“There’s one other thing I wished to speak to you about,” said Nekhliudof. “Why don’t you haul out your manure?”
“What manure, sir, your excellency? There isn’t any to haul out. What cattle have I got? One mare and colt; and last autumn I sold my heifer to the porter—that’s all the cattle I’ve got.”
“I know you haven’t much, but why did you sell your heifer?” asked the bárin in amazement.
“What have I got to feed her on?”
“Didn’t you have some straw for feeding the cow? The others did.”
“The others have their fields manured, but my land’s all clay. I can’t do anything with it.”
“Why don’t you dress it, then, so it won’t be clay? Then the land would give you grain, and you’d have something to feed to your stock.”
“But I haven’t any stock, so how am I going to get dressing?”
“That’s an odd cercle vicieux ,” said Nekhliudof to himself; and he actually was at his wits’ ends to find an answer for the peasant.
“And I tell you this, your excellency, it ain’t the manure that makes the corn grow, but God,” continued the peasant. “Now, one summer I had six sheaves on one little unmanured piece of land, and only a twelfth as much on that which was manured well. No one like God,” he added with a sigh. “Yes, and my stock are always dying off. Five years past I haven’t had any luck with ’em. Last summer one heifer died; had to sell