enrich yourself, without concerning yourself as to the time required, you can speedily become rich. Yes,” went on Kostanzhoglo, still abruptly, as though he were personally incensed with Tchitchikoff, “it is necessary to feel a love for work: without that, nothing can be accomplished. You must love the management of your estate. And, believe me, it is not at all wearisome. People have invented a fiction to the effect that it is dull in the country. I should die of dullness if I were to pass a single day in the city, as people do pass their days there, in those stupid clubs and inns and theatres. Fools! idiots! asses they are! The manager of an estate has no time to be dull. Look at the yearly round of work. See how, even before the advent of spring, everything is already on the watch; there is the preparation of the seeds, the sorting, the measuring of the grain in the barns, and the drying. Everything is scanned beforehand, and everything reckoned up. And when the ice breaks up, and the streams pour down, and the earth warms up, then the spade does its work in vegetable garden and orchard, and the plough and harrow perform theirs in the fields; and then come planting and sowing. Well, the future harvest is sown, the blessing of the world is sown, the food of millions is sown! And then follows the haymaking. And then summer has arrived. All at once the reaping is in full swing: the wheat has come up after the rye, and next the barley and the oats. Everything is seething; it is impossible to lose a minute. If you had twenty eyes, there would be work for all of them. And when everything is done—the grain carried to the threshing floor, and stored in the granaries—then begins the autumn ploughing of the stubble, the preparing of the storehouses for the winter, the ricks and the cattle-pens to see to, and at the same time, all the women’s work. And then in the winter, the threshing and the removal of the grain to the granaries; the felling and sawing of the trees in the forest; the conveyance of bricks and timber for building operations in the spring. You go to the mill, you go to the factory, you go to inspect the workmen’s quarters, you go to the peasants’ cabins to see how they are getting on there. Yes, for my part, if a carpenter handles his axe well, I am ready to stand and watch him for two hours, such a cheering effect does work produce upon me. But if you can also see with what object all this is being done, how everything about you is multiplying and increasing, bearing increase and income—well, I cannot express what takes place in your spirit then. And it is not because your money is increasing—money is nothing in itself—but because all this is the work of your own hands, because you see that you are the source of it all; that you are the creator, and that from you, as from some magician, good and abundance are showered upon all. Now, where else will you find me such another enjoyment?” said Kostanzhoglo; and, as he raised his face, the wrinkles disappeared from it. He was radiant, like an emperor on the day of his solemn coronation, and flashes of light seemed to radiate from his countenance. “Yes, in the whole world, you will not find any other such pleasure. Just in this does man imitate God. God prescribed to himself the task of creation as the loftiest of all enjoyments. And he demands the same thing from man, in order that man, like his Creator, may distribute happiness around him. And yet this is called a tiresome task!”
Tchitchikoff listened to his host’s melodious speech as to the song of heavenly birds. His mouth watered. His very eyes grew moist, and expressed beatitude.
“Konstantin, it is time to go,” said the mistress of the house, rising from the table. They all rose up. Tchitchikoff offered his arm with a flourish, and conducted his hostess back to the drawing-room; but his movements now lacked their former agility, for his thoughts were now all bent on practical matters.
“You may say what you like, a country life is tiresome all the same,” said Platonoff, as he walked behind them.
“My guest isn’t a stupid man,” meanwhile thought the host. “He is attentive, and cautious of speech.”
When they had all settled themselves in a comfortable little room opposite a balcony, with a glass door leading into the garden, and had gazed dreamily at the stars shining above the crests of the trees in the sleeping garden, Tchitchikoff experienced an agreeable sensation, such as he had not felt for a long time, exactly as though his native roof had at length, after his prolonged wanderings, received him once more, and as if, to crown all, he had accomplished everything which he had desired, and had cast aside his pilgrim’s staff, saying, Enough! Such wonderful effect had his host’s discourse produced upon him.