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TWENTY-NINE

All the peasants’ restraint in the presence of the master had vanished. The men began preparing for dinner. Some had a wash. The young lads bathed in the river; others arranged places for their after-dinner rest, unfastened their bags of bread and unstoppered their jugs1 of kvas. The old man broke some rye bread into a bowl, mashed2 it with a spoon handle, poured over it some water from his tin, broke more bread into it and salted it, and then, turning to the East, said grace.
‘Come, master, have some of my dinner,’ said he, kneeling in front of his bowl.
The bread and water was so nice that Levin gave up all intention of going home to lunch. He shared the old man’s meal and got into conversation with him about his domestic affairs, taking a lively interest in them and telling him about his own, giving him all the particulars which would interest the old peasant. When the old man got up and, having said grace, lay down beneath the willows3 with an armful of grass under his head, Levin did the same, regardless of the flies, importunate4 and persistent5 in the sunshine, and of the crawling insects that tickled6 his perspiring7 face and body. He at once fell asleep, waking only when the sun touched the opposite side of the willows and reached him. The old man had already been long awake and sat setting the scythes9 for the young men.
Levin looked round and hardly recognized the place, everything was so altered. A wide expanse of the meadow was already mown, and with its swaths of grass already giving off perfume, shone with a peculiar11 fresh brilliance12 in the oblique13 rays of the descending14 sun. The bushes by the river where the grass had been cut and the river itself with its curves, previously15 invisible, were now glittering like steel; and the people getting up and moving about, the steep wall of yet uncut grass, and the hawks16 soaring over the bare meadow, struck him as something quite new. When he was fully17 awake Levin began to calculate how much had been done and how much could still be done that day.
An extraordinary amount had been done by the forty-two men. The larger meadow, which in the days of serfdom had taken thirty men two days to mow10, was all finished except some short patches at the corners. But Levin wanted to get as much as possible done that day, and it was vexatious to see the sun already declining. He was not feeling at all tired and was only longing18 to work again and to accomplish as much as he could.
‘What do you think — could we manage to get Mashkin Heights mown to-day?’ he asked the old man.
‘Well, God willing, we might! The sun is not very high though. Perhaps — if the lads could have a little vodka!’
At half-time, when they sat down again and those who smoked were lighting19 their pipes, the old man informed the young fellows that if they mowed20 the Mashkin Heights there would be vodka.
‘What? Not mow that? Come along, Titus; we’ll get it clear in no time!’
‘You can eat your fill at night. Let’s begin!’ shouted different voices, and the mowers took their places, finishing their bread as they went.
‘Now then, lads! Keep going!’ said Titus, starting off ahead almost at a trot22.
‘Go on, go on!’ said the old man, hurrying after him and easily catching23 him up. ‘Take care, I’ll mow you down!’
And young and old vied with each other at mowing24. But in spite of their haste they did not spoil the grass, and the swaths fell just as evenly and exactly as before. The small patch that was left in the last corner was mown in five minutes; and whilst the last mowers were finishing their swaths, those in front, carrying their coats over their shoulders, were already crossing the road toward Mashkin Heights.
The sun was already setting toward the trees when, with their tin boxes rattling25, they entered the wooded ravine of the Heights.
The grass that in the middle of the ravine reached to their waists was delicate, soft, and broad-bladed, speckled here and there with cow-wheat.
After a short consultation26 as to whether they should mow the ravine across or lengthwise, Prokhor — a gigantic dark man and a famous mower21 — took the lead. He went in front, mowed a swath, turned round and restarted; following him all the others took their places, going downhill along the creek27 and back up to the very skirts of the wood. The sun had set behind the wood and now shone only on the mowers at the top of the hill, while in the valley, where the mists were rising, they were in cool, dewy shade. The work proceeded briskly.
The scented28 grass, cut down with a sound that showed how juicy it was, fell in high ridges29. On the short swaths the mowers crowded together, their tin boxes clattering30, their scythes ringing whenever they touched, the whetstones whistling upon the blades, and their merry voices resounding31 as they urged each other on.
Levin was again mowing between the old man and the lad. The old man, who had put on his sheepskin jacket, was still as jolly, witty32, and easy in his movements as before. In the wood their scythes continually cut down wood mushrooms, grown plump amid the juicy grass. The old man stooped each time he came upon one, picked it up, and put it inside his jacket, saying, ‘Another treat for my old woman.’
It was easy to cut the wet soft grass, but on the other hand it was very difficult to go up and down the steep slopes of the ravine. This, however, did not trouble the old man. Swinging his scythe8 just as usual, taking short steps with feet shod in large bark-plaited shoes, he slowly climbed the slopes; and though his whole body and his loosely-hanging trousers shook, he did not miss a single mushroom or a curious grass, and continued joking with the other peasants and with Levin. Levin followed, and often thought he would certainly fall when climbing a mound33 with his scythe in his hand — a mound so steep that it would have been hard to climb even unencumbered. Still, he managed to climb it and to do all that had to be done; and he felt as if some external force were urging him on.

Chapter 6
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MASHKIN HEIGHTS were mown, and the peasants, having completed their last swaths, put on their coats and went home in high spirits. Levin, having regretfully taken leave of them, mounted and rode home. He looked back from the top of the hill. He could not see the men, for the mist rising from the hollow hid them; but he heard their merry rough voices, laughter, and the clanking of the scythes.
Koznyshev had long had his dinner, and was in his room drinking iced water with lemon, while looking over the papers and magazines just arrived by post, when Levin rushed in, his tangled hair clinging to his moist brow, his shirt saturated back and front and dark with perspiration, and cried out joyfully:
‘We have finished the whole of the meadow! How delightful it is! And how have you got on?’ Levin had quite forgotten the unpleasant conversation of the previous day.
‘Dear me, what a sight you are!’ said Koznyshev, turning to his brother with a momentary look of vexation. ‘The door — the door! Shut it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve certainly let in a whole dozen!’
Koznyshev could not bear flies, and opened the windows in his room only at night, keeping the door carefully closed.
‘No, not one, I swear. And if I have, I’ll catch it. . . . You would not believe what enjoyment it was! And how have you spent the day?’
‘Quite well. But have you really been mowing all day? You must be as hungry as a wolf. Kuzma has everything ready for you.’
‘No, I don’t want to eat; I have had something there. But I’ll go and wash.’
‘Yes, yes, go; and I will come presently.’ Koznyshev shook his head as he looked at his brother. ‘Go, go, and be quick!’ he added with a smile, as, gathering together his books, he prepared to go too. He also felt suddenly quite cheerful and did not wish to part from his brother. ‘And where were you when it rained?’
‘What rain was that? Only a few drops. . . . Well, then, I’ll come back directly. So you have spent the day all right? That’s good.’ And Levin went off to dress.
Five minutes later the brothers met again in the dining-room. Though Levin had imagined that he was not hungry, and sat down to table only not to offend Kuzma, yet when he began eating he thought everything delicious. Koznyshev smiled as he looked at him.
‘Oh, yes, there’s a letter for you,’ said he. ‘Kuzma, please bring it. It’s downstairs. And mind you shut the door.’
The letter was from Oblonsky. Levin read it aloud. Oblonsky wrote from Petersburg: ‘I have had a letter from Dolly. She is in Ergushovo, and everything is out of gear there. Please go and see her and help her with your advice — you know all about everything. She is quite alone, poor thing; my mother-in-law is still abroad.’
‘That’s splendid! I will certainly go and see her,’ said Levin. ‘Or shall we both go? She is such a good woman; don’t you think so?’
‘Is it far from here?’
‘A little over twenty-five miles or maybe even thirty, but the road is excellent. We’ll have a fine drive.’
‘I shall be very glad,’ replied Koznyshev, still smiling. The sight of his younger brother had a distinctly cheering influence on him.
‘I must say you have an appetite!’ he said, glancing at the sunburnt ruddy face bent over the plate.
‘Fine! You would hardly believe what a remedy it is for every kind of folly. I am thinking of enriching Medicine with a new word: Arbeitskur [Work-cure]!’
‘You would hardly require it, I should say.’
‘No, but those who suffer from their nerves do.’
‘Yes, it ought to be tested. You know, I thought of coming to the meadow to have a look at you, but it was so unbearably hot that I got only as far as the forest! I sat there a little, and then went through the forest to the village, where I met your old wet-nurse and sounded her as to what the peasants think of you. From her I understand that they do not approve of your doing it. She said: “It’s not gentlefolk’s work.” It seems to me that on the whole, in the people’s opinion, a very decided demand for what they call “gentlefolk’s work” exists, and they don’t approve of the gentry going outside the bounds they set for them.’
‘Possibly; but it is a pleasure such as I have never in my life experienced before, and there is nothing wrong in it. Don’t you think so too?’ replied Levin. ‘If they don’t like it, it can’t be helped. Besides, I think it’s all right. Eh?’
‘I see that on the whole you are well satisfied with your day.’
‘Very well indeed! We finished the meadow. And I chummed up with such a fine old man! You can’t imagine what a charming fellow he is.’
‘Well, then, you are satisfied with your day, and so am I. First of all I solved two chess problems — one a very good one, beginning with a pawn move. I’ll show it you. And afterwards I thought over our yesterday’s conversation.’
‘What about yesterday’s conversation?’ asked Levin, who had finished dinner and sat blissfully blinking and puffing, quite unable to remember what yesterday’s conversation had been about.
‘I think you are partly right. Our disagreement lies in the fact that you consider personal interests the motive power, while I think every man with a certain degree of education ought to be interested in the general welfare. You may be right in thinking that activity backed by material interest is best; but your nature is altogether primesautière [impulsive],’ as the French say: you want passionate, energetic activity, or nothing at all.’
Levin listened to his brother but understood absolutely nothing and did not wish to understand. He was only afraid his brother might put some question which would elicit the fact that he was not paying attention.
‘That’s what it is, old chap,’ said Koznyshev, patting Constantine’s shoulder.
‘Yes, of course! But what matter? I don’t insist on my view,’ replied Levin, with a guilty, childlike smile. ‘What can I have been disputing about?’ he thought. ‘Of course I was right, and he was right too, so it’s all right! . . . But I must go round to the office.’
He rose, stretching himself and smiling. Koznyshev smiled too.
‘Shall we go for a stroll together?’ he said, not wishing to part from his brother, who seemed to be exhaling freshness and vigour. ‘Come along! We could call in at the office if you want to.’
‘Oh, dear me!’ exclaimed Levin, so loudly that he scared Koznyshev.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘How’s Agatha Mikhaylovna’s arm?’ asked Levin, slapping his head. ‘I had forgotten all about it.’
‘Much better.’
‘Well, I’ll run and see her, all the same. You won’t have got your hat before I am back.’
And his heels clattered swiftly down the stairs, making a noise like a rattle.

Chapter 7
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OBLONSKY had gone to Petersburg to fulfil a very necessary duty — which to officials seems most natural and familiar, though to laymen it is incomprehensible — that of reminding the Ministry of his existence, without the performance of which rite continuance in Government service is impossible. Having taken away with him all the money there was in the house, he contrived while attending to duty to pass his time very pleasantly, going to races and visiting at country houses. Meanwhile, to curtail expenses, Dolly and her children moved to the country. She went to Ergushovo, the estate which had formed part of her dowry, about thirty-five miles distant from Levin’s Pokrovsk, and the very place where in spring the forest had been sold.
The old mansion on the estate had been pulled down long ago, but there was a smaller house which had been enlarged and decorated by the Prince. Some twenty years before, when Dolly was still a child, that house had seemed roomy and convenient, though in common with all houses of the kind it stood away from the drive and had not a south aspect. It was old and beginning to decay. In the spring, when Oblonsky went there to sell the forest, Dolly had asked him to look over the house and have all necessary repairs done. Like all guilty husbands Oblonsky was very anxious about his wife’s comfort, so he looked over the house himself and gave orders to have everything done that seemed to him necessary. According to him it was necessary to re-upholster the furniture with new cretonne, to put up curtains, make the garden tidy, plant flowers and build a bridge by the lake; but he forgot many other things which were essential, and thus caused Dolly a great deal of trouble.
Try as he would to be a considerate husband and father, Oblonsky never could remember that he had a wife and children. He had the tastes of a bachelor and understood no others. When he returned to Moscow he informed his wife that all was being prepared, that the house would look like a new toy, and advised her to move thither. Her departure for the country suited Oblonsky in every way: it was good for the children, expenses would be cut down, and he would be freer. His wife, on the other hand, considered going to the country for the summer to be absolutely necessary for the children, especially for the little girl who had not recovered her health after the scarlet fever; and also in order to escape the humiliation of small debts for fuel, fish, boots, and so on, which tormented her. Besides this she liked the idea of going to her house in the country because she intended to get her sister Kitty, who was to return from abroad at midsummer and who had been ordered bathing, to join her there. Kitty wrote from her watering-place that nothing seemed so attractive as spending the summer with Dolly at Ergushovo, which was full of childhood memories for both of them.
The first days in the country were very trying for Dolly. In her girlhood she had lived there and it had left an impression on her mind as a place of refuge from all the unpleasantness of town; life there, though very plain (Dolly was reconciled to that), was cheap and comfortable; everything was cheap there and easy to get, and it would do the children good. But when she came there as mistress of the house she saw that things were quite different from what she had expected.
The day after her arrival it poured with rain and in the night the rain came through into the passage and nursery, so that the children’s beds had to be carried into the drawing-room. There was no scullery-maid. Of the nine cows some, according to the dairymaids, were about to calve, others had calved for the first time, some were too old, and the rest were difficult to milk, so there was no butter and scarcely enough milk even for the children. There were no eggs. It was impossible to get a chicken, and they were obliged to boil and roast tough old purple-coloured roosters. No peasant women could be got to scrub the floors: they were all out planting potatoes. It was impossible to go for a drive because one of the horses was restive and would not run in harness. There was no place for bathing, the river banks being all trampled over by the cattle and exposed to the road; it was not even possible to walk in the garden because the fence was broken and the peasants’ cattle could get in, and the herd included a terrible bull that was given to bellowing and would therefore probably toss. There was nowhere to hang dresses, because what few wardrobes there were would not shut, or else opened of themselves when anyone passed by. There was no mangle in the laundry, not even an ironing board, and no large pots or pans.
Dolly, meeting with these difficulties, so terrible from her point of view, instead of finding peace and rest, was at first driven to despair. She bustled about and did her utmost; but feeling the hopelessness of her position, had to fight with the tears that rose every moment to her eyes.
The steward, formerly a non-commissioned officer, to whom Oblonsky had taken a fancy and whom he had promoted from hall porter to steward because of the man’s handsome and respectful appearance, took no interest in his mistress’s troubles, only saying in a deferential tone, ‘Quite impossible, the people are so abominable’, and did nothing to help her.
The position seemed irremediable; but just as in other households, there was here in the Oblonskys’ house one inconspicuous yet most important and useful person: Matrena Filimonovna. She consoled her mistress, assuring her that everything would ‘shape itself’ (this phrase was her own, and Matthew had learnt it from her), and she went to work deliberately and without excitement.
She at once made friends with the steward’s wife, and on the very day of the removal drank tea with her and with the steward beneath the laburnums, discussing arrangements. A club was soon established beneath the laburnums, consisting of Matrena Filimonovna, the steward’s wife, the village elder, and the office clerk; and by means of this club the troubles began gradually to subside, so that in a week’s time everything had really ‘shaped itself’. The roof was mended, a scullery-maid — a relative of the elder’s — was engaged, hens were bought, the cows gave enough milk, the garden was fenced in, a mangle was made by the carpenter, hooks were put into the wardrobes, which no longer opened at their own sweet will; an ironing board covered with coarse cloth lay across the arm of a chair and a chest of drawers in the maid’s room, and the smell of hot irons soon pervaded the room.
‘There, you see! And you were quite in despair!’ said Matrena Filimonovna, pointing to the board.
Even a bathing-house was constructed out of straw-plaited screens. Lily started bathing, and at least part of Dolly’s expectations were fulfilled, if not that of a quiet, at least that of a comfortable, country life. Dolly could not be quiet with six children, of whom one would fall ill, another be in danger of falling ill, a third be in want of something, a fourth show symptoms of something bad in his disposition, etc., etc. Very, very rare were the short intervals of quiet. But these cares and anxieties were the only kind of happiness possible for Dolly. Had it not been for them she would have been left to her thoughts about the husband who did not love her. Besides, painful as were for a mother the fear of illness, and sorrow at the appearance of evil tendencies in her children, those children were already beginning to repay her care by affording her small joys. These joys were so trifling as to be as imperceptible as grains of gold among the sand, and in moments of depression she saw nothing but the sand; yet there were brighter moments when she felt nothing but joy, saw nothing but the gold.
Now in the country solitude she grew more often aware of these joys. Often when watching her children she made great efforts to convince herself that she was mistaken, that being their mother she was not impartial; and yet she could not help telling herself that they were charming children, all the six, each in his or her own way, all of them such as are rarely to be met with; and she was happy in them and proud of them.