The carriage rocked back and forth. Alexander felt a sickening sensation in my stomach as if the meager supper he had the night of the storm had made its way back up to his mouth. Then a crash noise came as he heard the squeak of the carriage hitting something. “Ow,” said a male voice, higher than Dolokhov’s “Anatole?” Helene asked. “Y-yes,” Anatole squeaked. “Is he alright?” Alexander asked. “I-I broke my arm,” he replied. “I-I’ll have to miss out on the opera tonight, tell me what it’s like.” (view spoiler)[ in the musical, he doesn’t actually break his arm (hide spoiler)]
The Opera was not to start for another few minutes, but everyone came early to share the latest gossip in their respective boxes. Sofia, “Sonya” Rostova had arrived a few moments before with her cousin Natalya, “Natasha” and Natasha’s godmother Marya Dmitrievna. It was Marya’s place to gossip, she supposed.
Sonya nodded reluctantly. It was common knowledge that Helene Bezukhova had been cheating on her drunken husband Pierre with the younger, more dashing Fedya Dolokhov, only no one said it out loud. Probably most everyone had been cheating on their spouses too. As a widowed old maid, Marya had the right to gossip about it.
The last few patrons spilled in, among them Countess Bezukhova. Dolokhov, who she knew, was close behind, but next to Helene stood a stranger perhaps about her age, who Sonya didn’t recognize, as she and Natasha made their way into the foyer.
“...A pity,” Helene was saying to an associate of hers. “Anatole was hit by a carriage.”
”Ah, quel dommage!" exclaimed her friend. “But who is this?” She gestured toward the stranger.
“My name is Alexander Hamilton,” he replied. “I have only come to Moscow recently.”
Helene, her friend and the stranger continued making their way through the crowd, the rest of their conversation obscured by its noise. Natasha found Sonya soon after she spotted the conversation with the stranger, apparently called Alexander Hamilton. As they girls made a bit of unremarkable small talk, Helene came toward them.
“The two remarkably pretty girls,” she gushed, holding Dolokhov’s arm as they showed themselves off to the world while Alexander approached them.
“So, Helene was talking about you,” he said.
“How do you know Helene?” Sonya asked.
“It’s complicated,” he replied. “I’ll tell you when we’re out of the foyer.” He held his hand out. “Alexander Hamilton.”
She nodded. “Where’s your family from?”
“Unimportant, there’s a million things I haven’t done.” “Sofia Rostova,” she said. “Natalya Rostova,” said Natasha. “My cousin,” Sonya added. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
“Ow,” said a male voice, higher than Dolokhov’s
“Anatole?” Helene asked.
“Y-yes,” Anatole squeaked.
“Is he alright?” Alexander asked.
“I-I broke my arm,” he replied. “I-I’ll have to miss out on the opera tonight, tell me what it’s like.” (view spoiler)[ in the musical, he doesn’t actually break his arm (hide spoiler)]
The Opera was not to start for another few minutes, but everyone came early to share the latest gossip in their respective boxes. Sofia, “Sonya” Rostova had arrived a few moments before with her cousin Natalya, “Natasha” and Natasha’s godmother Marya Dmitrievna. It was Marya’s place to gossip, she supposed.
“Countess Bezukhova isn’t here, eh?” Marya asked. “Good riddance.”
Sonya nodded reluctantly. It was common knowledge that Helene Bezukhova had been cheating on her drunken husband Pierre with the younger, more dashing Fedya Dolokhov, only no one said it out loud. Probably most everyone had been cheating on their spouses too. As a widowed old maid, Marya had the right to gossip about it.
The last few patrons spilled in, among them Countess Bezukhova. Dolokhov, who she knew, was close behind, but next to Helene stood a stranger perhaps about her age, who Sonya didn’t recognize, as she and Natasha made their way into the foyer.
“...A pity,” Helene was saying to an associate of hers. “Anatole was hit by a carriage.”
”Ah, quel dommage!" exclaimed her friend. “But who is this?” She gestured toward the stranger.
“My name is Alexander Hamilton,” he replied. “I have only come to Moscow recently.”
Helene, her friend and the stranger continued making their way through the crowd, the rest of their conversation obscured by its noise. Natasha found Sonya soon after she spotted the conversation with the stranger, apparently called Alexander Hamilton. As they girls made a bit of unremarkable small talk, Helene came toward them.
“The two remarkably pretty girls,” she gushed, holding Dolokhov’s arm as they showed themselves off to the world while Alexander approached them.
“So, Helene was talking about you,” he said.
“How do you know Helene?” Sonya asked.
“It’s complicated,” he replied. “I’ll tell you when we’re out of the foyer.” He held his hand out. “Alexander Hamilton.”
She nodded. “Where’s your family from?”
“Unimportant, there’s a million things I haven’t done.”
“Sofia Rostova,” she said.
“Natalya Rostova,” said Natasha.
“My cousin,” Sonya added.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
A chime announced the start of the opera.