‘Maybe it’s because I rejoice over what I have and don’t grieve over what I don’t have,’ said Levin, remembering Kitty.
Stepan Arkadyich understood, looked at him, but said nothing.
Levin was grateful to Oblonsky for noticing, with his usual tact, that he was afraid of talking about the Shcherbatskys and saying nothing about them; but now Levin wanted to find out about what tormented him so and did not dare to begin.
‘Well, and how are things with you?’ Levin said, thinking how wrong it was on his part to think only of himself.
Stepan Arkadyich’s eyes twinkled merrily.
‘You don’t accept that one can like sweet rolls when one has a daily ration of bread - in your opinion, it’s a crime. But I don’t accept life without love,’ he said, understanding Levin’s question in his own way. ‘No help for it, that’s how I’m made. And really, it brings so little harm to anyone, and so much pleasure for oneself ...’
‘What, is there something new?’ asked Levin.
‘There is, brother! Look, you know there’s this type of Ossianic21 women ... women you see in your dreams ... But these women exist in reality ... and these women are terrible. Woman, you see, it’s such a subject that, however much you study her, there’ll always be something new.’
‘Better not to study then.’
‘No. Some mathematician said that the pleasure lies not in discovering the truth, but in searching for it.’
Levin listened silently and, despite all his efforts, was simply unable to get inside his friend’s soul and understand his feelings or the charms of studying such women.
XV
The shooting place was not far away, across a stream in a small aspen grove. Nearing the wood, Levin got out and led Oblonsky to the corner of a mossy and marshy clearing that was already free of snow. He himself went back to a double birch at the other end and, leaning his gun against the fork of a dry lower branch, took off his caftan, tightened his belt, and made sure he had freedom to move his arms.
The old, grey-haired Laska, who had followed behind him, carefully sat down facing him and pricked up her ears. The sun was setting behind the large forest, and in its light the little birches scattered among the aspens were distinctly outlined with their hanging branches and buds swollen to bursting.
From a thicket in which there was still snow came the barely audible sound of water trickling in narrow, meandering streams. Small birds chirped and occasionally flew from tree to tree.
In intervals of complete silence one could hear the rustling of last year’s leaves, stirred by the thawing ground and the growing grass.
‘Imagine! You can hear and see the grass grow!’ Levin said to himself, noticing the movement of a wet, slate-coloured aspen leaf beside a spear of young grass. He stood, listened, and looked down at the wet, mossy ground, at the attentive Laska, then at the sea of bare treetops of the forest spreading before him at the foot of the hill and the fading sky streaked with white clouds. A hawk, unhurriedly flapping its wings, flew high over the distant forest; another flew the same way in the same direction and disappeared. The birds chirped more loudly and busily in the thicket. An owl hooted not far away, and Laska gave a start, took several cautious steps and, cocking her head, began to listen. From across the stream came the call of a cuckoo. It cuckooed twice in its usual call, then wheezed, hurried and became confused.
‘Imagine! a cuckoo already!’ said Stepan Arkadyich, coming out from behind a bush.
‘Yes, I can hear,’ Levin replied, reluctantly breaking the silence of the forest with his voice, which he found disagreeable. ‘It won’t be long now.’
Stepan Arkadych’s figure stepped back behind the bush, and Levin saw only the bright flame of a match, replaced at once by the red glow of a cigarette and blue smoke.
‘Chik! chik!’ clicked the hammers of Stepan Arkadyich’s gun.
‘And what’s that cry?’ asked Oblonsky, drawing Levin’s attention to a drawn-out yelping, as of a frolicking colt whinnying in a high voice.
‘Ah, don’t you know? It’s a male hare. Enough talk! Listen, they’re coming!’ Levin almost cried out, cocking his gun.
They heard a high, distant whistling, and two seconds later, in the usual rhythm so well known to hunters, a second, a third, and after the third whistle came a chirring.
Levin cast a glance right, left, and there before him in the dull blue sky, over the merging, tender sprouts of the aspen tops, a flying bird appeared. It flew straight towards him: the close, chirring sounds, like the measured ripping of taut fabric, were just above his ears; the bird’s long beak and neck could already be seen, and just as Levin aimed, red lightning flashed from behind the bush where Oblonsky stood; the bird dropped like an arrow and again soared up. Lightning flashed again and a clap was heard; fluttering its wings as if trying to stay in the air, the bird paused, hung there for a moment, then plopped heavily to the marshy ground.
