say what you like,” Sonya cried with despair in her voice, looking at Natasha’s dress, “say what you like, it’s still too long!”
Natasha stepped back to look at herself in the pier glass. The dress was too long.
“By God, miss, it’s not too long at all,” said Mavrusha, who was crawling on the floor following her young lady.
“Well, if it’s long, we can take it up, we can take it up in a minute,” said the resolute Dunyasha, taking a needle out of the fichu on her breast and setting to work again on the floor.
Just then the countess came in bashfully, with quiet steps, in her toque and velvet dress.
“Ohh! my beauty!” cried the count. “Better than any of you!…” He was about to embrace her, but she retreated, blushing, so as not to have her dress rumpled.
“Mama, the toque more to one side,” said Natasha. “I’ll re-pin it,” and she rushed forward, and the sewing girls, who had no time to follow her, tore off a piece of gauze.
“My God! What is this? It’s not my fault, I swear…”
“Never mind, I’ll stitch it up, it won’t show,” said Dunyasha.
“My beauty, my queen!” the nanny said, coming through the door. “And Sonyushka, too, what beauties!…”
At a quarter past ten they finally got into carriages and drove off. But they still had to stop by the Tavrichesky Garden.
Mme Peronsky was ready. Despite her old age and unattractiveness, the same things had gone on with her as at the Rostovs’, though not as hurriedly (it was a habitual thing for her). Her old, unattractive body had been perfumed, washed, powdered in just the same way, she had been scrubbed behind the ears just as carefully, and, just as at the Rostovs’, her old maid had delightedly admired her mistress’s outfit, when she came out to the drawing room in a yellow dress with a monogram. Mme Peronsky praised the attire of the Rostovs.
The Rostovs praised her taste and attire and, mindful of their dresses and hair, put themselves into the carriages at eleven o’clock