战争与和平(上)-第122章

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“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　smile　still　lingering　on　his　face；　looked　straight　before　him　along　the　path；　and　did　not　take　a　pinch　from　the　snuff…box　he　held　in　his　hand。　The　hounds’　cry　was　followed　by　the　bass　note　of　the　hunting　cry　for　a　wolf　sounded　on　Danilo’s　horn。　The　pack　joined　the　first　three　dogs；　and　the　voices　of　the　hounds　could　be　heard　in　full　cry　with　the　peculiar　note　which　serves　to　betoken　that　they　are　after　a　wolf。　The　whippers…in　were　not　now　hallooing；　but　urging　on　the　hounds　with　cries　of　“Loo！　loo！　loo！”　and　above　all　the　voices　rose　the　voice　of　Danilo；　passing　from　a　deep　note　to　piercing　shrillness。　Danilo’s　voice　seemed　to　fill　the　whole　forest；　to　pierce　beyond　it；　and　echo　far　away　in　the　open　country。
After　listening　for　a　few　seconds　in　silence；　the　count　and　his　groom　felt　certain　that　the　hounds　had　divided　into　two　packs：　one；　the　larger；　was　going　off　into　the　distance；　in　particularly　hot　cry；　the　other　part　of　the　pack　was　moving　along　the　forest　past　the　count；　and　it　was　with　this　pack　that　Danilo’s　voice　was　heard　urging　the　dogs　on。　The　sounds　from　both　packs　melted　into　unison　and　broke　apart　again；　but　both　were　getting　further　away。　Semyon　sighed　and　stooped　down　to　straighten　the　leash；　in　which　a　young　dog　had　caught　his　leg。　The　count　too　sighed；　and　noticing　the　snuff…box　in　his　hand；　he　opened　it　and　took　a　pinch。
“Back！”　cried　Semyon　to　the　dog；　which　had　poked　out　beyond　the　bushes。　The　count　started；　and　dropped　the　snuff…box。　Nastasya　Ivanovna　got　off　his　horse　and　began　picking　it　up。
The　count　and　Semyon　watched　him。　All　of　a　sudden；　as　so　often　happens；　the　sound　of　the　hunt　was　in　an　instant　close　at　hand；　as　though　the　baying　dogs　and　Danilo’s　cries　were　just　upon　them。
The　count　looked　round；　and　on　the　right　he　saw　Mitka；　who　was　staring　at　the　count　with　eyes　starting　out　of　his　head。　Lifting　his　cap；　he　pointed　in　front　to　the　other　side。
“Look　out！”　he　shouted　in　a　voice　that　showed　the　words　had　long　been　fretting　him　to　be　uttered。　And　letting　go　the　dogs；　he　galloped　towards　the　count。
The　count　and　Semyon　galloped　out　of　the　bushes；　and　on　their　left　they　saw　a　wolf。　With　a　soft；　rolling　gait　it　moved　at　a　slow　amble　further　to　their　left　into　the　very　thicket　in　which　they　had　been　standing。　The　angry　dogs　whined；　and　pulling　themselves　free　from　the　leash；　flew　by　the　horses’　hoofs　after　the　wolf。
The　wolf　paused　in　his　flight；　awkwardly；　like　a　man　with　a　quinsy；　he　turned　his　heavy…browed　head　towards　the　dogs；　and　still　with　the　same　soft；　rolling　gait　gave　one　bound　and　a　second；　and；　waving　its　tail；　disappeared　into　the　bushes。　At　the　same　instant；　with　a　cry　like　a　wail；　there　sprang　desperately　out　of　the　thicket　opposite　one　hound；　then　a　second　and　a　third；　and　all　the　pack　flew　across　the　open　ground　towards　the　very　spot　where　the　wolf　had　vanished。　The　bushes　were　parted　behind　the　dogs；　and　Danilo’s　brown　horse；　dark　with　sweat；　emerged　from　them。　On　its　long　back　Danilo　sat　perched　up　and　swaying　forward。　He　had　no　cap　on　his　grey　hair；　that　fluttered　in　disorder　above　his　red；　perspiring　face。
“Loo！　loo！　loo！…”　he　was　shouting。　When　he　caught　sight　of　the　count；　there　was　a　flash　like　lightning　in　his　eyes。
“B—！”　he　shouted；　using　a　brutally　coarse　term　of　abuse　and　menacing　the　count　with　his　lifted　whip。　“Let　the　wolf　slip！…sportsmen　indeed！”　And　as　though　scorning　to　waste　more　words　on　the　confused　and　frightened　count；　he　lashed　the　moist　and　heavy　sides　of　his　brown　gelding　with　all　the　fury　that　had　been　ready　for　the　count；　and　flew　off　after　the　dogs。　The　count　stood　like　a　man　who　has　been　thrashed；　looking　about　him　and　trying　to　smile　and　call　for　Semyon　to　sympathise　with　his　plight。　But　Semyon　was　not　there；　he　had　galloped　round　to　cut　the　wolf　off　from　the　forest。　The　greyhounds；　too；　were　running　to　and　fro　on　both　sides。　But　the　wolf　got　off　into　the　bushes；　and　not　one　of　the　party　succeeded　in　coming　across　him。


Chapter　5
NIKOLAY　ROSTOV　was　standing　meanwhile　at　his　post　waiting　for　the　wolf。　He　was　aware　of　what　must　be　taking　place　within　the　copse　from　the　rush　of　the　pack　coming　closer　and　going　further　away；　from　the　cries　of　the　dogs；　whose　notes　were　familiar　to　him；　from　the　nearness；　and　then　greater　remoteness；　and　sudden　raising　of　the　voices　of　the　huntsmen。　He　knew　that　there　were　both　young　and　also　old　wolves　in　the　enclosure。　He　knew　the　hounds　had　divided　into　two　packs；　that　in　one　place　they　were　close　on　the　wolf；　and　that　something　had　gone　wrong。　Every　second　he　expected　the　wolf　on　his　side。　He　made　a　thousand　different　suppositions　of　how　and　at　what　spot　the　wolf　would　run　out；　and　how　he　would　set　upon　it。　Hope　was　succeeded　by　despair。　Several　times　he　prayed　to　God　that　the　wolf　would　rush　out　upon　him。　He　prayed　with　that　feeling　of　passion　and　compunction　with　which　men　pray　in　moments　of　intense　emotion　due　to　trivial　causes。　“Why；　what　is　it　to　Thee；”　he　said　to　God；　“to　do　this　for　me？　I　know　Thou　art　great　and　that　it’s　a　sin　to　pray　to　Thee　about　this；　but　for　God’s　sake　do　make　the　old　wolf　come　out　upon　me；　and　make　Karay　fix　his　teeth　in　his　throat　and　finish　him　before　the　eyes　of　‘uncle；’　who　is　looking　this　way。”　A　thousand　times　over　in　that　half…hour；　with　intent；　strained；　and　uneasy　eyes　Rostov　scanned　the　thickets　at　the　edge　of　the　copse　with　two　scraggy　oaks　standing　up　above　the　undergrowth　of　aspen；　and　the　ravine　with　its　overhanging　bank；　and　“uncle’s”　cap　peering　out　from　behind　a　bush　on　the　right。　“No；　that　happiness　is　not　to　be；”　thought　Rostov；　“yet　what　would　it　cost　Him！　It’s　not　to　be！　I’m　always　unlucky；　at　cards；　in　war；　and　everything。”　Austerlitz　and　Dolohov　flashed　in　distinct　but　rapid　succession　through　his　imagination。　“Only　once　in　my　life　to　kill　an　old　wolf；　I　ask　for　nothing　beyond！”　he　thought；　straining　eyes　and　ears；　looking　from　left　to　right；　and　back　again；　and　listening　to　the　slightest　fluctuations　in　the　sounds　of　the　dogs。　He　looked　again　to　the　righ