战争与和平(上)-第167章

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　across　the　threshing…floor　to　the　field　leading　to　the　Otradnoe　preserve。　The　old　count’s　horse；　a　sorrel　gelding；　with　a　white　mane　and　tail；　called　Viflyanka；　was　led　by　the　count’s　groom；　he　was　himself　to　drive　straight　in　a　light　gig　to　the　spot　fixed　for　him　to　stand。
Fifty…four　hounds　were　led　out　under　the　charge　of　six　whippers…in　and　grooms。　Of　huntsmen；　properly　speaking；　there　were　taking　part　in　the　hunt　eight　men　besides　the　members　of　the　family；　and　more　than　forty　greyhounds　ran　behind　them；　so　that　with　the　hounds　in　leashes　there　were　about　a　hundred　and　thirty　dogs　and　twenty　persons　on　horseback。
Every　dog　knew　its　master　and　its　call。　Every　man　in　the　hunt　knew　his　task；　his　place；　and　the　part　assigned　him。　As　soon　as　they　had　passed　beyond　the　fence；　they　all　moved　without　noise　or　talk；　lengthening　out　along　the　road　and　the　field　to　the　Otradnoe　forest。
The　horses　stepped　over　the　field　as　over　a　soft　carpet；　splashing　now　and　then　into　pools　as　they　crossed　the　road。　The　foggy　sky　still　seemed　falling　imperceptibly　and　regularly　down　on　the　earth；　the　air　was　still　and　warm；　and　there　was　no　sound　but　now　and　then　the　whistle　of　a　huntsman；　the　snort　of　a　horse；　the　clack　of　a　whip；　or　the　whine　of　a　dog　who　had　dropped　out　of　his　place。　When　they　had　gone　a　verst；　five　more　horsemen　accompanied　by　dogs　appeared　out　of　the　mist　to　meet　the　Rostovs。　The　foremost　of　them　was　a　fresh；　handsome　old　man　with　large；　grey　moustaches。
“Good…day；　uncle；”　said　Nikolay　as　the　old　man　rode　up　to　him。
“All’s　well　and　march！…I　was　sure　of　it；”　began　the　man　addressed　as　uncle。　He　was　not　really　the　Rostovs’　uncle；　but　a　distant　relative；　who　had　a　small　property　in　their　neighbourhood。
‘I　was　sure　you　couldn’t　resist；　and　a　good　thing　you　have　come　out。　All’s　well　and　quick　march。”　（This　was　the　uncle’s　favorite　saying。）　“You　had　better　attack　the　preserve　at　once；　for　my　Girtchilk　brought　me　word　that　the　Ilagins　are　out　with　their　hounds　at　Korniky；　they’ll　snatch　the　litter　right　under　your　noses。”
“That’s　where　I’m　going。　Shall　we　join　the　packs？”　asked　Nikolay。
The　hounds　were　joined　into　one　pack；　and　the　uncle　and　Nikolay　rode　on　side　by　side。
Natasha；　muffled　up　in　a　shawl　which　did　not　hide　her　eager　face　and　shining　eyes；　galloped　up　to　them；　accompanied　by　Petya；　who　kept　beside　her；　and　Mihailo；　the　huntsman　and　groom；　who　had　been　told　to　look　after　her。　Petya　was　laughing　and　switching　and　pulling　his　horse。　Natasha　sat　her　raven　Arabtchick　with　grace　and　confidence　and　controlled　him　with　an　easy　and　steady　hand。
The　uncle　looked　with　disapproval　at　Petya　and　Natasha。　He　did　not　like　a　mixture　of　frivolity　with　the　serious　business　of　the　hunt。
“Good…day；　uncle；　we’re　coming　to　the　hunt　too！”　shouted　Petya。
“Good…day；　good…day；　and　mind　you　don’t　ride　down　the　dogs；”　said　the　uncle　sternly。
“Nikolenka；　what　a　delightful　dog　Trunila　is！　he　knew　me；”　said　Natasha　of　her　favourite　dog。
“In　the　first　place；　Trunila’s　not　a　dog；　but　a　wolf…hound；”　thought　Nikolay。　He　glanced　at　his　sister　trying　to　make　her　feel　the　distance　that　lay　between　them　at　that　moment。　Natasha　understood　it。
“Don’t　imagine　we　shall　get　in　anybody’s　way；　uncle；”　said　Natasha。
“We’ll　stay　in　our　right　place　and　not　stir　from　it。”
“And　you’ll　do　well；　little　countess；”　said　the　uncle。　“Only　don’t　fall　off　your　horse；”　he　added；　“or　you’d　never　get　on　again—all’s　well；　quick　march！”
The　Otradnoe　preserve　came　into　sight；　an　oasis　of　greenness；　two　hundred　and　fifty　yards　away。　Rostov；　settling　finally　with　the　uncle　from　what　point　to　set　the　dogs　on；　pointed　out　to　Natasha　the　place　where　she　was　to　stand；　a　place　where　there　was　no　chance　of　anything　running　out；　and　went　round　to　close　in　from　behind　above　the　ravine。
“Now；　nephew；　you’re　on　the　track　of　an　old　wolf；”　said　the　uncle；　“mind　he　doesn’t　give　you　the　slip。”
“That’s　as　it　happens；”　answered　Rostov。　“Karay；　hey！”　he　shouted；　replying　to　the　uncle’s　warning　by　this　call　to　his　dog。　Karay　was　an　old；　misshapen；　muddy…coloured　hound；　famous　for　attacking　an　old　wolf　unaided。　All　took　their　places。
The　old　count；　who　knew　his　son’s　ardour　in　the　hunt；　hurried　to　avoid　being　late；　and　the　whippers…in　had　hardly　reached　the　place　when　Count　Ilya　Andreitch；　with　a　cheerful　face；　and　flushed　and　quivering　cheeks；　drove　up　with　his　pair　of　raven　horses；　over　the　green　field　to　the　place　left　for　him。　Straightening　his　fur　coat　and　putting　on　his　hunting　appurtenances；　he　mounted　his　sleek；　well…fed；　quiet；　good…humoured　Viflyanka；　who　was　turning　grey　like　himself。　The　horses　with　the　gig　were　sent　back。　Count　Ilya　Andreitch；　though　he　was　at　heart　no　sportsman；　knew　well　all　the　rules　of　sport。　He　rode　into　the　edge　of　the　thicket　of　bushes；　behind　which　he　was　standing；　picked　up　the　reins；　settled　himself　at　his　ease　in　the　saddle；　and；　feeling　that　he　was　ready；　looked　about　him　smiling。
Near　him　stood　his　valet；　Semyon　Tchekmar；　a　veteran　horseman；　though　now　heavy　in　the　saddle。　Tchekmar　held　on　a　leash　three　wolfhounds　of　a　special　breed；　spirited　hounds；　though　they　too　had　grown　fat　like　their　master　and　his　horse。　Two　other　keen　old　dogs　were　lying　beside　them　not　in　a　leash。　A　hundred　paces　further　in　the　edge　of　the　copse　stood　another　groom　of　the　count’s；　Mitka；　a　reckless　rider　and　passionate　sportsman。　The　count　had　followed　the　old　custom　of　drinking　before　hunting　a　silver　goblet　of　spiced　brandy；　he　had　had　a　slight　lunch　and　after　that　half　a　bottle　of　his　favourite　bordeaux。
Count　Ilya　Andreitch　was　rather　flushed　from　the　wine　and　the　drive；　his　eyes；　covered　by　moisture；　were　particularly　bright；　and　sitting　in　the　saddle　wrapped　up　in　his　fur　coat；　he　looked　like　a　baby　taken　out　for　a　drive。
After　seeing　after　his　duties；　Tchekmar；　with　his　thin　face　and　sunken　cheeks；　looked　towards　his　master；　with　whom　he　had　lived　on　the　best　of　terms　for　thirty　years。　Perceiving　that　he　was　in　a　genial　humour；　he　anticipated　a　pleasant　chat。　A　third　person　rode　circumspectly—he　had　no　doubt　been　cautioned—out　of　the　wood；　and　stood　still　behind　the　count。　This　personage　was　a　grey…bearded　old　man；　wearing　a　woman’s　gown　and　a　high；　peaked　cap。　It　was　the　buffoon；　Nastasya　Ivanovna。
“Well；　Nastasya　Ivanovna；”　whispered　the　count；　winking　at　him；　“you　only　scare　off　the　game；　and　Danilo　will　give　it　you。”
“I　wasn’t　born　yesterday；”　said　Nastasya　Ivanovna。
“Sh！”　hissed　the　count；　and　he　turned　to　Semyon。　“Have　you　seen　Natalya　Ilyinitchna？”　he　asked　Semyon。　“Where　is　she？”
“Her　honour’s　with　Pyotr　Ilyitch；　behind　the　high　grass　at　Zharvry；”　answered　Semyon；　smiling。　“Though　she　is　a　lady；　she　has　a　great　love　for　the　chase。”
“And　you　wonder　at　her　riding；　Semyon；…eh？”　said　the　count；　“for　a　man　even　it　wouldn’t　be　amiss！”
“Who　wouldn’t　wonder！　So　daring；　so　smart！”
“And　where’s　Nikolasha？　Above　the　Lyadovsky　upland；　eh？”　the　count　asked　still　in　a　whisper。
“Yes；　sir。　His　honour　knows　where　he　had　best　stand。　He　knows　the　ins　and　outs　of　hunting；　so　that　Danilo　and　I　are　sometimes　quite　astonished　at　him；”　said　Semyon；　who　knew　how　to　please　his　master。
“He’s　a　good；　clever　sportsman；　eh？　And　what　do　you　say　to　his　riding；　eh？”
“A　perfect　picture　he　is！　How　he　drove　the　fox　out　of　the　Zavarzinsky　thicket　the　other　day。　He　galloped　down　from　the　ravine；　it　was　a　sight—the　horse　worth　a　thousand　roubles；　and　the　rider　beyond　all　price。　Yes；　you　would　have　to　look　a　long　while　to　find　his　match！”
“To　look　a　long　while…”　repeated　the　count；　obviously　regretting　that　Semyon’s　praises　had　come　to　so　speedy　a　termination。　“A　long　while；”　he　repeated；　turning　back　the　skirt　of　his　coat　and　looking　for　his　snuff…box。
“The　other　day　they　were　coming　out　from　Mass　in　all　their　glory；　Mihail　Sidoritch…”　Semyon　stopped　short；　hearing　distinctly　in　the　still　air　the　rush　of　the　hounds；　with　no　more　than　two　or　three　dogs　giving　tongue。　With　his　head　on　one　side；　he　listened；　shaking　a　warning　finger　at　his　master。　“They’re　on　the　scent　of　the　litter…”　he　whispered；　“they　have　gone　straight　toward　Lyadovsky　upland。”
The　count；　with　a　s