The night spent by Levin on the haycock did not pass without result for him. The way in which he had been managing his land revolted him and had lost all
attraction for him. In spite of the magnificent harvest, never had there been, or, at least, never it seemed to him, had there been so many hindrances and so many quarrels between him and the peasants as that year, and the origin of these failures and this
hostility was now
perfectly comprehensible to him. The delight he had
experienced in the work itself, and the
consequent greater
intimacy with the peasants, the envy he felt of them, of their life, the desire to adopt that life, which had been to him that night not a dream but an intention, the
execution of which he had thought out in detail --all this had so transformed his view of the farming of the land as he had managed it, that he could not take his former interest in it, and could not help
seeing that
unpleasant relation between him and the workspeople which was the foundation of it all. The herd of improved cows such as Pava, the whole land
ploughed over and enriched, the nine level fields surrounded with hedges, the two hundred and forty acres heavily manured, the seed sown in drills, and all the rest of it--it was all splendid if only the work had been done for themselves, or for themselves and comrades --people in sympathy with them. But he saw clearly now (his work on a book of agriculture, in which the chief element in
husbandry was to have been the
laborer, greatly assisted him in this) that the sort of farming he was carrying on was nothing but a cruel and
stubborn struggle between him and the
laborers, in which there was on one side--his side--a
continualintense effort to change everything to a pattern he considered better; on the other side, the natural order of things. And in the struggle he saw that with immense
expenditure of force on his side, and with no effort or even intention on the other side, all that was attained was that the work did not go to the
liking of either side, and that splendid tools, splendid cattle and land were spoiled with no good to anyone. Worst of all, the energy expended on this work was not simply wasted. He could not help feeling now, since the meaning of this system had become clear to him, that the aim of his energy was a most
unworthy one. In reality, what was the struggle about? He was struggling for every
farthing of his share (and he could not help it, for he had only to relax his efforts, and he would not have had the money to pay his
laborers' wages), while they were only struggling to be able to do their work easily and agreeably, that is to say, as they were used to doing it. It was for his interests that every
laborer should work as hard as possible, and that while doing so he should keep his wits about him, so as to try not to break the winnowing machines, the horse rakes, the thrashing machines, that he should attend to what he was doing. What the
laborer wanted was to work as
pleasantly as possible, with rests, and above all,
carelessly and heedlessly, without thinking. That summer Levin saw this at every step. He sent the men to mow some
clover for hay, picking out the worst patches where the
clover was overgrown with grass and weeds and of no use for seed; again and again they mowed the best acres of
clover, justifying themselves by the pretense that the bailiff had told them to, and
trying to pacify him with the
assurance that it would be splendid hay; but he knew that it was owing to those acres being so much easier to mow. He sent out a hay machine for pitching the hay--it was broken at the first row because it was dull work for a peasant to sit on the seat in front with the great wings waving above him. And he was told, "Don't trouble, your honor, sure, the womenfolks will pitch it quick enough." The
ploughs were practically useless, because it never occurred to the
laborer to raise the share when he turned the
plough, and forcing it round, he strained the horses and tore up the ground, and Levin was begged not to mind about it. The horses were allowed to stray into the wheat because not a single
laborer would consent to be night-watchman, and in spite of orders to the contrary, the
laborers insisted on
taking turns for night duty, and Ivan, after working all day long, fell asleep, and was very
penitent for his fault,
saying, "Do what you will to me, your honor."
They killed three of the best
calves by letting them into the
clover aftermath without care as to their drinking, and nothing would make the men believe that they had been blown out by the
clover, but they told him, by way of
consolation, that one of his neighbors had lost a hundred and twelve head of cattle in three days. All this happened, not because anyone felt ill-will to Levin or his farm; on the contrary, he knew that they liked him, thought him a simple gentleman (their highest praise); but it happened simply because all they wanted was to work
merrily and
carelessly, and his interests were not only remote and incomprehensible to them, but fatally opposed to their most just claims. Long before, Levin had felt
dissatisfaction with his own position in regard to the land. He saw where his boat leaked, but he did not look for the leak, perhaps purposely deceiving himself. (Nothing would be left him if he lost faith in it.) But now he could deceive himself no longer. The farming of the land, as he was managing it, had become not merely unattractive but revolting to him, and he could take no further interest in it.
To this now was joined the presence, only twenty-five miles off, of Kitty Shtcherbatskaya, whom he longed to see and could not see. Darya Alexandrovna Oblonskaya had invited him, when he was over there, to come; to come with the object of renewing his offer to her sister, who would, so she gave him to understand, accept him now. Levin himself had felt on
seeing Kitty Shtcherbatskaya that he had never ceased to love her; but he could not go over to the Oblonskys', knowing she was there. The fact that he had made her an offer, and she had refused him, had placed an insuperable
barrier between her and him. "I can't ask her to be my wife merely because she can't be the wife of the man she wanted to marry," he said to himself. The thought of this made him cold and hostile to her. "I should not be able to speak to her without a feeling of
reproach; I could not look at her without
resentment; and she will only hate me all the more, as she's bound to. And besides, how can I now, after what Darya Alexandrovna told me, go to see them? Can I help showing that I know what she told me? And me to go magnanimously to forgive her, and have pity on her! Me go through a performance before her of forgiving, and deigning to bestow my love on her!... What induced Darya Alexandrovna to tell me that? By chance I might have seen her, then everything would have happened of itself; but, as it is, it's out of the question, out of the question!"
Darya Alexandrovna sent him a letter, asking him for a side-saddle for Kitty's use. "I'm told you have a side-saddle," she wrote to him; "I hope you will bring it over yourself."
This was more than he could stand. How could a woman of any intelligence, of any
delicacy, put her sister in such a humiliating position! He wrote ten notes, and tore them all up, and sent the saddle without any reply. To write that he would go was impossible, because he could not go; to write that he could not come because something prevented him, or that he would be away, that was still worse. He sent the saddle without an answer, and with a sense of having done something
shameful; he handed over all the now revolting business of the estate to the bailiff, and set off next day to a remote district to see his friend Sviazhsky, who had splendid marshes for
grouse in his neighborhood, and had lately written to ask him to keep a long-standing promise to stay with him. The
grouse-marsh, in the Surovsky district, had long tempted Levin, but he had
continually put off this visit on account of his work on the estate. Now he was glad to get away from the neighborhood of the Shtcherbatskys, and still more from his farm work, especially on a shooting expedition, which always in trouble served as the best
consolation.
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