He mounted the drum, took Feodor's place, and began to do the feeding.
He worked thus till it was the muzhiks' dinner-hour, not a very long time; and then, in company with Feodor, he left the barn, and talked with him, leaning against a beautifully stacked pile of yellow rye saved for planting.
Feodor was from a distant village, the very one where Levin had formerly let the association have some land. Now it was rented to a dvornik.
Levin talked with Feodor about this land, and asked him if it were not possible that Platon, a rich and trustworthy muzhik of his village, would take it for the next year.
"Price too high; won't catch Platon, Konstantin Dmitritch," replied the muzhik, wiping the chaff from his sweaty chest.
"Yes; but how does Kirillof make money out of it?"
"Mitiukh!"—by this contemptuous diminutive Feodor called the dvornik,—"what does n't he make money out of! He puts on the screws and gets the last drop! He has no pity on the peasants. But Uncle Fokanuitch,"—so he called the old man Platon,—"does he try to fleece a man? And he gives credit, when any one owes him. He does not try to squeeze it out of them. He's that kind of a man!"
"Yes; but why does he give credit?"
"Well, of course men differ. One lives for his belly, like Mitiukh; but Fokanuitch,—he 's an honest man,—he lives for his soul. He remembers God."
"How does he remember God and live for his soul?" exclaimed Levin, eagerly.
"Why, that 's plain enough. It's to live according to God, .... according to truth. People differ. Take you, Konstantin Dmitritch, for example; you could n't wrong a man." ....
"Yes, yes; prashchaï—good-by," exclaimed Levin, deeply moved; and, taking his cane, he turned toward the house.
