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“You are going?” asked Natsha. “I knew you would! Snya said you wouldn’t go, but I knew that today is the sort of day when you couldn’t help going.”
“Yes, we are going,” replied Nicholas reluctantly, for today, as he intended to hunt seriously, he did not want to take Natsha and Ptya. “We are going, but only wolf hunting: it would be dull for you.”
“You know it is my greatest pleasure,” said Natsha. “It’s not fair; you are going by yourself, are having the horses saddled and said nothing to us about it.”
“‘No barrier bars a Russian’s path’—we’ll go!” shouted Ptya.
“But you can’t. Mamma said you mustn’t,” said Nicholas to Natsha.
“Yes, I’ll go. I shall certainly go,” said Natsha decisively. “Daniel, tell them to saddle for us, and Michael must come with my dogs,” she added to the huntsman.
It seemed to Daniel irksome and improper to be in a room at all, but to have anything to do with a young lady seemed to him impossible. He cast down his eyes and hurried out as if it were none of his business, careful as he went not to inflict any accidental injury on the young lady.
The old count, who had always kept up an enormous hunting establishment but had now handed it all completely over to his son’s care, being in very good spirits on this fifteenth of September, prepared to go out with the others.
In an hour’s time the whole hunting party was at the porch. Nicholas, with a stern and serious air which showed that now was no time for attending to trifles, went past Natsha and Ptya who were trying to tell him something. He had a look at all the details of the hunt, sent a pack of hounds and huntsmen on ahead to find the quarry, mounted his chestnut Donts, and whistling to his own leash of borzois, set off across the threshing ground to a field leading to the Otrdnoe wood. The old count’s horse, a sorrel gelding called Viflynka, was led by the groom in attendance on him, while the count himself was to drive in a small trap straight to a spot reserved for him.
They were taking fifty-four hounds, with six hunt attendants and whippers-in. Besides the family, there were eight borzoi kennelmen and more than forty borzois, so that, with the borzois on the leash belonging to members of the family, there were about a hundred and thirty dogs and twenty horsemen.
Each dog knew its master and its call. Each man in the hunt knew his business, his place, what he had to do. As soon as they had passed the fence they all spread out evenly and quietly, without noise or talk, along the road and field leading to the Otrdnoe covert.
The horses stepped over the field as over a thick carpet, now and then splashing into puddles as they crossed a road. The misty sky still seemed to descend evenly and imperceptibly toward the earth, the air was still, warm, and silent. Occasionally the whistle of a huntsman, the snort of a horse, the crack of a whip, or the whine of a straggling hound could be heard.
When they had gone a little less than a mile, five more riders with dogs appeared out of the mist, approaching the Rostvs. In front rode a fresh-looking, handsome old man with a large gray mustache.
“Good morning, Uncle!” said Nicholas, when the old man drew near.
“That’s it. Come on!... I was sure of it,” began “Uncle.” (He was a distant relative of the Rostvs’, a man of small means, and their neighbor.) “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist it and it’s a good thing you’re going. That’s it! Come on!” (This was “Uncle’s” favorite expression.) “Take the covert at once, for my Grchik says the Ilgins are at Kornik with their hounds. That’s it. Come on!... They’ll take the cubs from under your very nose.”
“That’s where I’m going. Shall we join up our packs?” asked Nicholas.
The hounds were joined into one pack, and “Uncle” and Nicholas rode on side by side. Natsha, muffled up in shawls which did not hide her eager face and shining eyes, galloped up to them. She was followed by Ptya who always kept close to her, by Michael, a huntsman, and by a groom appointed to look after her. Ptya, who was laughing, whipped and pulled at his horse. Natsha sat easily and confidently on her black Arbchik and reined him in without effort with a firm hand.
“Uncle” looked round disapprovingly at Ptya and Natsha. He did not like to combine frivolity with the serious business of hunting.
“Good morning, Uncle! We are going too!” shouted Ptya.
“Good morning, good morning! But don’t go overriding the hounds,” said “Uncle” sternly.
“Nicholas, what a fine dog Trunla is! He knew me,” said Natsha, referring to her favorite hound.
“In the first place, Trunla is not a ‘dog,’ but a harrier,” thought Nicholas, and looked sternly at his sister, trying to make her feel the distance that ought to separate them at that moment. Natsha understood it.
“You mustn’t think we’ll be in anyone’s way, Uncle,” she said. “We’ll go to our places and won’t budge.”
“A good thing too, little countess,” said “Uncle,” “only mind you don’t fall off your horse,” he added, “because—that’s it, come on!—you’ve nothing to hold on to.”
The oasis of the Otrdnoe covert came in sight a few hundred yards off, the huntsmen were already nearing it. Rostv, having finally settled with “Uncle” where they should set on the hounds, and having shown Natsha where she was to stand—a spot where nothing could possibly run out—went round above the ravine.
“Well, nephew, you’re going for a big wolf,” said “Uncle.” “Mind and don’t let her slip!”
“That’s as may happen,” answered Rostv. “Kary, here!” he shouted, answering “Uncle’s” remark by this call to his borzoi. Kary was a shaggy old dog with a hanging jowl, famous for having tackled a big wolf unaided. They all took up their places.
The old count, knowing his son’s ardor in the hunt, hurried so as not to be late, and the huntsmen had not yet reached their places when Count Ily Rostv, cheerful, flushed, and with quivering cheeks, drove up with his black horses over the winter rye to the place reserved for him, where a wolf might come out. Having straightened his coat and fastened on his hunting knives and horn, he mounted his good, sleek, well-fed, and comfortable horse, Viflynka, which was turning gray, like himself. His horses and trap were sent home. Count Ily Rostv, though not at heart a keen sportsman, knew the rules of the hunt well, and rode to the bushy edge of the road where he was to stand, arranged his reins, settled himself in the saddle, and, feeling that he was ready, looked about with a smile.
