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"It's not those peasants but this bailiff!" said Levin, getting

angry. "Why, what do I keep you for?" he cried. But, bethinking

himself that this would not help matters, he stopped short in the

middle of a sentence, and merely sighed. "Well, what do you say?

Can sowing begin?" he asked, after a pause.

"Behind Turkin tomorrow or the next day they might begin."

"And the clover?"

"I've sent Vassily and Mishka; they're sowing. Only I don't know

if they'll manage to get through; it's so slushy."

"How many acres?"

"About fifteen."

"Why not sow all?" cried Levin.

That they were only sowing the clover on fifteen acres, not on

all the forty-five, was still more annoying to him. Clover, as he

knew, both from books and from his own experience, never did well

except when it was sown as early as possible, almost in the snow.

And yet Levin could never get this done.

"There's no one to send. What would you have with such a set of

peasants? Three haven't turned up. And there's Semyon...."