Over their tea Levin heard all about the old man’s farming.  Ten years before, the old man had rented three hundred acres from the lady who owned them, and a year ago he had bought them and rented another three hundred from a neighboring landowner.  A small part of the land—­the worst part—­he let out for rent, while a hundred acres of arable land he cultivated himself with his family and two hired laborers.  The old man complained that things were doing badly.  But Levin saw that he simply did so from a feeling of propriety, and that his farm was in a flourishing condition.  If it had been unsuccessful he would not have bought land at thirty-five roubles the acre, he would not have married his three sons and a nephew, he would not have rebuilt twice after fires, and each time on a larger scale.  In spite of the old man’s complaints, it was evident that he was proud, and justly proud, of his prosperity, proud of his sons, his nephew, his sons’ wives, his horses and his cows, and especially of the fact that he was keeping all this farming going.  From his conversation with the old man, Levin thought he was not averse to new methods either.  He had planted a great many potatoes, and his potatoes, as Levin had seen driving past, were already past flowering and beginning to die down, while Levin’s were only just coming into flower.  He earthed up his potatoes with a modern plough borrowed from a neighboring landowner.  He sowed wheat.  The trifling fact that, thinning out his rye, the old man used the rye he thinned out for his horses, specially struck Levin.  How many times had Levin seen this splendid fodder wasted, and tried to get it saved; but always it had turned out to be impossible.  The peasant got this done, and he could not say enough in praise of it as food for the beasts.

“What have the wenches to do?  They carry it out in bundles to the roadside, and the cart brings it away.”

“Well, we landowners can’t manage well with our laborers,” said Levin, handing him a glass of tea.

“Thank you,” said the old man, and he took the glass, but refused sugar, pointing to a lump he had left.  “They’re simple destruction,” said he.  “Look at Sviazhsky’s, for instance.  We know what the land’s like—­first-rate, yet there’s not much of a crop to boast of.  It’s not looked after enough—­that’s all it is!”

“But you work your land with hired laborers?”

“We’re all peasants together.  We go into everything ourselves.  If a man’s no use, he can go, and we can manage by ourselves.”

“Father, Finogen wants some tar,” said the young woman in the clogs, coming in.

“Yes, yes, that’s how it is, sir!” said the old man, getting up, and crossing himself deliberately, he thanked Levin and went out.

When Levin went into the kitchen to call his coachman he saw the whole family at dinner.  The women were standing up waiting on them.  The young, sturdy-looking son was telling something funny with his mouth full of pudding, and they were all laughing, the woman in the clogs, who was pouring cabbage soup into a bowl, laughing most merrily of all.