And Milka in her bead collar, the metal disc at the end jingling, bounded out joyfully from behind his heels. When she came out she always greeted the kennel-dogs, sporting with some, sniffing or growling at others, while on some she would bite for fleas.

Papa mounted his horse and we set off.

7 • THE HUNT

The whipper-in, whose name was Turka, rode ahead on a hook-nosed pale-grey. On his head he wore a shaggy cap and had a huge horn slung across his shoulders and a knife in his belt. He looked so black and fierce that he might have been riding to mortal combat instead of on a hunting expedition. Round about the hind legs of his horse ran the harriers, all excited and jostled together like a speckled ball. It was pitiful to see the fate that befell any unfortunate dog that took it into its head to lag behind. Only with the greatest effort could it hold back its companion, and when it had succeeded in this one of the kennel-men riding behind would be sure to slash at it with his whip, shouting ‘Back to the pack, there!’ When we emerged from the gate papa told the huntsmen and us to keep to the road while he himself turned into the rye-field.

Harvesting was in full swing. The brilliant yellow field was bounded on one side only by the tall bluish forest, which seemed to me then a very distant and mysterious place beyond which either the world came to an end or some uninhabited regions began. The whole field swarmed with sheaves and peasants. Here and there among the tall thick rye where the sickle had passed could be seen the bent back of a woman reaping, the swing of the ears as she grasped the stalks between her fingers, a woman in the shade bending over a cradle, and scattered sheaves upon the stubble which was dotted all over with cornflowers. In another quarter were peasants clad only in their shirts, without their tunics, standing on carts loading the sheaves and raising the dust in the dry scorched field. The village elder, in boots and with a coat thrown over his shoulders and tally-sticks in his hand, seeing papa in the distance, took off his felt hat made of lamb’s wool, wiped his ginger hair and beard with a towel, and bawled at the women. The little chestnut horse papa rode trotted along with a light prancing gait, from time to time bending his head to his chest, pulling at the reins and swishing his thick tail to and fro to brush away the gadflies and ordinary flies that clung ravenously to him. Two borzois with their tails curved tautly in the shape of a sickle, and lifting their feet high, leaped gracefully over the tall stubble, behind the horse’s heels. Milka was always in front, with her head down seeking for the scent. The chatter of the peasants, the tramp of the horses and the creaking of the carts, the merry whistle of quail, the hum of insects hovering in the air in motionless swarms, the smell of wormwood, straw and horses’ sweat, the thousand different lights and shadows with which the burning sun flooded the light yellow stubble, the dark blue of the distant forest and the pale lilac of the clouds, the white gossamer threads which floated in the air or lay stretched across the stubble – all these things I saw, heard and felt.

When we reached the Kalina woods we found the carriage already there and, surpassing all our expectations, a one-horse cart in the middle of which sat the butler. We could see, packed in straw, a samovar, a tub with an ice-cream mould and various other attractive-looking packets and boxes. There could be no mistake: it meant tea out of doors, with ice-cream and fruit! At the sight of the cart we gave vent to uproarious joy, for to drink tea in the woods on the grass, and where no one had ever drunk tea before, was the greatest of treats.

Turka rode up to the little clearing, stopped, listened carefully to papa’s detailed instructions as to where to line up and where to come out (though he never conformed to such instructions but did as he chose), unleashed the dogs, slowly and deliberately strapped the leashes to his saddle, remounted his horse and disappeared, whistling, behind the young birch-trees. The first thing the hounds did on being released was to express their happiness by wagging their tails, shaking themselves and taking stock generally; then sniffing and still wagging their tails, they moved off at a slow trot in different directions.

‘Have you a handkerchief?’ asked papa.

I pulled one out of my pocket and showed it to him.

‘Well, tie that great dog to it.’

‘Zhiran?’ I said, with the air of an expert.

‘Yes, and now run along the road. When you come to the glade, stop. And mind you don’t return to me without a hare!’

I tied my handkerchief round Zhiran’s shaggy neck and rushed headlong for the spot indicated to me. Papa laughed and called out:

‘Hurry up, hurry up, or you’ll be too late!’

Zhiran kept stopping, pricking his ears and listening to the hallooing of the huntsmen. I was not strong enough to drag him on and I began to shout ‘Tally-ho! Halloo!’ Then he would pull so hard that I could scarce hold him and I fell over more than once before we reached my post. Selecting a shady level place at the foot of a tall oak, I lay down in the grass, made Zhiran sit beside me, and waited. My imagination as usual on such occasions far outstripped reality. I fancied that I was pursuing at least my third hare when, as a matter of fact, the first hound was only just giving tongue in the woods. Turka’s voice reverberated ever louder and with more animation through the forest; the hound gave cry and its baying came more and more frequently. Then another joined in with a deep base note, and then a third, and a fourth… Now they fell silent, now interrupted each other. The sounds gradually grew louder and more continuous until at last they united into one ringing clamorous din. The island-glade had found a tongue and the hounds bayed in chorus.

When I heard this I stiffened at my post.