The Childhood Page #7

"The Childhood" is a novel by Leo Tolstoy that reflects the author's early experiences and memories as a young boy. The narrative is framed through the eyes of a young protagonist, exploring themes of innocence, family, and the complexities of growing up in 19th-century Russia. Through vivid imagery and emotional depth, Tolstoy captures the joys and struggles of childhood, emphasizing the impact of familial relationships, societal expectations, and the transition from innocence to experience. This semi-autobiographical work offers insight into Tolstoy's own formative years and lays the groundwork for his later explorations of human nature and morality.

• Novel

								

hounds, and to have a chat with the huntsmen. The day was exceedingly
warm while, though clouds of fantastic shape had been gathering on the
horizon since morning and driving before a light breeze across the sun,
it was clear that, for all their menacing blackness, they did not
really intend to form a thunderstorm and spoil our last day's pleasure.
Moreover, towards afternoon some of them broke, grew pale and elongated,
and sank to the horizon again, while others of them changed to the
likeness of white transparent fish-scales. In the east, over Maslovska,
a single lurid mass was louring, but Karl Ivanitch (who always seemed to
know the ways of the heavens) said that the weather would still continue
to be fair and dry.

In spite of his advanced years, it was in quite a sprightly manner that
Foka came out to the entrance steps, to give the order "Drive up."
In fact, as he planted his legs firmly apart and took up his station
between the lowest step and the spot where the coachman was to halt,
his mien was that of a man who knew his duties and had no need to be
reminded of them by anybody. Presently the ladies, also came out, and
after a little discussions as to seats and the safety of the girls (all
of which seemed to me wholly superfluous), they settled themselves in
the vehicle, opened their parasols, and started. As the carriage was,
driving away, Mamma pointed to the hunter and asked nervously "Is that
the horse intended for Vladimir Petrovitch?" On the groom answering
in the affirmative, she raised her hands in horror and turned her head
away. As for myself, I was burning with impatience. Clambering on to
the back of my steed (I was just tall enough to see between its ears), I
proceeded to perform evolutions in the courtyard.

"Mind you don't ride over the hounds, sir," said one of the huntsmen.

"Hold your tongue. It is not the first time I have been one of the
party." I retorted with dignity.

Although Woloda had plenty of pluck, he was not altogether free from
apprehensions as he sat on the hunter. Indeed, he more than once asked
as he patted it, "Is he quiet?" He looked very well on horseback--almost
a grown-up young man, and held himself so upright in the saddle that I
envied him since my shadow seemed to show that I could not compare with
him in looks.

Presently Papa's footsteps sounded on the flagstones, the whip collected
the hounds, and the huntsmen mounted their steeds. Papa's horse came up
in charge of a groom, the hounds of his particular leash sprang up from
their picturesque attitudes to fawn upon him, and Milka, in a collar
studded with beads, came bounding joyfully from behind his heels to
greet and sport with the other dogs. Finally, as soon as Papa had
mounted we rode away.

VII -- THE HUNT

AT the head of the cavalcade rode Turka, on a hog-backed roan. On his
head he wore a shaggy cap, while, with a magnificent horn slung across
his shoulders and a knife at his belt, he looked so cruel and inexorable
that one would have thought he was going to engage in bloody strife with
his fellow men rather than to hunt a small animal. Around the hind legs
of his horse the hounds gambolled like a cluster of checkered, restless
balls. If one of them wished to stop, it was only with the greatest
difficulty that it could do so, since not only had its leash-fellow
also to be induced to halt, but at once one of the huntsmen would wheel
round, crack his whip, and shout to the delinquent,

"Back to the pack, there!"

Arrived at a gate, Papa told us and the huntsmen to continue our way
along the road, and then rode off across a cornfield. The harvest was at
its height. On the further side of a large, shining, yellow stretch of
cornland lay a high purple belt of forest which always figured in my
eyes as a distant, mysterious region behind which either the world ended
or an uninhabited waste began. This expanse of corn-land was dotted with
swathes and reapers, while along the lanes where the sickle had passed
could be seen the backs of women as they stooped among the tall, thick
grain or lifted armfuls of corn and rested them against the shocks. In
one corner a woman was bending over a cradle, and the whole stubble was
studded with sheaves and cornflowers. In another direction shirt-sleeved
men were standing on waggons, shaking the soil from the stalks of
sheaves, and stacking them for carrying. As soon as the foreman (dressed
in a blouse and high boots, and carrying a tally-stick) caught sight of
Papa, he hastened to take off his lamb's-wool cap and, wiping his red
head, told the women to get up. Papa's chestnut horse went trotting
along with a prancing gait as it tossed its head and swished its tail
to and fro to drive away the gadflies and countless other insects which
tormented its flanks, while his two greyhounds--their tails curved like
sickles--went springing gracefully over the stubble. Milka was always
first, but every now and then she would halt with a shake of her head
to await the whipper-in. The chatter of the peasants; the rumbling of
horses and waggons; the joyous cries of quails; the hum of insects as
they hung suspended in the motionless air; the smell of the soil and
grain and steam from our horses; the thousand different lights and
shadows which the burning sun cast upon the yellowish-white cornland;
the purple forest in the distance; the white gossamer threads which were
floating in the air or resting on the soil-all these things I observed
and heard and felt to the core.

Arrived at the Kalinovo wood, we found the carriage awaiting us
there, with, beside it, a one-horse waggonette driven by the butler--a
waggonette in which were a tea-urn, some apparatus for making ices, and
many other attractive boxes and bundles, all packed in straw! There was
no mistaking these signs, for they meant that we were going to have tea,
fruit, and ices in the open air. This afforded us intense delight, since
to drink tea in a wood and on the grass and where none else had ever
drunk tea before seemed to us a treat beyond expressing.

When Turka arrived at the little clearing where the carriage was
halted he took Papa's detailed instructions as to how we were to divide
ourselves and where each of us was to go (though, as a matter of fact,
he never acted according to such instructions, but always followed his
own devices). Then he unleashed the hounds, fastened the leashes to
his saddle, whistled to the pack, and disappeared among the young birch
trees the liberated hounds jumping about him in high delight, wagging
their tails, and sniffing and gambolling with one another as they
dispersed themselves in different directions.

"Has anyone a pocket-handkerchief to spare?" asked Papa. I took mine
from my pocket and offered it to him.

"Very well. Fasten it to this greyhound here."

"Gizana?" I asked, with the air of a connoisseur.

"Yes. Then run him along the road with you. When you come to a little
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