Resurrection (Maude translation)/Book II/Chapter XI
Nekhludoff was admitted by the advocate before his turn. The advocate at once commenced to talk about the Menshoffs` case, which he had read with indignation at the inconsistency of the accusation.
"This case is perfectly revolting," he said; "it is very likely that the owner himself set fire to the building in order to get the insurance money, and the chief thing is that there is no evidence to prove the Menshoffs` guilt. There are no proofs whatever. It is all owing to the special zeal of the examining magistrate and the carelessness of the prosecutor. If they are tried here, and not in a provincial court, I guarantee that they will be acquitted, and I shall charge nothing. Now then, the next case, that of Theodosia Birukoff. The appeal to the Emperor is written. If you go to Petersburg, you`d better take it with you, and hand it in yourself, with a request of your own, or else they will only make a few inquiries, and nothing will come of it. You must try and get at some of the influential members of the Appeal Committee."
"Well, is this all?"
"No; here I have a letter . . . I see you have turned into a pipe--a spout through which all the complaints of the prison are poured," said the advocate, with a smile. "It is too much; you`ll not be able to manage it."
"No, but this is a striking case," said Nekhludoff, and gave a brief outline of the case of a peasant who began to read the Gospels to the peasants in the village, and to discuss them with his friends. The priests regarded this as a crime and informed the authorities. The magistrate examined him and the public prosecutor drew up an act of indictment, and the law courts committed him for trial.
"This is really too terrible," Nekhludoff said. "Can it be true?"
"What are you surprised at?"
"Why, everything. I can understand the police-officer, who simply obeys orders, but the prosecutor drawing up an act of that kind. An educated man . . ."
"That is where the mistake lies, that we are in the habit of considering that the prosecutors and the judges in general are some kind of liberal persons. There was a time when they were such, but now it is quite different. They are just officials, only troubled about pay-day. They receive their salaries and want them increased, and there their principles end. They will accuse, judge, and sentence any one you like."
"Yes; but do laws really exist that can condemn a man to Siberia for reading the Bible with his friends?"
"Not only to be exiled to the less remote parts of Siberia, but even to the mines, if you can only prove that reading the Bible they took the liberty of explaining it to others not according to orders, and in this way condemned the explanations given by the Church. Blaming the Greek orthodox religion in the presence of the common people means, according to Statute . . . the mines."
"Impossible!"
"I assure you it is so. I always tell these gentlemen, the judges," the advocate continued, "that I cannot look at them without gratitude, because if I am not in prison, and you, and all of us, it is only owing to their kindness. To deprive us of our privileges, and send us all to the less remote parts of Siberia, would be an easy thing for them."
"Well, if it is so, and if everything depends on the Procureur and others who can, at will, either enforce the laws or not, what are the trials for?"
The advocate burst into a merry laugh. "You do put strange questions. My dear sir, that is philosophy. Well, we might have a talk about that, too. Could you come on Saturday? You will meet men of science, literary men, and artists at my house, and then we might discuss these general questions," said the advocate, pronouncing the words "general questions" with ironical pathos. "You have met my wife? Do come."
"Thank you; I will try to," said Nekhludoff, and felt that he was saying an untruth, and knew that if he tried to do anything it would be to keep away froth the advocate`s literary evening, and the circle of the men of science, art, and literature.
The laugh with which the advocate met Nekhludoff`s remark that trials could have no meaning if the judges might enforce the laws or not, according to their notion, and the tone with which he pronounced the words "philosophy" and "general questions" proved to Nekhludoff how very differently he and the advocate and, probably, the advocate`s friends, looked at things; and he felt that in spite of the distance that now existed between himself and his former companions, Schonbock, etc., the difference between himself and the circle of the advocate and his friends was still greater.
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."