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full pails dragging at her shoulders. More women came on the scene
from somewhere, young and handsome, middle-aged, old and ugly,
with children and without children.
The samovar was beginning to sing; the laborers and the family,
having disposed of the horses, came in to dinner. Levin, getting his
provisions out of his carriage, invited the old man to take tea with him.
“Well, I have had some today already,” said the old man, obviously
accepting the invitation with pleasure. “But just a glass for company.”
Over their tea Levin heard all about the old man’s farming. Ten
years before, the old man had rented three hundred acres from the
lady who owned them, and a year ago he had bought them and rented
another three hundred from a neighboring landowner. A small part of
the land—the worst part—he let out for rent, while a hundred acres of
arable land he cultivated himself with his family and two hired labor-
ers. The old man complained that things were doing badly. But Levin
saw that he simply did so from a feeling of propriety, and that his farm
was in a flourishing condition. If it had been unsuccessful he would
not have bought land at thirty-five roubles the acre, he would not have
married his three sons and a nephew, he would not have rebuilt twice
after fires, and each time on a larger scale. In spite of the old man’s
complaints, it was evident that he was proud, and justly proud, of his
prosperity, proud of his sons, his nephew, his sons’ wives, his horses and
his cows, and especially of the fact that he was keeping all this farming
going. From his conversation with the old man, Levin thought he was
not averse to new methods either. He had planted a great many
potatoes, and his potatoes, as Levin had seen driving past, were al-
ready past flowering and beginning to die down, while Levin’s were
only just coming into flower. He earthed up his potatoes with a mod-
ern plough borrowed from a neighboring landowner. He sowed wheat.
The trifling fact that, thinning out his rye, the old man used the rye he
thinned out for his horses, specially struck Levin. How many times
had Levin seen this splendid fodder wasted, and tried to get it saved;
but always it had turned out to be impossible. The peasant got this
done, and he could not say enough in praise of it as food for the beasts.
“What have the wenches to do? They carry it out in bundles to the
roadside, and the cart brings it away.”
“Well, we landowners can’t manage well with our laborers,” said
Levin, handing him a glass of tea.
“Thank you,” said the old man, and he took the glass, but refused
sugar, pointing to a lump he had left. “They’re simple destruction,”
said he. “Look at Sviazhsky’s, for instance. We know what the land’s
like—first-rate, yet there’s not much of a crop to boast of. It’s not
looked after enough—that’s all it is!”
“But you work your land with hired laborers?”
“We’re all peasants together. We go into everything ourselves. If a
man’s no use, he can go, and we can manage by ourselves.”
“Father Finogen wants some tar,” said the young woman in the
clogs, coming in.
“Yes, yes, that’s how it is, sir!” said the old man, getting up, and
crossing himself deliberately, he thanked Levin and went out.
When Levin went into the kitchen to call his coachman he saw the
whole family at dinner. The women were standing up waiting on them.
The young, sturdy-looking son was telling something funny with his
mouth full of pudding, and they were all laughing, the woman in the
clogs, who was pouring cabbage soup into a bowl, laughing most mer-
rily of all.
Very probably the good-looking face of the young woman in the
dogs had a good deal to do with the impression of well-being this