ANNA KARENINA (Collector's Edition). Leo Tolstoy

      ‘But who prevents you?’ Levin remarked, smiling.

      ‘No — you are a lucky fellow! You have got all you are fond of. You like horses — you have them; hounds — you have them; shooting — you get it; farming — you get it too.’

      ‘Perhaps it is because I am glad of what I get, and don’t grieve about what I haven’t,’ said Levin, thinking of Kitty.

      Oblonsky understood and looked at him but said nothing.

      Levin was grateful to Oblonsky because, with his usual tact, noticing that Levin was afraid of talking about the Shcherbatskys, he avoided mentioning them; but now Levin wanted to find out about the matter that tormented him, and yet feared to speak of it.

      ‘Well, and how are your affairs?’ he asked, recollecting how wrong it was of him to be thinking only of his own concerns.

      Oblonsky’s eyes began to glitter merrily.

      ‘But you don’t admit that one may want a roll while one gets regular rations, you consider it a crime; and I don’t believe in life without love,’ he answered, understanding Levin’s question in his own way. ‘How can I help it? I am made that way. And really so little harm is done to anyone, and one gets so much pleasure …’

      ‘Is there anything new then?’ inquired Levin.

      ‘There is! Well, you know Ossian’s type of woman — such as one sees in a dream? Well, there are such women in reality, and these women are terrible. Woman, you see, is an object of such a kind that study it as much as you will, it is always quite new.’

      ‘In that case, better not study them.’

      ‘Oh, no! Some mathematician has said pleasure lies not in discovering truth but in seeking it.’

      Levin listened in silence, but in spite of all his efforts he could not enter into his friend’s soul and understand his feeling, nor the delight of studying women of that kind.

      Chapter 15

      THE place where they were going to shoot was not far away, by a stream among young aspen trees. When they had reached the wood Levin got down and led Oblonsky to the corner of a mossy and marshy glade, already free from snow. He himself went to a forked birch on the other side and, leaning his gun against the fork of the lower branch, took off his coat, tightened his girdle, and tried whether he could move his arms freely.

      The old grey-haired Laska, following close on his heels, sat down warily in front of him and pricked up her ears. The sun was setting behind the forest, and the little birches interspersed among the aspen trees stood out clearly against the evening glow with their drooping branches and their swollen buds ready to burst into leaf. From the thicket, where the snow had not all melted, the water still flowed in branching streamlets with a gentle rippling sound. Small birds chirped and now and then flew from tree to tree.

      In the intervals of profound silence last year’s leaves were heard rustling, set in motion by the thawing of the earth and the growth of the grass.

      ‘Just fancy! One can hear and see the grass growing,’ thought Levin, as he noticed a wet slate-coloured aspen leaf move close to the point of a blade of grass. He stood listening, and gazing down now on the wet mossy ground, now at the attentive Laska, now at the sea of bare tree-tops stretched out before him at the foot of the hill, and now at the darkening sky streaked with fleecy clouds. A hawk flew leisurely past, high above the distant forest; another followed in the same direction and vanished. In the thicket the birds chirped louder and louder and more eagerly. A tawny owl hooted near by, and Laska started, took a few careful steps, and with her head on one side again listened intently. A cuckoo called beyond the river. It called twice in its usual note, then hoarsely and hurriedly and got out of time.

      ‘Fancy a cuckoo already!’ said Oblonsky, appearing from behind a bush.

      ‘Yes, I heard,’ answered Levin, so reluctant to disturb the silence of the wood that his own voice sounded unpleasant to him. ‘They won’t be long now.’

      Oblonsky’s figure again disappeared behind the bush, and Levin saw the flare of a match, followed by the red glow of a cigarette and a spiral of blue smoke.

      Click! click! Oblonsky cocked his gun.

      ‘And what’s that screaming?’ he asked, drawing Levin’s attention to a long-drawn cry like the high-pitched whinny of a colt in play.

      ‘Don’t you know? It’s a male hare. But stop talking! Listen, they’re coming!’ Levin almost shouted, cocking his gun.

      They heard a shrill whistle in the distance, and after the two seconds’ interval so familiar to sportsmen, another followed, and then a third, and after the third whistle came a cry.

      Levin looked to the right and to the left, and there before him against the dull light-blue sky, over the lower branches of the aspen tops, appeared the flying birds. They were flying straight toward him; the near sound of their cry — something like the sound made when tightly stretched cloth is steadily torn — seemed close to his ears; the long beak and neck of a bird were quite visible, and just as Levin took aim a red flash came from behind the bush where Oblonsky was standing and the bird descended like an arrow and then fluttered up again. Another flash, followed by a report, and the bird, flapping its wings as if trying to keep up in the air, remained stationary for a moment and then with a heavy thud fell on the swampy ground.

      ‘Can I have missed?’ cried Oblonsky, who could not see through the smoke.

      ‘Here it is!’ answered Levin, pointing to Laska, who with one ear erect, wagging her fluffy, high-arched tail, stepping slowly as if to prolong the pleasure and seeming almost to smile, brought the dead bird to her master. ‘Well, I’m glad you got it,’ said Levin, and while he spoke he was already experiencing a feeling of envy at not having killed the bird himself.

      ‘A wretched miss with the right barrel,’ replied Oblonsky, reloading. ‘Hush … coming!’

      Indeed, they heard two shrill whistles quickly following each other. Two snipe, playing and racing one another, whistling but not crying, flew almost over the sportsmen’s heads. Then there were four reports, the birds took a swift turn like swallows and vanished from sight.

      · · · · · · ·

      The shooting was splendid. Oblonsky brought down two more birds, and Levin brought down two, of which one was not recovered. It began to get dark. Through the young birches, Venus bright and silvery was already shining with her delicate glitter low down in the west, and high up in the east flickered the red fire of the dim Arcturus. Above his head Levin found, and again lost, stars of the Great Bear. The snipe had ceased flying; but Levin decided to stay until Venus which he could see underneath a branch, should rise above it and all the stars of the Great Bear should be visible.

      Venus had risen above the branch and the car of the Great Bear as well as its shafts showed clearly against the dark blue sky, but he still waited.

      ‘Is it not time to go?’ asked Oblonsky.

      It was quite quiet in the wood, not a bird stirred.

      ‘Let’s stay a little longer,’ answered Levin.

      ‘As you please.’

      They were now standing some fifteen yards apart.

      ‘Stephen!’ said Levin suddenly and unexpectedly; ‘why don’t you tell me whether your sister-in-law is married, or when she will be?’

      Levin felt so strong and calm that he thought the answer, whatever it might be, could not agitate him, but he did not at all expect the reply Oblonsky gave him.