War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy

  Mitenka's wife and sisters-in-law peeped out in great alarm, scanning the passage from the doorway of their room, where a bright samovar was simmering away and the steward's high bedstead stood out with its patchwork quilt.

  The young count ignored them as he strode past with firm steps, breathing deeply, and disappeared into the house.

  Word of what had happened in the lodge reached the countess immediately through her maids. She was consoled by the thought that things were bound to improve from now on, though on the other hand she was worried about her son and how these events might affect him. Once or twice she tiptoed over to his door and listened; he sat within, smoking one pipe after another.

  The next day the old count took his son to one side and said with a diffident smile, 'Listen, my dear boy, I think you may have gone a bit too far. Mitenka's told me the whole story.'

  'I knew it,' thought Nikolay. 'I knew I'd never get to grips with anything in this crazy world.'

  'You lost your temper because he didn't enter those seven hundred roubles in the book. But you see they were carried forward, and you never looked at the next page.'

  'Papa, he's a thief and a swindler. That much I do know. And I've done what I've done. But if you prefer it that way, I won't talk to him again.'

  'Oh no, dear boy!' The old count was embarrassed now. He was well aware that he had mismanaged his wife's estate and not done right by his children, but he hadn't the first idea how to make up for it all. 'No, please. Do go into everything. I'm an old man. I . . .'

  'No, Papa, I'm sorry if I've upset you. You know more than I do.'

  'Damn the lot of them, these peasants, and money problems and everything being carried forward,' he thought. 'Years ago I could add up with the best of them in a card school, but carrying things forward is beyond me,' he told himself, and from that time on he kept out of the business side of the family.

  But one day the countess called her son in and told him she still held an IOU from Anna Mikhaylovna for two thousand roubles, and she asked Nikolay what he thought should be done with it.

  'Well,' answered Nikolay, 'you say it's my decision. I don't like Anna Mikhaylovna, and I don't like Boris, but they were friends of ours, and they were poor. So that's what I'd do!' and he tore the note into pieces, which made the countess sob with tears of joy. After this, the young Rostov put all forms of business to one side and devoted himself with enormous enthusiasm to what was for him a new occupation - hunting - which the old count's estate catered for in the grand manner.

  CHAPTER 3

  The first signs of winter were in the air now, with morning frosts hardening the earth after its soaking by the autumn rain. The grass had gone tussocky and it stood out in splashes of bright green against patches of brown winter rye trodden down by the cattle, pale yellow corn stubble and reddish strips of buckwheat. The uplands and copses, which at the end of August had still been green islands among the black fields and stubble, had turned into golden and crimson islands in a sea of bright green early-winter crops. The hares had half-grown their winter coats, the fox-cubs were beginning to leave the den, and the young wolves had grown bigger than dogs. This was the best time of the year for hunting. Rostov, suddenly the keenest of country sportsmen, could see that his hounds were not quite hunting-fit and their pads were still tender, so when the hunters met they decided to rest the dogs for three days and then go out on a grand hunt on the 16th of September, starting at the Oak Grove, where there was an unhunted litter of wolves.

  This was how things stood on the 14th of September.

  All that day the hounds were kept in. There had been a sharp frost, but by evening the sky had clouded over and it had begun to thaw. On the morning of the 15th of September young Rostov stood at the window in his dressing-gown and gazed out on a morning that was perfect for hunting. There wasn't a breath of wind and the sky looked as if it was melting and dissolving into the ground. The only movement detectable in the air was the gentle descent of microscopic beads of moisture in a misty drizzle. Out in the garden bare branches were hung with limpid droplets dripping down on to newly fallen leaves. The kitchen-garden soil gleamed black and wet like the heart of a poppy, and only a few feet away it melted into the damp shroud of grey mist.

  Nikolay went out on to the wet, muddy porch. There was a smell of dogs and rotting leaves. Milka, a stocky black and white bitch, lay there watching with her wide, bulbous black eyes, and when she caught sight of her master she got up, stretched back, lay down again like a hare and then suddenly jumped up to lick him on the nose and moustache. Another dog, a borzoi, suddenly spotted his master from the garden path, arched his back and shot up the steps, wagging his tail and rubbing up against Nikolay's legs.

  There was a shout: 'Halloo!' It was the inimitable hunting call that somehow combines deep bass with reedy tenor. And round the corner came the head huntsman and whipper-in, Danilo, all grizzled and wrinkled, with his hair cut straight across his forehead Ukrainian-style. He was holding a curved hunting-crop, and he had the air of aloofness and total scorn that you only see in huntsmen. He greeted his master by raising his Circassian cap while treating him to a look of great disdain. Such scorn was not meant to offend his master. Nikolay knew full well that this Danilo, for all his air of superiority and all-round contempt, belonged to him, man and huntsman.

  'Oh, it's you, Danilo,' said Nikolay rather shyly, sensing as he took in the splendid hunting weather, the dogs and the huntsman that he was being carried away by the kind of irresistible surge of pleasure that makes you forget all your previous intentions, like a lover with his mistress.

  'What shall we do, sir?' The bass voice, hoarse from hallooing, rang out like an archdeacon's, and a pair of furtive black eyes glinted at the silent young master, two eyes that seemed to say, 'You can't resist this, can you?'

  'Nice day for it, eh? Go for a gallop? Spot of hunting?' said Nikolay, scratching Milka behind the ears.

  Danilo said nothing, but both his eyes were winking.

  'I sent Uvarka out first thing to listen,' came his bass voice after a moment's silence. 'According to what he says, she's moved 'em on to Otradnoye land. Heard 'em howling.' ('She's moved 'em on' meant that the she-wolf they both knew about had brought her cubs into the Otradnoye copse, a little plantation not much more than a mile away.)

  'Are we off then?' said Nikolay. 'Come on in, and bring Uvarka.'

  'If that's what you want, sir.'

  'Hold back on the feeding.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Five minutes later Danilo and Uvarka were standing in Nikolay's big study. Although Danilo was not a big man, seeing him in any room was rather like seeing a horse or bear standing on the floor amongst the furniture and bits and pieces of human life. Danilo was conscious of this himself, and as usual he stood by the door and tried to speak as softly as he could and avoid all movement for fear of doing any damage in the master's apartment. He did his utmost to get everything said as fast as he could so as to escape into the open air, to get out from under a ceiling and find himself back under the sky.

  After asking all his questions and getting Danilo to concede that the dogs were fit (Danilo himself was dying to go hunting), Nikolay told them to saddle the horses. But then, just as Danilo was about to go, in tripped Natasha, not properly dressed, with her hair undone and covered with a big scarf belonging to her old nurse. Petya ran in with her.

  'Are you going out hunting?' said Natasha. 'I knew you were! Sonya said you wouldn't go. I knew you'd never be able to resist it on a day like this!'

  'Yes, we are,' Nikolay answered reluctantly. Today he wanted to enjoy some serious hunting and he didn't want to take Natasha and Petya. 'We are, but it's only a bit of wolf-hunting. You'd be bored.'

  'You know that's what I like best,' said Natasha. 'You're awful - going off on your own, getting the horses saddled and not telling us.'

  'The Russians come and none shall bar the way!' declaimed Petya. 'Off we go!'

  'But you can't. Mamma
said you mustn't,' said Nikolay to Natasha.

  'Oh yes I am. I've simply got to!' said Natasha brooking no resistance. 'Danilo, saddle some horses for us, and tell Mikhaylo to hunt with my pack,' she said to the huntsman.

  Simply to be there in the room was a dreadful ordeal for Danilo, but for him to have any dealings with a young lady was beyond all bounds. He looked down at the floor and scuttled away as if all of this had nothing to do with him, desperately anxious to avoid inflicting any damage on the young lady.

  CHAPTER 4

  The old count, who had always maintained a magnificent hunt, had by now handed the whole thing over to his son, but on that day, the 15th of September, he was in a buoyant mood and he decided to ride out with them. Within the hour the whole hunt was assembled in front of the porch. Natasha and Petya wanted to say something to Nikolay, but he brushed past them looking serious and solemn, as if to indicate that this was no time for fooling around. He scanned the hunt from side to side, sent a pack of hounds and huntsmen on ahead to go the long way round, got on his chestnut Don horse, and whistling up his own leash of borzois he set off across the threshing-ground and into a field leading towards the Otradnoye wood. The old count's horse, a sorrel gelding called Viflyanka, was led out by a groom, while he himself was to drive over in a little trap and join the others at a prearranged place, a break in the covert.

  Fifty-four hounds were led out in the care of six grooms and whippers-in. In addition to the family members eight men in charge of more than forty borzois were going out - there must have been about a hundred and thirty dogs and twenty horsemen in all.

  Every dog knew its master and its call. Every man in the hunt knew what was expected of him, where to be and what to do. Once past the fence, they all moved along steadily with no noise and no talking, straggling back along the road and stretching out across the field leading to the Otradnoye covert.

  The horses trod the field gently as if they were walking over a thick carpet, and splashed through puddles as they crossed the road. The misty sky still seemed to be trickling slowly and imperceptibly down into the earth, the air was still and warm, and not a sound disturbed the silence except for the odd whistle from a huntsman, the snort of a horse, the smack of a whip or the whine of a dog who had lost his place. When they had gone about three-quarters of a mile, five more riders with their dogs emerged from the mist coming towards them. In front rode a fresh-faced, handsome old man with a big grey moustache.

  'Morning, Uncle,' said Nikolay as the old man rode up to him.

  'Fair for the chase! . . . I knew it would be,' was 'Uncle's' response. He was a distant relative who lived near by on modest means.

  'I knew you wouldn't be able to resist it, and you were right to come out. Fair for the chase!' (Uncle's favourite saying.) 'I should get over to the covert straightaway. My Girchik tells me the Ilagins are out with their hounds over at Korniki. Fair for the chase! They'll pinch the litter from under your noses.'

  'That's where I'm going. Shall we join forces?' asked Nikolay.

  The hounds were brought together into a single pack, and 'Uncle' and Nikolay rode on side by side.

  Natasha's eager face and gleaming eyes peeped out from her shawls and scarves as she galloped over to them, doggedly pursued by Petya and Mikhaylo, the huntsman and groom who had been detailed to look after her. Petya was laughing, whipping his horse and pulling back on the reins. Natasha sat on her jet-black Arabchick with easy confidence, controlling him with a gentle, steady hand.

  The uncle looked askance at Petya and Natasha. For him, playing games and the serious business of hunting didn't go together.

  'Good morning, Uncle. We're coming hunting too!' shouted Petya.

  'Good morning to you. Mind you don't trample the dogs,' said the uncle sternly.

  'Oh, Nikolay, darling, Trunila is such a nice dog! He knew me,' said Natasha, referring to her favourite hunting dog.

  'Hmph, for one thing, Trunila's not a dog, he's a wolfhound,' thought Nikolay, glancing at his sister in an effort to put some noticeable distance between them at this particular time. Natasha took the hint.

  'Oh, please don't think we're going to get in the way, Uncle,' said Natasha. 'We'll stay where we're put and we won't move a muscle.'

  'Quite right too, little Countess,' said 'Uncle'. 'But don't fall off your horse,' he added, 'otherwise . . . Fair for the chase! . . . you won't have anything to sit on and watch.'

  The little island of the Otradnoye covert hove into sight, a couple of hundred yards ahead. Rostov and his 'uncle' decided between them where best to loose the dogs, then Nikolay showed Natasha where to stand - in a spot where there was no chance of anything ever running out - and circled round above the ravine to close in from the rear.

  'Listen, nephew, you're after a wise old bird,' said the uncle. 'One slip and she's gone.'

  'Well, we'll see what happens. Karay! Here boy!' he shouted, this call being the best response he could think of. Karay was an old hound, misshapen and scabby, famous for having once taken on an old wolf single-handedly. Everyone was now in place.

  The old count, knowing how keen his son was when it came to hunting, put on all speed so as not to arrive late, and the whippers-in were hardly in their places when Count Ilya Rostov, a picture of bonhomie, red in the face, jowls quivering, drove up behind his pair of fine black horses, crossed the green field and came to the place where the wolf might come out. Smoothing down his heavy coat and gathering everything he needed for the hunt, he was soon astride his glossy steed, the corpulent Viflyanka, who was gentle, sweet-tempered and, like himself, going grey. The horses and trap were sent back home. Count Ilya Rostov, no true sportsman at heart but a man familiar with every last rule of hunting, rode into the outskirts of the wood and took up a position near to some bushes, where he gathered the reins, settled down in his saddle, and, ready at last, looked around with a broad smile on his face.

  Near by stood his personal attendant, Semyon Chekmar, a horseman of long standing, now rather heavy in the saddle. Chekmar held three wolfhounds on a leash, lively enough beasts, though they too had put on weight like their master and his horse. Two other dogs, old and wise, lay there off the leash. A hundred paces along the edge of the wood stood another of the count's grooms, Mitka, a daredevil rider and very keen hunter. The count had followed the old custom of toasting the hunt with a silver goblet of mulled brandy, followed by a light lunch washed down by half a bottle of his favourite claret.

  Count Ilya was rather flushed from the wine and the effort of getting there. His watering eyes gleamed with a special brightness, and as he sat there in the saddle nicely swaddled in his heavy coat, he looked like a baby ready to be taken out on a trip in the open air.

  With everything checked and in order, Chekmar, lean and gaunt, kept glancing across at his master, with whom he had lived on the best of terms these thirty years. He was clearly in a good mood and Chekmar could look forward to a pleasant chat. Then a third person rode towards them through the wood, very cautiously - clearly having been warned - and reined in behind the count. It was a grey-bearded old man in a woman's cloak, wearing a high peaked cap - the family fool with a woman's name, Nastasya Ivanovna.

  'Listen, Nastasya Ivanovna,' whispered the count with a broad wink, 'scare that wolf away, and you'll get it in the neck from Danilo.'

  'I knows what I be doing,' said Nastasya.

  'Sssh!' hissed the count, and he turned to Semyon. 'Have you seen my Natasha?' he asked. 'Where's she gone?'

  'Her Honour's with Master Petya, near them tall weeds over by Zharov,' answered Semyon with a smile. 'She may be a lady, but she don't half love her hunting!'

  'You can't get over her being such a good rider, can you, Semyon?' said the count. 'She's as good as any man!'

  'Course I can't. She's that quick and clever!'

  'And where's our Nikolay gone? Up over Lyadov, eh?' the count asked, still whispering.

  'Yes, sir. His Honour knows where to wait. Knows his hunting, he
does. Sometimes me and Danilo can't believe how good he is,' said Semyon, who knew how to please his master.

  'Good huntsman, eh? Looks good on a horse?'

  'Perfect picture! The other day he run this fox out of yon patch at Zavarzino. Flew down that ravine, he did, sight for sore eyes - horse worth a thousand roubles, no price on the rider. Aye, you'd go a long way to find another like him!'

  'Yes, a long way . . .' repeated the count, who seemed to be disappointed that Semyon's little speech hadn't lasted longer. 'A long way,' he said, turning up the skirt of his coat to get at his snuff-box.

  'The other day he come out of church in all his finery, that Mikhail Sidorych . . .' Semyon stopped short, catching a distinct sound in the still air - hounds chasing, only two or three of them whining. Tilting his head, he listened carefully, wagging a cautionary finger at his master. 'Got the scent . . .' he whispered. 'Gone straight up Lyadov way.'

  The count forgot to wipe the smile off his face as he looked out straight along the windbreak, holding his snuff-box in one hand without taking a pinch. After the baying of the hounds came the bass note of Danilo's horn - the wolf had been sighted! The pack joined the first three hounds, and their voices could be heard in full cry with the peculiar low howling sound that goes with the chase. The whippers-in had stopped hallooing now and taken up a wild whooping sound, with Danilo's voice ringing out above the others, deep and low one minute, shrill and piercing the next. Danilo's voice seemed to fill the whole forest, flood out beyond it and disappear far across the open fields.

  After a few seconds of listening in silence the count and his groom felt certain the hounds had split into two packs, the larger one chasing off into the distance still in full cry, the other group coming through the woods past the count, and it was from this smaller pack that Danilo's voice could be heard with its great whoops. The sounds of the two chasing packs kept coming together and splitting apart again, but both were getting further away. Semyon gave a sigh and bent down to free up the leash where a young dog had got tangled up in it. The count gave a sigh too, noticed he was still holding the snuff-box and opened it to help himself to a pinch.