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fine—the early calves were the size of a peasant’s cow, and Pava’s
daughter, at three months old, was a big as a yearling— Levin gave
orders for a trough to be brought out and for them to be fed in the
paddock. But it appeared that as the paddock had not been used
during the winter, the hurdles made in the autumn for it were broken.
He sent for the carpenter, who, according to his orders, ought to have
been at work at the thrashing machine. But it appeared that the car-
penter was repairing the harrows, which ought to have been repaired
before Lent. This was very annoying to Levin. It was annoying to
come upon that everlasting slovenliness in the farm work against which
he had been striving with all his might for so many years. The hurdles,
as he ascertained, being not wanted in winter, had been carried to the
cart-horses’ stable; and there broken, as they were of light construction,
only meant for folding calves. Moreover, it was apparent also that the
harrows and all the agricultural implements, which he had directed to
be looked over and repaired in the winter, for which very purpose he
had hired three carpenters, had not been put into repair, and the har-
rows were being repaired when they ought to have been harrowing the
field. Levin sent for his bailiff, but immediately went off himself to look
for him. The bailiff, beaming all over, like everyone that day, in a
sheepskin bordered with astrachan, came out of the barn, twisting a bit
of straw in his hands.
“Why isn’t the carpenter at the thrashing machine?”
“Oh, I meant to tell you yesterday, the harrows want repairing.
Here it’s time they got to work in the fields.”
“But what were they doing in the winter, then?”
“But what did you want the carpenter for?”
“Where are the hurdles for the calves’ paddock?”
“I ordered them to be got ready. What would you have with those
peasants!” said the bailiff, with a wave of his hand.
“It’s not those peasants but this bailiff!” said Levin, getting angry.
“Why, what do I keep you for?” he cried. But, bethinking himself that
this would not help matters, he stopped short in the middle of a sen-
tence, and merely sighed. “Well, what do you say? Can sowing begin?”
he asked, after a pause.
“Behind Turkin tomorrow or the next day they might begin.”
“And the clover?”
“I’ve sent Vassily and Mishka; they’re sowing. Only I don’t know if
they’ll manage to get through; it’s so slushy.”
“How many acres?”
“About fifteen.”
“Why not sow all?” cried Levin.
That they were only sowing the clover on fifteen acres, not on all
the forty-five, was still more annoying to him. Clover, as he knew, both
from books and from his own experience, never did well except when it
was sown as early as possible, almost in the snow. And yet Levin could
never get this done.
“There’s no one to send. What would you have with such a set of
peasants? Three haven’t turned up. And there’s Semyon...”
“Well, you should have taken some men from the thatching.”
“And so I have, as it is.”
“Where are the peasants, then?”
“Five are making compote (which meant compost), “four are shift-
ing the oats for fear of a touch of mildew, Konstantin Dmitrievitch.”
Levin knew very well that “a touch of mildew” meant that his
English seed oats were already ruined. Again they had not done as he
had ordered.
“Why, but I told you during Lent to put in pipes,” he cried.