CHAPTER XII.
WHY THE PEASANTS FLOCK TO TOWN.
The prison was a long way off and it was getting late, so
Nekhludoff took an isvostchik. The isvostchik, a middle-aged man
with an intelligent and kind face, turned round towards
Nekhludoff as they were driving along one of the streets and
pointed to a huge house that was being built there.
"Just see what a tremendous house they have begun to build," he
said, as if he was partly responsible for the building of the
house and proud of it. The house was really immense and was being
built in a very original style. The strong pine beams of the
scaffolding were firmly fixed together with iron bands and a
plank wall separated the building from the street.
On the boards of the scaffolding workmen, all bespattered with
plaster, moved hither and thither like ants. Some were laying
bricks, some hewing stones, some carrying up the heavy hods and
pails and bringing them down empty. A fat and finely-dressed
gentleman--probably the architect--stood by the scaffolding,
pointing upward and explaining something to a contractor, a
peasant from the Vladimir Government, who was respectfully
listening to him. Empty carts were coming out of the gate by
which the architect and the contractor were standing, and loaded
ones were going in. "And how sure they all are--those that do the
work as well as those that make them do it--that it ought to be;
that while their wives at home, who are with child, are labouring
beyond their strength, and their children with the patchwork
caps, doomed soon to the cold grave, smile with suffering and
contort their little legs, they must be building this stupid and
useless palace for some stupid and useless person--one of those
who spoil and rob them," Nekhludoff thought, while looking at the
house.
"Yes, it is a stupid house," he said, uttering his thought out
aloud.
"Why stupid?" replied the isvostchik, in an offended tone.
"Thanks to it, the people get work; it's not stupid."
"But the work is useless."
"It can't be useless, or why should it be done?" said the
isvostchik. "The people get bread by it."
Nekhludoff was silent, and it would have been difficult to talk
because of the clatter the wheels made.
When they came nearer the prison, and the isvostchik turned off
the paved on to the macadamised road, it became easier to talk,
and he again turned to Nekhludoff.
"And what a lot of these people are flocking to the town
nowadays; it's awful," he said, turning round on the box and
pointing to a party of peasant workmen who were coming towards
them, carrying saws, axes, sheepskins, coats, and bags strapped
to their shoulders.
"More than in other years?" Nekhludoff asked.
"By far. This year every place is crowded, so that it's just
terrible. The employers just fling the workmen about like chaff.
Not a job to be got."
"Why is that?"
"They've increased. There's no room for them."
"Well, what if they have increased? Why do not they stay in the
village?"
"There's nothing for them to do in the village--no land to be
had."
Nekhludoff felt as one does when touching a sore place. It feels
as if the bruised part was always being hit; yet it is only
because the place is sore that the touch is felt.
"Is it possible that the same thing is happening everywhere?" he
thought, and began questioning the isvostchik about the quantity
of land in his village, how much land the man himself had, and
why he had left the country.
"We have a desiatin per man, sir," he said. "Our family have
three men's shares of the land. My father and a brother are at
home, and manage the land, and another brother is serving in the
army. But there's nothing to manage. My brother has had thoughts
of coming to Moscow, too."
"And cannot land be rented?
"How's one to rent it nowadays? The gentry, such as they were,
have squandered all theirs. Men of business have got it all into
their own hands. One can't rent it from them. They farm it
themselves. We have a Frenchman ruling in our place; he bought
the estate from our former landlord, and won't let it--and
there's an end of it."
"Who's that Frenchman?"
"Dufour is the Frenchman's name. Perhaps you've heard of him. He
makes wigs for the actors in the big theatre; it is a good
business, so he's prospering. He bought it from our lady, the
whole of the estate, and now he has us in his power; he just
rides on us as he pleases. The Lord be thanked, he is a good man
himself; only his wife, a Russian, is such a brute that--God have
mercy on us. She robs the people. It's awful. Well, here's the
prison. Am I to drive you to the entrance? I'm afraid they'll not
let us do it, though."
