back the dog, who found trails on the very path, and
Olenin killed two more pheasants, so that after being detained by this
it was getting towards noon before he began to find the place he was
looking for.

The day was perfectly clear, calm, and hot. The morning moisture had
dried up even in the forest, and myriads of mosquitoes literally
covered his face, his back, and his arms. His dog had turned from black
to grey, its back being covered with mosquitoes, and so had Olenin's
coat through which the insects thrust their stings. Olenin was ready to
run away from them and it seemed to him that it was impossible to live
in this country in the summer. He was about to go home, but remembering
that other people managed to endure such pain he resolved to bear it
and gave himself up to be devoured. And strange to say, by noontime the
feeling became actually pleasant. He even felt that without this
mosquito-filled atmosphere around him, and that mosquito-paste mingled
with perspiration which his hand smeared over his face, and that
unceasing irritation all over his body, the forest would lose for him
some of its character and charm. These myriads of insects were so well
suited to that monstrously lavish wild vegetation, these multitudes of
birds and beasts which filled the forest, this dark foliage, this hot
scented air, these runlets filled with turbid water which everywhere
soaked through from the Terek and gurgled here and there under the
overhanging leaves, that the very thing which had at first seemed to
him dreadful and intolerable now seemed pleasant. After going round the
place where yesterday they had found the animal and not finding
anything, he felt inclined to rest. The sun stood right above the
forest and poured its perpendicular rays down on his back and head
whenever he came out into a glade or onto the road. The seven heavy
pheasants dragged painfully at his waist. Having found the traces of
yesterday's stag he crept under a bush into the thicket just where the
stag had lain, and lay down in its lair. He examined the dark foliage
around him, the place marked by the stag's perspiration and yesterday's
dung, the imprint of the stag's knees, the bit of black earth it had
kicked up, and his own footprints of the day before. He felt cool and
comfortable and did not think of or wish for anything. And suddenly he
was overcome by such a strange feeling of causeless joy and of love for
everything, that from an old habit