Lavretsky again.  “And always, at all times life here is quiet, unhasting,” he thought; “whoever comes within its circle must submit; here there is nothing to agitate, nothing to harass; one can only get on here by making one’s way slowly, as the ploughman cuts the furrow with his plough.  And what vigour, what health abound in this inactive place!  Here under the window the sturdy burdock creeps out of the thick grass; above it the lovage trails its juicy stalks and the Virgin’s tears fling still higher their pink tendrils; and yonder further in the fields is the silky rye, and the oats are already in ear, and every leaf on every tree, every grass on its stalk is spread to its fullest width.  In the love of a woman my best years have gone by,” Lavretsky went on thinking, “let me be sobered by the sameness of life here, let me be soothed and made ready, so that I may learn to do my duty without haste.”  And again he fell to listening to the silence, expecting nothing—­and at the same time constantly expecting something; the silence enfolded him on all sides, the sun moved calmly in the peaceful blue sky, and the clouds sailed calmly across it; they seemed to know why and whither they were sailing.  At this same time in other places on the earth there is the seething, the bustle, the clash of life; life here slipped by noiseless, as water over marshy grass; and even till evening Lavretsky could not tear himself from the contemplation of this life as it passed and glided by; sorrow for the past was melting in his soul like snow in spring, and strange to say, never had the feeling of home been so deep and strong within him.

Chapter XXI

In the course of a fortnight, Fedor Ivanitch had brought Glafira Petrovna’s little house into order and had cleared the court-yard and the garden.  From Lavriky comfortable furniture was sent him; from the town, wine, books, and papers; horses made their appearance in the stable; in brief Fedor Ivanitch provided himself with everything necessary and began to live—­not precisely after the manner of a country landowner, nor precisely after the manner of a hermit.  His days passed monotonously; but he was not bored though he saw no one; he set diligently and attentively to work at farming his estate, rode about the neighbourhood and did some reading.  He read little, however; he found it pleasanter to listen to the tales of old Anton.  Lavretsky usually sat at the window with a pipe and a cup of cold tea.  Anton stood at the door, his hands crossed behind him, and began upon his slow, deliberate stories of old times, of those fabulous times when oats and rye were not sold by measure, but in great sacks, at two or three farthings a sack; when there were impassable forests, virgin steppes stretching on every side, even close to the town.  “And now,” complained the old man, whose eightieth year had passed, “there has been so much clearing, so much ploughing everywhere,