‘And does that pay? What do you earn by it?’
‘Earnings, your Excellence? At most we feed ourselves and the horses – and thank God for that.’
‘Then why don’t you take up something else? You might buy some forest or rent land.’
‘Of course, your Excellence, we might rent land if there were any handy.’
‘That is what I want to propose to you. Instead of the carting business that does no more than keep you, why not rent some thirty desyatíns of land from me? I’ll let you have that whole strip beyond Sápov and you could start your own farming on a large scale.’
And Nekhlyúdov, carried away by the plan for a peasant farm which he had repeatedly thought out and considered, went on to explain his offer, no longer hesitatingly. Karp listened very attentively to his master’s words.
‘We are very grateful to your honour,’ he said when Nekhlyúdov, having finished, looked at him inquiringly expecting an answer. ‘Of course it is not a bad plan. It’s better for a peasant to work on the land than to drive with a whip in his hand. Getting among strangers and seeing all sorts of people, the likes of us get spoilt. There is nothing better for a peasant than to work the land.’
‘Then what do you think of it?’
‘As long as father is alive what can I think, your Excellence? It is as he pleases.’
‘Take me to the apiary. I’ll talk to him.’
‘This way, please,’ said Karp, walking slowly towards the barn at the back. He opened a low door that led to the apiary, and having let his master pass, and shut the door behind him, returned to Ignát and silently resumed his interrupted work.
Chapter XV
NEKHLYÚDOV, stooping, passed from under the shade of the penthouse through the low doorway to the apiary beyond the yard. Symmetrically placed hives covered with pieces of board stood in a small space surrounded by a loosely-woven fence of straw and wattle. Golden bees circled noisily round the hives, and the place was flooded by the hot brilliant beams of the June sun. From the door a trodden path led to a wooden shrine on which stood a small tinsel-faced icon which glittered in the sunlight. Several graceful young lime trees, stretching their curly crowns above the thatch of the neighbouring building, mingled the just audible rustle of their fresh dark-green foliage with the humming of the bees. On the fine curly grass that crept in between the hives lay black and sharply defined shadows of the roofed fence, of the lime trees, and of the hives with their board roofs. At the door of a freshly-thatched wooden shed that stood among the limes could be seen the short, bent figure of an old man whose uncovered grey head, with a bald patch, shone in the sun. On hearing the creak of the door the old man turned and, wiping his perspiring sunburnt face with the skirt of his smock, came with a mild and pleasant smile to meet his master.
It was so cosy, pleasant, and quiet in the sun-lit apiary; the grey-haired old man with the fine, close wrinkles radiating from his eyes who, with large shoes on his bare feet, came waddling and smiling with good-natured self-satisfaction to welcome his master to his own private domain, was so simple-hearted and kind that Nekhlyúdov immediately forgot the unpleasant impressions he had received that morning, and his cherished dream vividly recurred to him. He saw all his peasants as well off and kindly as old Dútlov, and all smiling happily and affectionately at him because they were indebted to him alone for their wealth and happiness.
‘Wouldn’t you like a net, your Excellence? The bees are angry now, and sting,’ said the old man, taking down from the fence a dirty linen bag attached to a bark hoop and smelling of honey, and offering it to his master. ‘The bees know me and don’t sting me,’ he added with the mild smile that seldom left his handsome sunburnt face.
‘Then I don’t want it either. Are they swarming yet?’ Nekhlyúdov asked, also smiling, without knowing why.
‘Hardly swarming, sir, Dmítri Nikoláevich,’ replied the old man, expressing a special endearment by addressing his master by his Christian name and patronymic. ‘Why, they’ve only just begun to be active. You know what a cold spring it has been.’
‘I have been reading in a book,’ Nekhlyúdov began, driving off a bee which had got into his hair and buzzed just above his ear, ‘that if the combs are placed straight up, fixed to little laths, the bees swarm earlier. For this purpose hives are made of boards with cross-pieces.
‘Please don’t wave your arm about, it makes them worse,’ said the old man. ‘Hadn’t you better have the net?’
Nekhlyúdov was in pain; but a certain childish vanity made him reluctant to own it, and so he again declined the net and continued to tell the old man about the construction of beehives of which he had read in Maison Rustique and in which, he believed, there would be twice as many swarms; but a bee stung him on the neck and he grew confused and hesitated in the midst of his description.
‘It’s true, sir, Dmítri Nikoláevich,’ said the old man, looking with fatherly condescension at his master, ‘people do write in books. But it may be that it is written wrongly. Perhaps they say “He’ll do as we advise, and then we’ll laugh at him.” That does happen! How can one teach the bees where to build their comb? They do it themselves according to the hive, sometimes across it and sometimes lengthways. There, please look in,’ he added, opening one of the nearest hives and looking into the opening where buzzing bees were crawling about on the crooked combs. ‘These are young ones: they have their mind on the queen bee, but they make the comb straight or to one side as best fits the hive,’ continued the old man, evidently carried away by his favourite subject and not noticing his master’s condition. ‘See, they’re coming in laden today. It’s a warm day and everything can be seen,’ he added, closing the opening and pressing a crawling bee with a rag and then with his hand brushing several from his wrinkled neck. The bees did not sting him, but Nekhlyúdov could hardly refrain from running away from the apiary: they had stung him in three places and were buzzing all round his head and neck.
‘How many hives have you?’ he asked, stepping back towards the door.
‘As many as God has given,’ replied Dútlov laughingly. ‘One mustn’t count them, sir. The bees don’t like it. There now, your Excellence, I wanted to ask your honour something,’ he continued, pointing to some narrow hives standing near the fence. ‘It’s about Osip, your nurse’s husband – if you would only speak to him. It’s wrong to act so to a neighbour in one’s own village.’
‘What is bad?… Oh, but they do sting!’ said the master, with his hand already on the door-handle.
‘Well, you see, every year he lets his bees out among my young ones. They ought to have a chance to improve, but the strange bees enter the combs and take the wax from them,’ said the old man, not noticing his master’s grimaces.
‘All right … afterwards … in a moment …’ muttered Nekhlyúdov, and unable to bear the pain any longer he ran quickly through the door waving both hands.
‘Rub it with earth and it will be all right,’ said the old man, following the master into the yard. The master rubbed the places that had been stung with earth, flushed as he gave a quick glance at Karp and Ignát, who were not looking at him, and frowned angrily.
Chapter XVI
‘WHAT I wanted to ask your Excellency,’ … said the old man, pretending not to notice or really not noticing his master’s angry look.
‘What?’
‘Well, you see, we are well off for horses, thank God, and have a labourer, so that the owner’s work will not be neglected by us.’
‘Well, what about it?’
‘If you would be so kind as to accept quit-rent and excuse my lads from service, Ilyá and Ignát could go carting all summer with three teams of horses, and might earn something.’