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“
Come
,
you
’
ve
done
enough
trudging
about
in
the
heat
,
”
Sergey
Ivanovitch
would
say
to
him
.
“
No
,
I
must
just
run
round
to
the
counting
-
house
for
a
minute
,
”
Levin
would
answer
,
and
he
would
run
off
to
the
fields
.
Early
in
June
it
happened
that
Agafea
Mihalovna
,
the
old
nurse
and
housekeeper
,
in
carrying
to
the
cellar
a
jar
of
mushrooms
she
had
just
pickled
,
slipped
,
fell
,
and
sprained
her
wrist
.
The
district
doctor
,
a
talkative
young
medical
student
,
who
had
just
finished
his
studies
,
came
to
see
her
.
He
examined
the
wrist
,
said
it
was
not
broken
,
was
delighted
at
a
chance
of
talking
to
the
celebrated
Sergey
Ivanovitch
Koznishev
,
and
to
show
his
advanced
views
of
things
told
him
all
the
scandal
of
the
district
,
complaining
of
the
poor
state
into
which
the
district
council
had
fallen
.
Sergey
Ivanovitch
listened
attentively
,
asked
him
questions
,
and
,
roused
by
a
new
listener
,
he
talked
fluently
,
uttered
a
few
keen
and
weighty
observations
,
respectfully
appreciated
by
the
young
doctor
,
and
was
soon
in
that
eager
frame
of
mind
his
brother
knew
so
well
,
which
always
,
with
him
,
followed
a
brilliant
and
eager
conversation
.
After
the
departure
of
the
doctor
,
he
wanted
to
go
with
a
fishing
rod
to
the
river
.
Sergey
Ivanovitch
was
fond
of
angling
,
and
was
,
it
seemed
,
proud
of
being
able
to
care
for
such
a
stupid
occupation
.
Konstantin
Levin
,
whose
presence
was
needed
in
the
plough
land
and
meadows
,
had
come
to
take
his
brother
in
the
trap
.
It
was
that
time
of
the
year
,
the
turning
-
point
of
summer
,
when
the
crops
of
the
present
year
are
a
certainty
,
when
one
begins
to
think
of
the
sowing
for
next
year
,
and
the
mowing
is
at
hand
;
when
the
rye
is
all
in
ear
,
though
its
ears
are
still
light
,
not
yet
full
,
and
it
waves
in
gray
-
green
billows
in
the
wind
;
when
the
green
oats
,
with
tufts
of
yellow
grass
scattered
here
and
there
among
it
,
droop
irregularly
over
the
late
-
sown
fields
;
when
the
early
buckwheat
is
already
out
and
hiding
the
ground
;
when
the
fallow
lands
,
trodden
hard
as
stone
by
the
cattle
,
are
half
ploughed
over
,
with
paths
left
untouched
by
the
plough
;
when
from
the
dry
dung
-
heaps
carted
onto
the
fields
there
comes
at
sunset
a
smell
of
manure
mixed
with
meadow
-
sweet
,
and
on
the
low
-
lying
lands
the
riverside
meadows
are
a
thick
sea
of
grass
waiting
for
the
mowing
,
with
blackened
heaps
of
the
stalks
of
sorrel
among
it
.
It
was
the
time
when
there
comes
a
brief
pause
in
the
toil
of
the
fields
before
the
beginning
of
the
labors
of
harvest
—
every
year
recurring
,
every
year
straining
every
nerve
of
the
peasants
.
The
crop
was
a
splendid
one
,
and
bright
,
hot
summer
days
had
set
in
with
short
,
dewy
nights
.
The
brothers
had
to
drive
through
the
woods
to
reach
the
meadows
.
Sergey
Ivanovitch
was
all
the
while
admiring
the
beauty
of
the
woods
,
which
were
a
tangled
mass
of
leaves
,
pointing
out
to
his
brother
now
an
old
lime
tree
on
the
point
of
flowering
,
dark
on
the
shady
side
,
and
brightly
spotted
with
yellow
stipules
,
now
the
young
shoots
of
this
year
’
s
saplings
brilliant
with
emerald
.
Konstantin
Levin
did
not
like
talking
and
hearing
about
the
beauty
of
nature
.
Words
for
him
took
away
the
beauty
of
what
he
saw
.
He
assented
to
what
his
brother
said
,
but
he
could
not
help
beginning
to
think
of
other
things
.
When
they
came
out
of
the
woods
,
all
his
attention
was
engrossed
by
the
view
of
the
fallow
land
on
the
upland
,
in
parts
yellow
with
grass
,
in
parts
trampled
and
checkered
with
furrows
,
in
parts
dotted
with
ridges
of
dung
,
and
in
parts
even
ploughed
.
A
string
of
carts
was
moving
across
it
.
Levin
counted
the
carts
,
and
was
pleased
that
all
that
were
wanted
had
been
brought
,
and
at
the
sight
of
the
meadows
his
thoughts
passed
to
the
mowing
.
He
always
felt
something
special
moving
him
to
the
quick
at
the
hay
-
making
.
On
reaching
the
meadow
Levin
stopped
the
horse
.
The
morning
dew
was
still
lying
on
the
thick
undergrowth
of
the
grass
,
and
that
he
might
not
get
his
feet
wet
,
Sergey
Ivanovitch
asked
his
brother
to
drive
him
in
the
trap
up
to
the
willow
tree
from
which
the
carp
was
caught
.
Sorry
as
Konstantin
Levin
was
to
crush
down
his
mowing
grass
,
he
drove
him
into
the
meadow
.
The
high
grass
softly
turned
about
the
wheels
and
the
horse
’
s
legs
,
leaving
its
seeds
clinging
to
the
wet
axles
and
spokes
of
the
wheels
.
His
brother
seated
himself
under
a
bush
,
arranging
his
tackle
,
while
Levin
led
the
horse
away
,
fastened
him
up
,
and
walked
into
the
vast
gray
-
green
sea
of
grass
unstirred
by
the
wind
.
The
silky
grass
with
its
ripe
seeds
came
almost
to
his
waist
in
the
dampest
spots
.
Crossing
the
meadow
,
Konstantin
Levin
came
out
onto
the
road
,
and
met
an
old
man
with
a
swollen
eye
,
carrying
a
skep
on
his
shoulder
