Leo Tolstoy

by Anna Karenina (tr Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky) (Penguin Classics) (epub)

  ‘As God wills, the sun’s not high. Or might there be some vodka for the lads?’

  At break time, when they sat down again and the smokers lit up, the old man announced to the lads that if they ‘mow Mashka’s Knoll –there’ll be vodka in it’.

  ‘See if we can’t! Go to it, Titus! We’ll clear it in a wink! You can eat tonight. Go to it!’ came the cries, and, finishing their bread, the mowers went to it.

  ‘Well, lads, keep the pace!’ said Titus, and he went ahead almost at a trot.

  ‘Get a move on!’ said the old man, hustling after him and catching up easily. ‘I’ll cut you down! Watch out!’

  And it was as if young and old vied with each other in the mowing. But no matter how they hurried, they did not ruin the grass, and the swaths were laid as cleanly and neatly. A little patch left in a corner was cleared in five minutes. The last mowers were coming to the end of their rows when the ones in front threw their caftans over their shoulders and went across the road to Mashka’s Knoll.

  The sun was already low over the trees when, with whetstone boxes clanking, they entered the wooded gully of Mashka’s Knoll. The grass was waist–high in the middle of the hollow, tender and soft, broad–bladed, speckled with cow–wheat here and there under the trees.

  After a brief discussion – to move lengthwise or crosswise – Prokhor Yermilin, also a famous mower, a huge, swarthy man, went to the front. He finished the first swath, went back and moved over, and everybody started falling into line after him, going downhill through the hollow and up to the very edge of the wood. The sun sank behind the wood. The dew was already falling, and only those mowing on the hill were in the sun, while below, where mist was rising, and on the other side, they walked in the fresh, dewy shade. The work was in full swing.

  Sliced down with a succulent sound and smelling of spice, the grass lay in high swaths. Crowding on all sides in the short swaths, their whetstone boxes clanking, to the noise of scythes clashing, of a whetstone swishing along a sharpening blade, and of merry shouts, the mowers urged each other on.

  Levin went as before between the young lad and the old man. The old man, who had put on his sheepskin jacket, was just as gay, jocular and free in his movements as ever. In the wood they were constantly happening upon boletus mushrooms, sodden in the succulent grass, which their scythes cut down. But the old man, each time he met a mushroom, bent down, picked it up, and put it into his jacket. ‘Another treat for my old woman,’ he would mutter.

  Easy as it was to mow the wet and tender grass, it was hard going up and down the steep slopes of the gully. But the old man was not hindered by that. Swinging his scythe in the same way, with the small, firm steps of his feet shod in big bast shoes, he slowly climbed up the steep slope, and, despite the trembling of his whole body and of his trousers hanging lower than his shirt, he did not miss a single blade of grass or a single mushroom on his way and joked with the muzhiks and Levin just as before. Levin came after him and often thought that he would surely fall, going up such a steep slope with a scythe, where it was hard to climb even without a scythe; but he climbed it and did what was needed. He felt that some external force moved him.

  VI

  Mashka’s Knoll was mowed. They finished the last swaths, put on their caftans and cheerfully went home. Levin got on his horse and, regretfully taking leave of the muzhiks, rode homewards. He looked back from the hill; the men could not be seen in the mist rising from below; he could only hear merry, coarse voices, loud laughter, and the sound of clashing scythes.

  Sergei Ivanovich had long ago finished dinner and was drinking water with lemon and ice in his room, looking through some newspapers and magazines that had just come in the post, when Levin, with his tangled hair sticking to his sweaty brow and his dark, drenched back and chest, burst into his room talking cheerfully.

  ‘And we did the whole meadow! Ah, how good, it’s remarkable! And how have you been?’ said Levin, completely forgetting yesterday’s unpleasant conversation.

  ‘Heavens, what a sight!’ said Sergei Ivanovich, glancing round at his brother with displeasure in the first moment. ‘The door, shut the door!’ he cried out. ‘You must have let in a good dozen.’

  Sergei Ivanovich could not bear flies. He opened the window in his room only at night and kept the doors carefully shut.

  ‘By God, not a one. And if I did, I’ll catch it. You wouldn’t believe what a pleasure it was! How did your day go?’

  ‘Very well. But did you really mow for the whole day? I suppose you’re hungry as a wolf. Kuzma has everything ready for you.’

  ‘No, I don’t even want to eat. I ate there. But I will go and wash.’

  ‘Well, go, go, and I’ll join you presently,’ said Sergei Ivanovich, shaking his head as he looked at his brother. ‘Go, go quickly,’ he added with a smile and, gathering up his books, he got ready to go. He suddenly felt cheerful himself and did not want to part from his brother. ‘Well, and where were you when it rained?’

  ‘What rain? It barely sprinkled. I’ll come presently, then. You had a nice day, then? Well, that’s excellent.’ And Levin went to get dressed.

  Five minutes later the brothers came together in the dining room. Though it seemed to Levin that he did not want to eat, and he sat down to dinner only so as not to offend Kuzma, once he started eating, the dinner seemed remarkably tasty to him. Smiling, Sergei Ivanovich looked at him.

  ‘Ah, yes, there’s a letter for you,’ he said. ‘Kuzma, bring it from downstairs, please. And see that you close the door.’

  The letter was from Oblonsky. Levin read it aloud. Oblonsky was writing from Petersburg: ‘I received a letter from Dolly, she’s in Yergu–shovo, and nothing’s going right for her. Go and see her, please, help her with your advice, you know everything. She’ll be so glad to see you. She’s quite alone, poor thing. My mother–in–law and the others are all still abroad.’

  ‘That’s excellent! I’ll certainly go and see them,’ said Levin. ‘Or else let’s go together. She’s such a nice woman. Isn’t it so?’

  ‘Are they nearby?’

  ‘Some twenty miles. Maybe twenty–five. But the road is excellent. An excellent trip.’

  ‘Delighted,’ said Sergei Ivanovich, still smiling.

  The sight of his younger brother had immediately disposed him to cheerfulness.

  ‘Well, you’ve got quite an appetite!’ he said, looking at his red–brown sunburnt face and neck bent over the plate.

  ‘Excellent! You wouldn’t believe what a good regimen it is against all sorts of foolishness. I want to enrich medical science with a new term: Arbeitskur.’*

  ‘Well, it seems you’ve no need for that.’

  ‘No, but for various nervous patients.’

  ‘Yes, it ought to be tried. And I did want to come to the mowing to have a look at you, but the heat was so unbearable that I got no further than the wood. I sat a little, then walked through the wood to the village, met your nurse there and sounded her out about the muzhiks’ view of

  * Work–cure.

  you. As I understand, they don’t approve of it. She said: "It’s not the master’s work." Generally it seems to me that in the peasants’ understanding there is a very firmly defined requirement for certain, as they put it, "master’s" activities. And they don’t allow gentlemen to go outside the limits defined by their understanding.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’ve never experienced such a pleasure in my life. And there’s no harm in it. Isn’t that so?’ Levin replied. ‘What can I do if they don’t like it? Nothing, I suppose. Eh?’

  ‘I can see,’ Sergei Ivanovich continued, ‘that you’re generally pleased with your day.’

  ‘Very pleased. We mowed the whole meadow. And what an old man I made friends with there! Such a delightful man, you’d never imagine it!’

  ‘Well, so you’re pleased with your day. And so am I. First, I solved two chess problems, one of them a very nice one – it opens with a pawn. I’ll show you. And then I was thinking
about our conversation yesterday.’

  ‘What? Our conversation yesterday?’ said Levin, blissfully narrowing his eyes and puffing after he finished dinner, quite unable to recall what this yesterday’s conversation had been.

  ‘I find that you’re partly right. Our disagreement consists in this, that you take personal interest as the motive force, while I maintain that every man of a certain degree of education ought to be interested in the common good. You may be right that materially interested activity would be desirable. Generally, your nature is much too primesautière* as the French say; you want either passionate, energetic activity or nothing.’

  Levin listened to his brother, understood decidedly nothing and did not want to understand. He was afraid only that his brother might ask him a question which would make it clear that he had heard nothing.

  ‘So there, my good friend,’ said Sergei Ivanovich, touching his shoulder.

  ‘Yes, of course. Anyhow, I don’t insist,’ Levin replied with a childish, guilty smile. ‘What was it I was arguing about?’ he thought. ‘Of course, I’m right, and he’s right, and everything’s splendid. Only I have to go to the office and give orders.’ He stood up, stretching himself and smiling.

  Sergei Ivanovich also smiled.

  * Impulsive.

  ‘You want to have a stroll, let’s go together,’ he said, not wanting to part from his brother, who simply exuded freshness and briskness. ‘Let’s go, and call in at the office if you need to.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ cried Levin, so loudly that he frightened Sergei Ivanovich.

  ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  ‘How is Agafya Mikhailovna’s arm?’ said Levin, slapping his forehead. ‘I forgot all about it.’

  ‘Much better.’

  ‘Well, I’ll run over to see her all the same. I’ll be back before you can put your hat on.’ , And with a rattle–like clatter of his heels, he ran down the stairs.

  VII

  While Stepan Arkadyich, having taken almost all the money there was in the house, went to Petersburg to fulfil the most natural and necessary duty, known to all who serve in the government though incomprehensible to those who do not, and without which it is impossible to serve –that of reminding the ministry of himself – and, in going about the fulfilment of this duty, spent his time merrily and pleasantly at the races and in summer houses, Dolly moved with the children to their country estate in order to reduce expenses as much as possible. She moved to her dowry estate, Yergushovo, the same one where the wood had been sold in spring and which was about thirty–five miles from Levin’s Pokrovskoe. In Yergushovo the big, old house had been torn down long ago, and the prince had refurbished and enlarged the wing. Some twenty years ago, when Dolly was still a child, the wing had been roomy and comfortable, though it stood, as all wings do, sideways to the front drive and the south. But this wing was now old and decayed. When Stepan Arkadyich had gone to sell the wood in the spring, Dolly had asked him to look it over and order the necessary repairs. Stepan Arkadyich, who, like all guilty husbands, was very solicitous of his wife’s comfort, looked the house over himself and gave orders about everything he thought necessary. To his mind, there was a need to re–upholster all the furniture with cretonne, to hang curtains, to clean up the garden, make a little bridge by the pond and plant flowers; but he forgot many other necessary things, the lack of which later tormented Darya Alexandrovna.

  Hard as Stepan Arkadyich tried to be a solicitous father and husband, he never could remember that he had a wife and children. He had a bachelor’s tastes, and they alone guided him. On returning to Moscow, he proudly announced to his wife that everything was ready, that the house would be a little joy, and that he strongly advised her to go. For Stepan Arkadyich his wife’s departure to the country was very agreeable in all respects: good for the children, less expensive, and freer for him. And Darya Alexandrovna considered a move to the country for the summer necessary for the children, especially for the little girl, who could not get over her scarlet fever, and also as a way of being rid of petty humiliations, paltry debts to the woodmonger, the fishmonger, the shoemaker, which tormented her. On top of that, the departure also pleased her because she dreamed of enticing her sister Kitty, who was to return from abroad in midsummer and for whom bathing had been prescribed, to join her there. Kitty had written to her from the spa that nothing could be more to her liking than to spend the summer with Dolly in Yergushovo, so filled with childhood memories for them both.

  At first country life was very difficult for Dolly. She had lived in the country in childhood, and had been left with the impression that the country was salvation from all city troubles, that life there, though not elegant (Dolly was easily reconciled to that), was cheap and comfortable: everything was there, everything was cheap, everything could be had, and it was good for the children. But now, coming to the country as mistress, she saw that it was not at all what she had thought.

  The day after their arrival there was torrential rain, and during the night there were leaks in the corridor and the children’s room, so that the beds had to be moved to the living room. There was no cook in the household; of the nine cows, according to the dairymaid, some were with calf, some had dropped their first calf, some were too old, some were hard–uddered; there was not enough butter and milk even for the children. There were no eggs. No chicken could be found; they had to roast and boil old, purple, sinewy roosters. No woman could be found to wash the floors – everyone was in the potato fields. To go for a drive was impossible, because one of the horses was restive and pulled at the shaft. There was nowhere to bathe – the entire river bank was trampled by cattle and open to the road; it was even impossible to go for a walk, because cattle got into the garden through the broken fence, and there was one terrible bull who bellowed and therefore probably would also charge. There were no proper wardrobes. Such as there were would not close, or else opened whenever someone passed by. No pots or crocks; no tub for laundry, not even an ironing board in the maids’ quarters.

  At first, instead of peace and quiet, finding herself in what, for her, were terrible calamities, Darya Alexandrovna was in despair: she bustled about with all her strength, felt the hopelessness of her situation and constantly kept back the tears that welled up in her eyes. The manager, a former cavalry sergeant whom Stepan Arkadyich liked and had promoted from hall porter for his handsome and respectful appearance, took no share in Darya Alexandrovna’s calamities, said respectfully: ‘Impossible, ma’am, such nasty folk,’ and did nothing to help.

  The situation seemed hopeless. But there was in the Oblonsky house, as in all family houses, one inconspicuous but most important and useful person – Matryona Filimonovna. She calmed her mistress, assured her that everything would shape up (it was her phrase, and it was from her that Matvei had taken it), and, without haste or excitement, went into action herself.

  She immediately got in with the steward’s wife and on the first day had tea with her and the steward under the acacias and discussed everything. Soon there was a Matryona Filimonovna club established under the acacias, and here, through this club, which consisted of the steward’s wife, the village headman and the clerk, the difficulties of life began gradually to be put right, and within a week everything indeed shaped up. The roof was repaired, a cook was found (a female crony of the headman’s), chickens were bought, the cows began to produce milk, the garden was fenced with pickets, the carpenter made a washboard, the wardrobes were furnished with hooks and no longer opened at will, an ironing board, wrapped in military flannel, lay between a chair arm and a chest of drawers, and the maids’ quarters began to smell of hot irons.

  ‘Well, there! And you kept despairing,’ said Matryona Filimonovna, pointing to the ironing board.

  They even constructed a bathing house out of straw mats. Lily started bathing, and Darya Alexandrovna’s expectations of a comfortable, if not calm, country life at least came partly true. With six children Darya Alexandrovna could not be calm. O
ne got sick, another might get sick, a third lacked something, a fourth showed signs of bad character, and so on, and so on. Rarely, rarely would there be short periods of calm. But these troubles and anxieties were for Darya Alexandrovna the only possible happiness. Had it not been for them, she would have remained alone with her thoughts of her husband, who did not love her. But besides that, however painful the mother’s fear of illnesses, the illnesses themselves, and the distress at seeing signs of bad inclinations in her children, the children themselves repaid her griefs with small joys. These joys were so small that they could not be seen, like gold in the sand, and in her bad moments she saw only griefs, only sand; but there were also good moments, when she saw only joys, only gold.