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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, al-
ready 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 swol-
len 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, some-
times 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, hur-
ried call and broke down.
“Imagine! the cuckoo already!” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, coming
out from behind a bush.
“Yes, In hear it,” answered Levin, reluctantly breaking the stillness
with his voice, which sounded disagreeable to himself. “Now it’s com-
ing!”
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.