With my eyes fixed on the edge of the forest I smiled inanely while the perspiration poured from me, and though the drops tickled me as they ran down my chin I did not wipe them off.

It seemed to me that there could be nothing more critical than this moment. The tension was too unnatural to last long. The harriers now bayed close to the outskirts of the wood, then they retreated; there was no hare. I began looking around me. It was the same with Zhiran: at first he tugged and yelped, then lay down at my side, put his nose on my lap and was quiet.

Around the bare roots of the oak under which I sat the grey parched earth, the withered oak-leaves, the acorns, the dry moss-grown twigs, the yellowy-green moss and the thin green blades of grass which pushed their way through here and there teemed with swarms of ants. They hurried one after another along the smooth tracks they had made for themselves, some carrying burdens, others unladen. I picked up a twig and barred their way. It was a sight to see how some of them, despising the danger, crawled underneath and others climbed over it; while some, especially those who had loads to carry, quite lost their heads: they stopped, not knowing what to do, looked for a way round, or turned back, or came up the twig to my hand with the idea, I think, of crawling up the sleeve of my jacket. My attention was diverted from these interesting observations by a butterfly with yellow wings fluttering most alluringly before me. No sooner had it attracted my notice than it flew a little way off and, circling a few times about a nearly dead wild white clover-flower, alighted on it. I do not know whether it was warming itself in the sun or sucking nectar from the flower, at all events it seemed very happy. Every now and then it fluttered its wings and pressed closer to the flower; at last it became perfectly still. I propped my head on both hands and gazed at the butterfly with delight.

All at once Zhiran began to whine, and tugged with such force that I nearly rolled over. I looked round. Along the edge of the wood skipped a hare with one ear drooping, the other erect. The blood rushed to my head and forgetting everything for a moment I shouted in a frantic voice, loosed the dog and rushed after it. But hardly had I done so than I began to regret it – the hare squatted for a second, gave a bound, and I saw no more of him.

But what was my mortification when, following the hounds who came out into the open in full cry, Turka appeared! He had seen my mistake (which had consisted in my not biding my time) and now threw me a contemptuous look as he merely said: ‘Oh, master!’ But you should have heard the tone in which he said it! I would rather he had hung me to his saddle like a hare.

For a long time I stood where I was in deep despair, without attempting to recall the dog and only repeating as I slapped my thighs:

‘Heavens, what have I done!’

I could hear the hounds coursing on in the distance, hear the hallooing on the other side as they caught a hare, and then Turka with his huge horn summoning the dogs back–but still I did not budge.

8 • WE PLAY GAMES

The hunt was over. A rug was spread in the shade of some young birch-trees and the whole company disposed themselves in a circle on the rug. Gavrilo, the butler, having stamped down the lush green grass around him, was wiping plates and taking out of the box plums and peaches wrapped in leaves. The sun shone through the green branches of the young birches and cast round quivering medallions of light on the pattern of the rug, on my legs and even on Gavrilo’s perspiring bald head. A light breeze fluttering through the foliage of the trees on to my hair and burning face refreshed me beyond measure.

When we had had our share of ice-cream and fruit it was no use sitting on the rug any longer so in spite of the scorching heat of the oblique rays of the sun we got up and proceeded to play games.

‘Well, what shall it be?’ said Lyuba, screwing her eyes up in the sun and hopping about on the grass. ‘Let’s play Robinson!’

‘No… that’s too dull,’ said Volodya, sprawling on the grass and chewing some leaves. ‘It’s always Robinson! If you must do something, we’d better build a summer-house.’

Volodya was obviously putting on airs: probably he was proud of having ridden the hunter and was pretending to be very tired. Or perhaps even at that age he was too matter-of-fact and had too little imagination really to enjoy playing at Robinson, which consisted in performing scenes from The Swiss Family Robinson which we had read not long before.

‘Please do… why won’t you do what we want?’ the girls insisted. ‘You can be Charles, or Ernest, or the father, whichever you like,’ said Katya, trying to pull him up from the ground by the sleeve of his jacket.

‘I really don’t want to – it’s a silly game!’ said Volodya, stretching himself and at the same time smiling smugly.

‘It would have been better to stay at home if no one wants to play,’ declared Lyuba in tears.

She was an awful cry-baby.

‘All right, come along then; only please don’t cry. I can’t stand it!’

Volodya’s condescension afforded us very little satisfaction: on the contrary his lazy bored look destroyed all the fun of the game. When we sat on the ground and pretending we were going fishing began to row with all our might Volodya sat with folded arms in an attitude which had nothing in common with the attitude of a fisherman. I told him so but he retorted that by waving our arms about more vigorously or less we should not gain or lose anything, and should not travel any the further. I could not help agreeing with him. When I pretended to go hunting and set off into the woods with a stick over my shoulder Volodya lay down on his back with his hands behind his head and told me he would pretend to be coming too.