After lunch Levin was not in the same place in the string of

mowers as before, but stood between the old man who had accosted

him jocosely, and now invited him to be his neighbor, and a young

peasant, who had only been married in the autumn, and who was

mowing this summer for the first time.

The old man, holding himself erect, moved in front, with his feet

turned out, taking long, regular strides, and with a precise and

regular action which seemed to cost him no more effort than

swinging one's arms in walking, as though it were in play, he

laid down the high, even row of grass. It was as though it were

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not he but the sharp scythe of itself swishing through the juicy

grass.

Behind Levin came the lad Mishka. His pretty, boyish face, with

a twist of fresh grass bound round his hair, was all working with

effort; but whenever anyone looked at him he smiled. He would

clearly have died sooner than own it was hard work for him.

Levin kept between them. In the very heat of the day the mowing

did not seem such hard work to him. The perspiration with which

he was drenched cooled him, while the sun, that burned his back,

his head, and his arms, bare to the elbow, gave a vigor and

dogged energy to his labor; and more and more often now came

those moments of unconsciousness, when it was possible not to

think what one was doing. The scythe cut of itself. These were

happy moments. Still more delightful were the moments when they

reached the stream where the rows ended, and the old man rubbed

his scythe with the wet, thick grass, rinsed its blade in

the fresh water of the stream, ladled out a little in a tin

dipper, and offered Levin a drink.

"What do you say to my home-brew, eh? Good, eh?" said he,

winking.

And truly Levin had never drunk any liquor so good as this warm

water with green bits floating in it, and a taste of rust from

the tin dipper. And immediately after this came the delicious,

slow saunter, with his hand on the scythe, during which he could

wipe away the streaming sweat, take deep breaths of air, and look

about at the long string of mowers and at what was happening

around in the forest and the country.

The longer Levin mowed, the oftener he felt the moments of

unconsciousness in which it seemed not his hands that swung the

scythe, but the scythe mowing of itself, a body full of life and

consciousness of its own, and as though by magic, without

thinking of it, the work turned out regular and well-finished of

itself. These were the most blissful moments.




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