sometimes to be met in reality … and these women are terrible. Woman,
don’t you know, is such a subject that however much you study it, it’s
always perfectly new.”
“Well, then, it would be better not to study it.”
“No. Some mathematician has said that enjoyment lies in the search for
truth, not in the finding it.”
Levin listened in silence, and in spite of all the efforts he made, he could
not in the least enter into the feelings of his friend and understand his
sentiments and the charm of studying such women.
Chapter 15
The place fixed on for the stand-shooting was not far above a stream in a
little aspen copse. On reaching the copse, Levin got out of the trap and led
Oblonsky to a corner of a mossy, swampy glade, already quite free from
snow. He went back himself to a double birch tree on the other side, and
leaning his gun on the fork of a dead lower branch, he took off his full
overcoat, fastened his belt again, and worked his arms to see if they were
free.
Gray old Laska, who had followed them, sat down warily opposite him
and pricked up her ears. The sun was setting behind a thick forest, and in
the glow of sunset the birch trees, dotted about in the aspen copse, stood out
clearly with their hanging twigs, and their buds swollen almost to bursting.
From the thickest parts of the copse, where the snow still remained, came
the faint sound of narrow winding threads of water running away. Tiny
birds twittered, and now and then fluttered from tree to tree.
In the pauses of complete stillness there came the rustle of last year’s
leaves, stirred by the thawing of the earth and the growth of the grass.
“Imagine! One can hear and see the grass growing!” Levin said to
himself, noticing a wet, slate-colored aspen leaf moving beside a blade of
young grass. He stood, listened, and gazed sometimes down at the wet
mossy ground, sometimes at Laska listening all alert, sometimes at the sea
of bare tree tops that stretched on the slope below him, sometimes at the
darkening sky, covered with white streaks of cloud.
A hawk flew high over a forest far away with slow sweep of its wings;
another flew with exactly the same motion in the same direction and
vanished. The birds twittered more and more loudly and busily in the
thicket. An owl hooted not far off, and Laska, starting, stepped cautiously a
few steps forward, and putting her head on one side, began to listen intently.
Beyond the stream was heard the cuckoo. Twice she uttered her usual
cuckoo call, and then gave a hoarse, hurried call and broke down.
“Imagine! the cuckoo already!” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, coming out
from behind a bush.
“Yes, I hear it,” answered Levin, reluctantly breaking the stillness with
his voice, which sounded disagreeable to himself. “Now it’s coming!”
Stepan Arkadyevitch’s figure again went behind the bush, and Levin saw
nothing but the bright flash of a match, followed by the red glow and blue
smoke of a cigarette.
“Tchk! tchk!” came the snapping sound of Stepan Arkadyevitch cocking
his gun.
“What’s that cry?” asked Oblonsky, drawing Levin’s attention to a
prolonged cry, as though a colt were whinnying in a high voice, in play.
“Oh, don’t you know it? That’s the hare. But enough talking! Listen, it’s
flying!” almost shrieked Levin, cocking his gun.
They heard a shrill whistle in the distance, and in the exact time, so well
known to the sportsman, two seconds later—another, a third, and after the
third whistle the hoarse, guttural cry could be heard.
Levin looked about him to right and to left, and there, just facing him
against the dusky blue sky above the confused mass of tender shoots of the
aspens, he saw the flying bird. It was flying straight towards him; the
guttural cry, like the even tearing of some strong stuff, sounded close to his
ear; the long beak and neck of the bird could be seen, and at the very instant
when Levin was taking aim, behind the bush where Oblonsky stood, there
was a flash of red lightning: the bird dropped like an arrow, and darted
upwards again. Again came the red flash and the sound of a blow, and
fluttering its wings as though trying to keep up in the air, the bird halted,
stopped still an instant, and fell with a heavy splash on the slushy ground.
“Can I have missed it?” shouted Stepan Arkadyevitch, who could not see
for the smoke.
“Here it is!” said Levin, pointing to Laska, who with one ear raised,
wagging the end of her shaggy tail, came slowly back as though she would
prolong the pleasure, and as it were smiling, brought the dead bird to her
master. “Well, I’m glad you were successful,” said Levin, who, at the same
time, had a sense of envy that he had not succeeded in shooting the snipe.
“It was a bad shot from the right barrel,” responded Stepan Arkadyevitch,
loading his gun. “Sh… it’s flying!”
The shrill whistles rapidly following one another were heard again. Two
snipe, playing and chasing one another, and only whistling, not crying, flew
straight at the very heads of the sportsmen. There was the report of four
shots, and like swallows the snipe turned swift somersaults in the air and
vanished from sight.
The stand-shooting was capital. Stepan Arkadyevitch shot two more birds
and Levin two, of which one was not found. It began to get dark. Venus,
bright and silvery, shone with her soft light low down in the west behind the
birch trees, and high up in the east twinkled the red lights of Arcturus. Over
his head Levin made out the stars of the Great Bear and lost them again.
The snipe had ceased flying; but Levin resolved to stay a little longer, till
Venus, which he saw below a branch of birch, should be above it, and the
stars of the Great Bear should be perfectly plain. Venus had risen above the
branch, and the ear of the Great Bear with its shaft was now all plainly
visible against the dark blue sky, yet still he waited.
“Isn’t it time to go home?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch.
It was quite still now in the copse, and not a bird was stirring.
“Let’s stay a little while,” answered Levin.
“As you like.”
They were standing now about fifteen paces from one another.
“Stiva!” said Levin unexpectedly; “how is it you don’t tell me whether
your sister-in-law’s married yet, or when she’s going to be?”
Levin felt so resolute and serene that no answer, he fancied, could affect
him. But he had never dreamed of what Stepan Arkadyevitch replied.
“She’s never thought of being married, and isn’t thinking of it; but she’s
very ill, and the doctors have sent her abroad. They’re positively afraid she
