‘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.
‘Get back!’ Semyon yelled at a dog that had poked his nose out through the bushes. This made the count jump, and he dropped his snuff-box. Nastasya Ivanovna got off his horse to pick it up. The count and Semyon looked on. Suddenly – this sort of thing tends to happen suddenly – the sound of the hunt was upon them. It was as if the baying dogs and Danilo’s whooping cries were right there in front of them.
The count looked round to his right where he saw Mitka standing there, goggling, raising his cap and pointing back the other way.
‘Look out!’ he roared in a voice that suggested the words had long been struggling to get out. He let the dogs go and galloped over towards the count.
The count and Chekmar galloped out of the bushes, and there to the left they saw a wolf loping gently along with an easy swinging movement just to the left of the very thicket they had been standing in. The dogs yelped furiously, tore themselves free from the leash and flashed past the horses’ hooves in pursuit of the wolf.
The wolf paused in his flight and staggered as if he was having a heart attack, but then he turned with his broad brow to face the dogs, loped off with the same gentle swinging movement, gave a couple of bounds and disappeared with a flick of his tail into the bushes. The same instant there was a great wailing sound, and out of the opposite bushes sprang a desperate hound, followed by another, and a third, and then the whole pack flew across the grass to the spot where the wolf had scrambled through and scuttled away. The hazel bushes parted behind the dogs, and Danilo’s chestnut horse emerged, dark with sweat. There on its long back sat Danilo, hunched up and leaning forward. He had lost his cap and his grey hair straggled down over his red, perspiring face.
‘Loo! loo! loo! . . .’ came his whooping voice. When he caught sight of the count, his eyes flashed like lightning.
