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TWENTY-EIGHT

Constantine felt himself morally cornered, and in consequence became excited and involuntarily betrayed the chief cause of his indifference1 to social questions.
‘All this may be very good, but why should I trouble about medical centres which I should never use or schools to which I should never send my children, and to which the peasants would not wish to send theirs either? — and to which I am not fully2 convinced they ought to send them?’ said he.
This unexpected view of the question took Koznyshev by surprise, but he immediately formed a new plan of attack.
He remained silent awhile, lifted his rod and threw the line again, and then turned to his brother with a smile.
‘Now let’s see. . . . There is need of a medical centre after all. Did we not send for the district doctor for Agatha Mikhaylovna?’
‘But I think her hand will remain crooked3 all the same.’
‘That’s very questionable4. . . . And then a peasant who can read and write is more useful to you and worth more.’
‘Oh no! Ask anyone you like,’ said Constantine, decidedly. ‘A peasant who can read and write is far worse as a labourer. They can’t mend the roads, and when they build a bridge they steal.’
‘However, all that is not to the point,’ said Koznyshev, frowning; he did not like to be contradicted, especially when he was met with arguments that incessantly5 shifted their ground, introducing new considerations without sequence so that it was difficult to know which of them to answer first. ‘Wait a bit. Do you admit that education is a good thing for the people?’
‘I do,’ replied Levin unguardedly, and at once realized that he had not said what he really thought. He felt that, since he admitted this much, it would be proved to him that he was talking meaningless twaddle. How it would be proved to him he did not know; but he knew that it certainly would be proved logically, and waited for that proof.
The proof turned out to be far simpler than Constantine anticipated.
‘If you admit it to be good,’ said Koznyshev, ‘then, as an honest man, you cannot help loving and sympathizing with such movements and wishing to work for them.’
‘But I am not yet prepared to say that such work is desirable,’ returned Levin.
‘What? Why, you said just now . . .’
‘I mean I consider it neither desirable nor possible.’
‘You can’t tell without having tried it.’
‘Well, let’s grant it is so,’ said Levin, though he did not grant it at all. ‘Still, I don’t see why I should be bothered with it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No: since we have started on the topic, perhaps you had better explain it to me from a philosophical6 point of view,’ said Levin.
‘I don’t see what philosophy has to do with it,’ replied Koznyshev in a tone that made it seem — at least Levin thought so — that he did not consider his brother had a right to argue on philosophical questions. This irritated Levin.
‘This is what it has to do with it,’ he said, getting heated. ‘I believe that in any case the motive7 power of all our actions is our personal happiness. At present I, a nobleman, see nothing in our Zemstvo that could conduce to my welfare. The roads are not better and cannot be made better, and my horses do manage to pull me over the bad ones, I don’t require doctors and medical centres; I don’t need the magistrate8; I never apply to him and never will. I not only do not require schools, but they would even do me harm, as I have already told you. To me the Zemstvo means nothing but a tax of two kopecks per desyatina, my having to go to the town, sharing a bed with bugs9, and listening to all sorts of nonsense and nastiness; and my personal interests do not prompt me to do it!’
‘Come,’ smilingly interrupted Koznyshev, ‘it was not our personal interest which induced us to work for the emancipation10 of the serfs, and yet we did it.’
‘No, no!’ Constantine interrupted, growing more and more heated. ‘The emancipation of the serfs was quite a different matter. There was a personal interest in that: we wanted to throw off a yoke11 that was oppressing us all — all good men. But to be a member of a Council, to discuss how many scavengers are required and how the drains should be laid in a town in which I am not living, to be on the jury and try a peasant who has stolen a horse, to sit for six hours on end listening to all sorts of rubbish jabbered12 by the counsel and prosecutor13, and to the President asking our idiot Aleshka:
‘ “Prisoner at the bar, do you plead guilty to the indictment14 of having stolen a horse?”
‘ “Eh-h-h?” ’
Constantine Levin was being carried away, and was impersonating the judge and the idiot Aleshka; it seemed to him that all this was relevant to the case in point. But Koznyshev shrugged15 his shoulders.
‘Well, what do you want to prove by that?’
‘I only want to prove that I will always stand up with all my power for the rights which touch me and my personal interests. When they searched us students, and gendarmes16 read our letters, I was ready to defend with all my power my right to education and liberty. I understand conscription which touches the fate of my children, of my brothers and myself and I am ready to discuss what concerns me; but how to dispose of forty thousand roubles of Zemstvo money, or how to try the idiot Aleshka, I neither understand nor can take part in.’
Constantine Levin spoke17 as if the dam of his flood of words had been broken. Koznyshev smiled.
‘And to-morrow you may be going to law. Would you rather be tried in the old Criminal Court?’
‘I won’t go to law. I am not going to cut anybody’s throat, so I shall never be in need of that sort of thing. All those Zemstvo institutions of ours,’ he said, again jumping off to a subject that had no bearing on the case in point, ‘are like those little birches that are cut down for decorations at Whitsuntide, and we Russians stick them up to imitate the woods that have grown up naturally in Western Europe. I cannot water these birches or believe in them from my soul.’
Koznyshev only shrugged his shoulders to express his wonder at this sudden introduction of little birches into their discussion, though he had at once grasped his brother’s meaning.
‘Wait a moment! One can’t reason that way, you know,’ he remarked; but Constantine, wishing to justify18 the failing of which he was aware in himself (his indifference to the general welfare), continued:
‘I think that no activity can endure if it is not based on personal interest. That is the common and philosophical truth,’ said he, emphasizing the word philosophical, as if he wanted to show that he might talk about philosophy as much as anyone else.
Koznyshev smiled again. ‘He too has some philosophy or other to serve his inclinations,’ he thought.
‘You’d better leave philosophy alone,’ said he. ‘The principal task of philosophy has always, in all ages, been to find the necessary connection existing between personal and general interests. But that is not the point. I need only correct your illustration to get at the point. The birches are not stuck in: some of them are planted, and others are sown and have to be tended carefully. Only those peoples have a future, only those peoples can be called historic, that have a sense of what is important and great in their institutions, and value them.’
And to prove the inaccuracy of Levin’s views, Koznyshev carried the conversation into the realm of philosophy and history, which was beyond Constantine’s reach.
‘As to your not liking19 it, pardon me, but that only comes of our Russian laziness and seigneurial habits, and I am sure that in your case it is a temporary error and will pass.’
Constantine was silent. He felt himself beaten at every point, yet was sure that his brother had not understood what he had been trying to say, only he did not know why this was so: whether it was because he could not express himself clearly, or because his brother either could not or did not wish to understand him. But he did not go deeply into these questions, and without replying to his brother began reflecting on a totally different and personal matter.
Koznyshev wound up his last line, untied20 the horse, and they started on their homeward way.

Chapter 4
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THE personal matter that occupied Levin while he was talking with his brother was this. The year before, when visiting a field that was being mown, he had lost his temper with his steward, and to calm himself had used a remedy of his own — he took a scythe from one of the peasants and himself began mowing.
He liked this work so much that he went mowing several times: he mowed all the meadow in front of his house, and when spring came he planned to devote several whole days to mowing with the peasants. Since his brother’s arrival, however, he was in doubt whether to go mowing or not. He did not feel comfortable at the thought of leaving his brother alone all day long, and he also feared that Koznyshev might laugh at him. But while walking over the meadow he recalled the impression mowing had made on him, and almost made up his mind to do it. After his irritating conversation with his brother he again remembered his intention.
‘I need physical exercise; without it my character gets quite spoilt,’ thought he, and determined to go and mow, however uncomfortable his brother and the peasants might make him feel.
In the evening Constantine went to the office and gave orders about the work sending round to the villages to tell the mowers to come next day to the Kalina meadow, the largest and finest he had.
‘And please send my scythe to Titus to be sharpened, and have it taken to the meadow to-morrow: I may go mowing myself,’ he said, trying to overcome his confusion.
The steward smiled and said, ‘All right, sir.’
That evening, at tea, Levin said to his brother:
‘The weather looks settled; to-morrow we begin mowing.’
‘I like that work very much,’ said Koznyshev.
‘I like it awfully too. I have mown with the peasants now and then, and to-morrow I want to mow all day.’
Koznyshev looked up at his brother in surprise.
‘How do you mean? All day, just like the peasants?’
‘Yes, it is very pleasant,’ replied Levin.
‘It is splendid physical exercise, but you will hardly be able to hold out,’ remarked Koznyshev, without the least sarcasm.
‘I have tried it. At first it seems hard, but one gets drawn into it. I don’t think I shall lag behind . . .’
‘Dear me! But tell me, how do the peasants take it? I expect they laugh at their crank of a master?’
‘No, I don’t think so; but it is such pleasant work, and at the same time so hard, that one has no time for thinking.’
‘But how can you dine with them? It would not be quite the thing to send you claret and roast turkey out there?’
‘No; I will just come home at their dinner-time.’
Next morning Constantine got up earlier than usual, but giving instructions about the farming delayed him, and when he came to the meadow each man was already mowing his second swath.
From the hill, as he came to his first swath, he could see, in the shade at his feet, a part of the meadow that was already mown, with the green heaps of grass and dark piles of coats thrown down by the mowers.
As he drew nearer, the peasants — following each other in a long straggling line, some with coats on, some in their shirts, each swinging his scythe in his own manner — gradually came into sight. He counted forty-two of them.
They moved slowly along the uneven bottom of the meadow, where a weir had once been. Levin recognized some of his own men. Old Ermil, wearing a very long white shirt, was swinging his scythe, with his back bent; young Vaska, who had been in Levin’s service as coachman, and who at each swing of his scythe cut the grass the whole width of his swath; and Titus, Levin’s mowing master, a thin little peasant, who went along without stopping, mowing his wide swath as if in play.
Levin dismounted and, tethering his horse by the roadside, went up to Titus, who fetched another scythe from behind a bush and gave it to Levin.
‘It’s ready, master! Like a razor, it will mow of itself,’ said Titus, taking off his cap and smiling as he handed the scythe.
Levin took it and began to put himself in position. The peasants, perspiring and merry, who had finished their swaths came out on to the road one after another, and laughingly exchanged greetings with their master. They all looked at him, but no one made any remark until a tall old man with a shrivelled, beardless face, wearing a sheepskin jacket, stepped out on to the road and addressed him:
‘Mind, master! Having put your hand to the plough, don’t look back!’
And Levin heard the sound of repressed laughter among the mowers.
‘I will try not to lag behind,’ he said, taking his place behind Titus and waiting his turn to fall in.
‘Mind!’ repeated the old man.
Titus made room for Levin, and Levin followed him. By the roadside the grass was short and tough, and Levin, who had not done any mowing for a long time and was confused by so many eyes upon him mowed badly for the first ten minutes, though he swung his scythe with much vigour. He heard voices behind him:
‘It’s not properly adjusted, the grip is not right. See how he has to stoop!’ said one.
‘Hold the heel lower,’ said another.
‘Never mind! It’s all right: he’ll get into it,’ said the old man. ‘There he goes . . .’
‘You are taking too wide a swath, you’ll get knocked up.’ . . . ‘He’s the master, he must work; he’s working for himself!’ . . . ‘But look how uneven!’ . . . ‘That’s what the likes of us used to get a thump on the back for.’
They came to softer grass, and Levin, who was listening without replying, followed Titus and tried to mow as well as possible. When they had gone some hundred steps Titus was still going on without pausing, showing no signs of fatigue, while Levin was already beginning to fear he would not be able to keep up, he felt so tired.
He swung his scythe, feeling almost at the last gasp, and made up his mind to ask Titus to stop. But just at that moment Titus stopped of his own accord, stooped, took up some grass and wiped his scythe with it. Levin straightened himself, sighed, and looked back. The peasant behind him was still mowing but was obviously tired too, for he stopped without coming even with Levin and began whetting his scythe. Titus whetted his own and Levin’s, and they began mowing again.
The same thing happened at Levin’s second attempt. Titus swung his scythe, swing after swing, without stopping and without getting tired. Levin followed, trying not to lag behind, but it became harder and harder until at last the moment came when he felt he had no strength left, and then Titus again stopped and began whetting his scythe. In this way they finished the swaths. They were long, and to Levin seemed particularly difficult; but when it was done and Titus with his scythe over his shoulder turned about and slowly retraced his steps, placing his feet on the marks left on the mown surface by the heels of his boots, and Levin went down his own swath in the same way, then — in spite of the perspiration that ran down his face in streams and dripped from his nose, and though his back was as wet as if the shirt had been soaked in water — he felt very light-hearted. What gave him most pleasure was the knowledge that he would be able to keep up with the peasants.
The only thing marring his joy was the fact that his swath was not well mown. ‘I must swing the scythe less with my arms and more with the whole of my body,’ he thought, comparing Titus’s swath, cut straight as if by measure, with his own, on which the grass lay scattered and uneven.
As Levin was aware, Titus had been mowing this swath with special rapidity, probably to put his master to the test, and it chanced to be a very long one. The next swaths were easier, but still Levin had to work with all his might to keep even with the peasants. He thought of nothing and desired nothing, except not to lag behind and to do his work as well as possible. He heard only the swishing of the scythes and saw only the receding figure of Titus, the convex half-circle of the mown piece before him, and the grasses and heads of flowers falling in waves about the blade of his scythe, and in the background the end of the swath where he would rest.
Suddenly he was conscious of a pleasant coolness on his hot perspiring shoulders, without knowing what it was or whence it came. He glanced up at the sky whilst whetting his scythe. A dark cloud was hanging low overhead, and large drops of rain were falling. Some of the peasants went to put on their coats; others as well as Levin felt pleasure in the refreshing rain and merely moved their shoulders up and down.
They came to the end of another swath. They went on mowing long and short rows, good and poor grass. Levin had lost count of time and had really no idea whether it was late or early. His work was undergoing a change which gave him intense pleasure. While working he sometimes forgot for some minutes what he was about, and felt quite at ease; then his mowing was nearly as even as that of Titus. But as soon as he began thinking about it and trying to work better, he at once felt how hard the task was and mowed badly.
He finished a swath and was about to start another when Titus paused and went up to the old man, and both looked at the sun.
‘What are they talking about, and why don’t they start another swath?’ thought Levin. It did not occur to him that the peasants, who had been mowing unceasingly for four hours, wanted their breakfast.
‘Breakfast-time, master,’ said the old man.
‘Is it time? Well, then, breakfast!’
Levin handed his scythe to Titus and with the peasants, who were going to fetch the bread that lay with their coats, went across the swaths of the long mown portion of the meadow, slightly sprinkled with rain. Only then he remembered that he had not been right about the weather and that the rain was wetting the hay.
‘The hay will be spoilt,’ said he.
‘It won’t hurt, master. “Mow in the rain, rake when it’s fine!” ’
Levin untied his horse and rode home to his coffee.
By the time Levin had finished breakfast Koznyshev had only just got up, and Levin went back to the meadow before Koznyshev had come to table.

Chapter 5
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AFTER breakfast Levin got placed between a humorous old man who invited him to be his neighbour and a young peasant who had only got married last autumn and was now out for his first summer’s mowing.
The old man went along holding himself erect, moving with regular, long steps, turning out his toes, and with a precise and even motion that seemed to cost him no more effort than swinging his arms when walking, he laid the grass in a level high ridge, as if in play or as if the sharp scythe of its own accord whizzed through the juicy grass.
Young Mishka went behind Levin. His pleasant young face, with a wisp of grass tied round the forehead over his hair, worked all over with the effort; but whenever anyone glanced at him he smiled. Evidently he would have died rather than confess that the work was trying.
Between these two went Levin. Now, in the hottest part of the day, the work did not seem so hard to him. The perspiration in which he was bathed was cooling, and the sun which burnt his back, his head and his arm — bare to the elbow — added to his strength and perseverance in his task, and those unconscious intervals when it became possible not to think of what he was doing recurred more and more often. The scythe seemed to mow of itself. Those were happy moments. Yet more joyous were the moments when, reaching the river at the lower end of the swaths, the old man would wipe his scythe with the wet grass, rinse its blade in the clear water, and dipping his whetstone-box in the stream, would offer it to Levin.
‘A little of my kvas? It’s good!’ said he, with a wink.
And really Levin thought he had never tasted any nicer drink than this lukewarm water with green stuff floating in it and a flavour of the rusty tin box. And then came the ecstasy of a slow walk, one hand resting on the scythe, when there was leisure to wipe away the streams of perspiration, to breathe deep, to watch the line of mowers, and to see what was going on around in forest and field.
The longer Levin went on mowing, the oftener he experienced those moments of oblivion when his arms no longer seemed to swing the scythe, but the scythe itself his whole body, so conscious and full of life; and as if by magic, regularly and definitely without a thought being given to it, the work accomplished itself of its own accord. These were blessed moments.
It was trying only when thought became necessary in order to mow around a molehill or a space where the hard sorrel stalks had not been weeded out. The old man accomplished this with ease. When he came to a molehill he would change his action, and with a short jerk of the point and then of the heel of his scythe he would mow in round the molehill. And while doing this he noted everything he came to: now he plucked a sorrel stalk and ate it, or offered it to Levin; now he threw aside a branch with the point of his scythe, or examined a quail’s nest from which the hen bird had flown up, almost under the scythe; or he caught a beetle, lifting it with the scythe-point as with a fork, and after showing it to Levin, threw it away.
Levin and the young fellow on the other side of him found such changes of action difficult. Both of them, having got into one strained kind of movement, were in the grip of feverish labour and had not the power to change the motion of their bodies and at the same time to observe what lay before them.
Levin did not notice how time passed. Had he been asked how long he had been mowing, he would have answered ‘half an hour’, although it was nearly noon. As they were about to begin another swath the old man drew Levin’s attention to the little boys and girls approaching from all sides along the road and through the long grass, hardly visible above it, carrying jugs of kvas stoppered with rags, and bundles of bread which strained their little arms.
‘Look at the midges crawling along!’ he said, pointing to the children and glancing at the sun from under his lifted hand. They completed two more swaths and then the old man stopped.
‘Come, master! It’s dinner-time,’ said he with decision. All the mowers on reaching the river went across the swaths to where their coats lay, and where the children who had brought their dinners sat waiting for them. The men who had driven from a distance gathered in the shadow of their carts; those who lived nearer sheltered under the willow growth, on which they hung grass.
Levin sat down beside them; he did not want to go away.