War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [324]
The island of the Otradnoe reserve could be seen about two hundred yards away, and the kennelmen were approaching it. Rostov, having come to a final decision with the uncle about where to set on the hounds, and pointing Natasha to a place where she could stand and where nothing could ever run out, he went to circle around above the ravine.
“Well, dear nephew, you’re up against a seasoned one,” said the uncle, “mind you don’t go petting him.”
“We’ll see,” replied Rostov. “Karai, phweet!” he cried, answering his uncle’s words with this call. Karai was an ugly and whiskery old he-dog, famous for having gone alone against a seasoned wolf. Everybody took their places.
The old count, knowing his son’s hunting ardor, hurried so as not to be late, and before the kennelmen managed to reach their places, Ilya Andreich, merry, red-cheeked, with quivering jowls, drove up with his black horses across the green winter wheat to the covert left for him, and having straightened his fur jacket and put on his hunting gear, mounted his sleek, well-fed, placid, and kind Viflyanka, gone as gray as himself. The horses and droshky were sent away.
Count Ilya Andreich, who, though not a hunter at heart, had a firm knowledge of the rules of hunting, rode to the edge of the bushes where he was to stand, straightened out the reins, settled in the saddle, and, feeling himself ready, looked around, smiling.
Next to him stood his valet, Semyon Chekmar, an old horseman now grown heavy in the saddle. Chekmar held in leash three wolfhounds, spirited but grown fat, like their master and his horse. Two clever old dogs lay down without a leash. A hundred paces away, inside the edge of the woods, stood the count’s other groom, Mitka, a desperate horseman and passionate hunter. The count, by ancient habit, drank a silver tumbler of hunter’s spiced brandy, had a bite to eat, and washed it down with half a bottle of his favorite Bordeaux.
Ilya Andreevich was slightly flushed from the wine and the driving; his eyes, veiled with moisture, had a special glitter, and, wrapped in his fur coat, sitting in his saddle, he had the look of a child made ready to go for a walk.
The thin, hollow-cheeked Chekmar, having set everything up for himself, kept glancing at his master, with whom he had lived in perfect harmony for thirty years, and understanding his pleasant state of mind, expected some pleasant conversation. A third person also rode up cautiously (clearly he had already learned his lesson) from beyond the woods, and stopped behind the count. This person was an old, gray-bearded man in a woman’s coat and tall hat. He was the buffoon Nastasya Ivanovna.
“Well, Nastasya Ivanovna,” the count said in a whisper, winking at him, “if you frighten the beast away, Danilo will give it to you.”
“I’m a big boy myself,” said Nastasya Ivanovna.
“Shh!” the count shushed and turned to Semyon.
“Have you seen Natalya Ilyinichna?” he asked Semyon. “Where is she?”
“She and Pyotr Ilyich are standing across from the Zharovo thicket,” Semyon replied, smiling. “She may be a lady, but she knows a lot about hunting.”
“And aren’t you amazed at how she rides…eh, Semyon?” said the count. “The equal of any man!”
“How could I not be amazed? She’s bold, skillful!”
“And where’s Nikolashka? Over at the Lyadovsky knoll, is he?” the count went on asking in a whisper.
“Just so, sir. He knows where to stand. He’s got such fine knowledge of horsemanship, me and Danilo just marvel sometimes,” said Semyon, knowing how to please his master.
“Rides well, eh? And how he sits a horse, eh?”
“A real picture! Like the other day when we chased a fox from the Zavarzinsky thicket. The master went hurtling to cut it off from the forest, something fearsome—a thousand-rouble horse, but the rider’s priceless! Yes, a fine fellow like that is hard to find!”
“Hard to find…” repeated the count, obviously sorry that Semyon had stopped talking so soon. “Hard to find,” he said,