not mowed and the grass was wasted; but he would not let them mow a piece of land amounting to eighty desyatins—or two hundred and sixteen acres—on which a young forest had been planted. He would not excuse a muzhik who went home in working hours because his father had died,—sorry as he was for him,—and he had to pay him lower wages for the costly months of idleness; but he was bound to give board and lodging to old servants who were superannuated.
Levin felt that it was right, on returning home, to go first to his wife, who was not well, though some muzhiks had been waiting for three hours to see him; and he knew, in spite of all the pleasure that he should have in seeing his bees hived, nevertheless he felt in duty bound to deprive himself of this pleasure and let his old bee-man transfer the swarm without him, and go and talk with the muzhiks who had come to the apiary for him.
Whether he did well or ill, he knew not; and he did not try to settle it, but, moreover, he avoided all thoughts and discussions on the subject. Reasoning led him to doubt, and prevented him from seeing what was right to do, or not to do. When he ceased to consider, but simply lived, he never failed to find in his soul the presence of an infallible judge, telling him which of two possible courses was the best to take, and which was the worst; and when he failed to follow this inner voice, he was instantly made aware of it.
Thus he lived, not knowing, and not seeing the possibility of knowing, what he was, or why he lived in the world, and tortured by his ignorance to such a degree that he feared committing suicide and yet resolutely pursuing the course of life traced out for him.
CHAPTER XI
The day on which Sergyeï Ivanovitch reached Pokrovskoye had been unusually full of torment for Levin.
It was at that hurried, busy season of the year when all the peasantry are engaged in putting forth an extraor-
