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the largest and best of his grass lands.
“And send my scythe, please, to Tit, for him to set it, and bring it
round tomorrow. I shall maybe do some mowing myself too,” he said
trying not to be embarrassed.
The bailiff smiled and said: “Yes, sir.”
At tea the same evening Levin said to his brother:
“I fancy the fine weather will last. Tomorrow I shall start mowing.”
“I’m so fond of that form of field labor,” said Sergey Ivanovitch.
“I’m awfully fond of it. I sometimes mow myself with the peasants,
and tomorrow I want to try mowing the whole day.”
Sergey Ivanovitch lifted his head, and looked with interest at his
brother.
“How do you mean? Just like one of the peasants, all day long?”
“Yes, it’s very pleasant,” said Levin.
“It’s splendid as exercise, only you’ll hardly be able to stand it,”
said Sergey Ivanovitch, without a shade of irony.
“I’ve tried it. It’s hard work at first, but you get into it. I dare say I
shall manage to keep it up...”
“Really! what an idea! But tell me, how do the peasants look at it?
I suppose they laugh in their sleeves at their master’s being such a
queer fish?”
“No, I don’t think so; but it’s so delightful, and at the same time
such hard work, that one has no time to think about it.”
“But how will you do about dining with them? To send you a bottle
of Lafitte and roast turkey out there would be a little awkward.”
“No, I’ll simply come home at the time of their noonday rest.”
Next morning Konstantin Levin got up earlier than usual, but he
was detained giving directions on the farm, and when he reached the
mowing grass the mowers were already at their second row.
From the uplands he could get a view of the shaded cut part of the
meadow below, with its grayish ridges of cut grass, and the black heaps
of coats, taken off by the mowers at the place from which they had
started cutting.
Gradually, as he rode towards the meadow, the peasants came into
sight, some in coats, some in their shirts mowing, one behind another in
a long string, swinging their scythes differently. He counted forty-two
of them.
They were mowing slowly over the uneven, low-lying parts of the
meadow, where there had been an old dam. Levin recognized some of
his own men. Here was old Yermil in a very long white smock, bending
forward to swing a scythe; there was a young fellow, Vaska, who had
been a coachman of Levin’s, taking every row with a wide sweep. Here,
too, was Tit, Levin’s preceptor in the art of mowing, a thin little peasant.
He was in front of all, and cut his wide row without bending, as though
playing with the scythe.
Levin got off his mare, and fastening her up by the roadside went
to meet Tit, who took a second scythe out of a bush and gave it to him.
“It’s ready, sir; it’s like a razor, cuts of itself,” said Tit, taking off his
cap with a smile and giving him the scythe.
Levin took the scythe, and began trying it. As they finished their
rows, the mowers, hot and good-humored, came out into the road one
after another, and, laughing a little, greeted the master. They all stared
at him, but no one made any remark, till a tall old man, with a wrinkled,
beardless face, wearing a short sheepskin jacket, came out into the road
and accosted him.
“Look’ee now, master, once take hold of the rope there’s no letting it
go!” he said, and Levin heard smothered laughter among the mowers.
“I’ll try not to let it go,” he said, taking his stand behind Tit, and