haystacks could not possibly contain fifty wagon-loads each, and to convict
the peasants Levin ordered the wagons that
had carried the hay to be
brought up directly, to lift one stack, and carry it into the barn. There turned
out to be only thirty-two loads in the stack. In spite of the village elder's
assertions about the compressibility of hay, and its having settled down in
the stacks, and his swearing that everything had been done in the fear of
God, Levin stuck to his point that the hay had been divided without his
orders, and that, therefore, he would not accept that hay as fifty loads to a
stack. After a prolonged dispute the matter was decided by the peasants
taking these eleven stacks, reckoning them as fifty loads each. The
arguments and the division of the haycocks lasted the whole afternoon.
When the last of the hay had been divided, Levin, intrusting the
superintendence of the rest
to the counting-house clerk, sat down on a
haycock marked off by a stake of willow, and looked admiringly at the
meadow swarming with peasants.
In front of him, in the bend of the river beyond the marsh, moved a
bright-colored line of peasant women, and the scattered hay was being
rapidly formed into gray winding rows over the pale green stubble. After
the women came the men with pitchforks, and from the gray rows there
were growing up broad, high, soft haycocks. To the left, carts were
rumbling over the meadow
that had been already cleared, and one after
another the haycocks vanished, flung up in huge forkfuls, and in their place
there were rising heavy cartloads of fragrant hay hanging over the horses'
hind-quarters.
"What weather for haying! What hay it'll be!" said an old man, squatting
down beside Levin. "It's tea, not hay! It's like scattering grain to the ducks,
the way they pick it up!" he added, pointing to the growing haycocks.
"Since dinnertime they've carried a good half of it."
"The last load, eh?" he shouted to a young peasant, who drove by, standing
in the front of an empty cart, shaking the cord reins.
"The last, dad!"
the lad shouted back, pulling in the horse, and, smiling, he
looked round at a bright, rosy-checked peasant girl who sat in the cart
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smiling too, and drove on.
"Who's that? Your son?" asked Levin.
"My baby," said the old man with a tender smile.
"What a fine fellow!"
"The lad's all right."
"Married already?"
"Yes, it's two years last St. Philip's day."
"Any children?"
"Children indeed! Why, for over a year he was innocent as a babe himself,
and bashful too," answered the old man. "Well, the hay! It's as fragrant as
tea!" he repeated, wishing to change the subject.
Levin looked more attentively at Ivan Parmenov and his wife. They were
loading a haycock onto the cart not far from him. Ivan Parmenov was
standing on the cart, taking, laying in place, and stamping down the huge
bundles of hay, which his pretty young wife deftly handed up to him, at
first in armfuls, and then on the pitchfork.
The young wife worked easily,
merrily, and dexterously. The close-packed hay did not once break away
off her fork. First she gathered it together, stuck the fork into it, then with a
rapid, supple movement leaned the whole weight of her body on it, and at
once with a bend of her back under the red belt she drew herself up, and
arching her full bosom under the white smock, with a smart turn swung the
fork in her arms, and flung the bundle of hay high onto the cart. Ivan,
obviously doing his best to save her every minute of unnecessary labor,
made haste, opening his arms to clutch the bundle and lay it in the cart. As
she raked together what was left of the hay, the young wife shook off the
bits of hay
that had fallen on her neck, and straightening the red kerchief
that had dropped forward over her white brow, not browned like her face by
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