Anna Karenina - LimpidSoft

PART SIX CHAPTER 10
“Come along, it’s all right!” shouted a good-humored-looking bearded peasant
with a red face, showing his white teeth in a grin, and holding up a greenish bottle
that flashed in the sunlight.
“Qu’est-ce qu’ils disent?” asked Veslovsky.
“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 ran 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 staggered 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 refreshed, 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.
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