Leo Tolstoy - Anna Karenina

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“They invite you to have some vodka. Most likely they’ve been
dividing the meadow into lots. I should have some,” said Levin, not
without some guile, hoping Veslovsky would be tempted by the vodka,
and would go away to them.
“Why do they offer it?”
“Oh, they’re merry-making. Really, you should join them. You
would be interested.”
“Allons, c’est curieux.”
“You go, you go, you’ll find the way to the mill!” cried Levin, and
looking round he perceived with satisfaction that Veslovsky, bent and
stumbling with weariness, holding his gun out at arm’s length, was
making his way out of the marsh towards the peasants.
“You come too!” the peasants shouted to Levin. “Never fear! You
taste our cake!”
Levin felt a strong inclination to drink a little vodka and to eat
some bread. He was exhausted, and felt it a great effort to drag his
staggering legs out of the mire, and for a minute he hesitated. But
Laska was setting. And immediately all his weariness vanished, and
he walked lightly through the swamp towards the dog. A snipe flew up
at his feet; he fired and killed it. Laska still pointed.—”Fetch it!”
Another bird flew up close to the dog. Levin fired. But it was an
unlucky day for him; he missed it, and when he went to look for the one
he had shot, he could not find that either. He wandered all about the
reeds, but Laska did not believe he had shot it, and when he sent her
to find it, she pretended to hunt for it, but did not really. And in the
absence of Vassenka, on whom Levin threw the blame of his failure,
things went no better. There were plenty of snipe still, but Levin made
one miss after another.
The slanting rays of the sun were still hot; his clothes, soaked


through with perspiration, stuck to his body; his left boot full of water
weighed heavily on his leg and squeaked at every step; the sweat rain
in drops down his powder-grimed face, his mouth was full of the bitter
taste, his nose of the smell of powder and stagnant water, his ears were
ringing with the incessant whir of the snipe; he could not touch the
stock of his gun, it was so hot; his heart beat with short, rapid throbs; his
hands shook with excitement, and his weary legs stumbled and stag-
gered over the hillocks and in the swamp, but still he walked on and
still he shot. At last, after a disgraceful miss, he flung his gun and his
hat on the ground.
“No, I must control myself,” he said to himself. Picking up his gun
and his hat, he called Laska, and went out of the swamp. When he got
on to dry ground he sat down, pulled off his boot and emptied it, then
walked to the marsh, drank some stagnant-tasting water, moistened
his burning hot gun, and washed his face and hands. Feeling re-
freshed, he went back to the spot where a snipe had settled, firmly
resolved to keep cool.
He tried to be calm, but it was the same again. His finger pressed
the cock before he had taken a good aim at the bird. It got worse and
worse.
He had only five birds in his game-bag when he walked out of the
marsh towards the alders where he was to rejoin Stepan Arkadyevitch.
Before he caught sight of Stepan Arkadyevitch he saw his dog.
Krak darted out from behind the twisted root of an alder, black all over
with the stinking mire of the marsh, and with the air of a conqueror
sniffed at Laska. Behind Krak there came into view in the shade of the
alder tree the shapely figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch. He came to meet
him, red and perspiring, with unbuttoned neckband, still limping in the
same way.
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