Anna Karenina

Levin wakes at earliest dawn and tries waking his companions. Vassenka lies on his stomach, one stocking-clad leg thrust out, sleeping so soundly he won't respond. Oblonsky, half-asleep, declines getting up so early. Even Laska rises unwillingly from the hay, lazily stretching each hind leg. Levin dresses, takes his gun, and slips out alone. It's still gray outside. The old peasant woman emerges, calling him "my dear" like an old friend. She guides him past the threshing floor and hemp patches toward the marsh where the boys drove cattle yesterday evening. Laska runs eagerly ahead. Levin follows with light, rapid steps, watching the sky, hoping to reach the marsh before sunrise. The dawn transforms around him: the moon fades to quicksilver, pink flush barely visible, distant blurs becoming rye sheaves. Dew soaks his legs through the fragrant hemp. Bees whiz past like bullets toward the marsh. Mist rises from the water, reeds and willows swaying like islands. At the marsh edge, peasant boys and men sleep under coats beside hobbled horses. Levin examines his pistols and releases Laska. She plunges joyfully through the slush. Tolstoy gives exquisite detail of Laska's hunt: detecting scents, determining direction, making her circle. When Levin mistakenly redirects her, she obeys reluctantly, then returns to her instinct. She points—body rigid, tail straight and tense, mouth slightly open. One ear turned wrong-side-out from running. Levin sees the grouse she's scenting. "Fetch it!" Two grouse rise. Both his shots connect. The warm, fat birds go into his game bag. "Come, this is going to be some good!" he thinks. As the sun rises fully, transforming colors—sedge like gold, pools like amber—Levin kills three more snipe in succession. A peasant boy watches approvingly. After yesterday's humiliating failure, today brings redemption.