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."
到监狱路很远，时间已不早了，聂赫留朵夫就雇了一辆马车。车夫是个中年人，相貌聪明而善良。在一条街上，他向聂赫留朵夫转过身来，指给他看一座正在动工修建的大厦。
“您瞧，他们在盖一座多阔气的大楼，”他说，那副神气仿佛他也是这座房子的股东，因此得意扬扬。
那座房子确实很大，结构复杂，式样别致。坚固的脚手架用粗一大的松木搭成，再用铁钩扣紧，围着正在兴建的大楼；一道板墙把它同街道隔开。工人们身上溅满石灰浆，象蚂蚁似地在脚手架上来来往往，有的在砌墙，有的在劈砖头，有的在把沉甸甸的砖斗和泥桶提上去，然后把空斗和空桶放下来。
一个服装讲究的胖老爷，大概是建筑师吧，站在脚手架旁，指手划脚地对一个毕恭毕敬地听着的弗拉基米尔籍包工头说着什么。有些载货的大车从门里进来，有些空车从门里出去，都从建筑师和包工头身边驶过。
“做工的人也好，迫使他们做工的人也好，全都认为应该这样过日子。尽管工人们的妻子怀了孕，还得在家里干着不能胜任的重活，他们的孩子戴着碎布小圆帽，在濒临饿死前象小老头似的露出苦笑，乱一蹬着细腿，他们自己还得为一个愚蠢无用的人，一个掠夺他们和迫使他们破产的人建造这么一座愚蠢无用的宫殿，”聂赫留朵夫瞧着这座房子，心里想。
“是的，盖这样的房子真是荒唐，”他把心里的想法说出口来。
“怎么会荒唐呢？”马车夫生气地说，“老百姓靠它吃饭，可不能说它荒唐！”
“要知道这工作是没有用的。”
“既然人家在盖，那就是有用的，”马车夫反驳说，“老百姓有饭吃了。”
聂赫留朵夫不作声，特别是因为车轮辘辘作响，说话很费力。在离监狱不远的地方，马车从石子路拐到驿道上，谈话就方便了。马车夫又同聂赫留朵夫聊了起来。
“今年怎么有这么多乡下人涌到城里来，”他说着从驭座上转过身，给聂赫留朵夫指指一伙从农村来的工人。他们背着锯子、斧子、短皮袄和口袋迎面走来。
“难道比往年多吗？”聂赫留朵夫问。
“多得多啦！今年到处都挤满人，简直要命。老板把乡下人丢来丢去，简直象刨花一样。到处都挤满了人。”
“怎么会这样呢？”
“人越来越多，没地方去。”
“人怎么会越来越多呢？为什么他们不肯待在乡下？”
“待在乡下没活干。没有土地呀。”
聂赫留朵夫好象一个负伤的人，觉得别人总是有意碰他的伤疤，其实那是因为碰到痛的地方才有这样的感觉。
“难道到处都是这样吗？”他暗想，并询问马车夫，他们村子里有多少土地，他自己家里有多少土地，为什么他要待在城里。
“我们乡下的地，老爷，每人平均只有一俄亩。我们家里有三口人的地，”马车夫兴致勃勃地讲起来。“我家里有父亲，一个兄弟，还有一个兄弟当兵去了。他们在地里干活，可是活不多，一干就完了。所以我那个弟弟也想到莫斯科来。”
“你们不能租点地来种吗？”
“如今上哪儿去租？原来的地主老爷都把家产吃尽卖光了。商人们把地统统抓在手里。你别想从他们手里租到土地，他们都自己经营。我们那里来了一个法国人，他把我们老东家的地全买下，自己经营。他不肯出租土地，你就毫无办法。”
“那是个什么样的法国人？”
“一个叫杜弗尔的法国人，您也许听说过。他在大剧院里给演员做假发。那是个好买卖，他发了财。他把我们女东家的地产全买下了。如今我们只好听他摆一布。他想怎样欺侮我们就怎样欺侮我们。谢谢天老爷，他本人还不错。可他娶的那个俄国老婆是一只雌老虎，但愿上帝保佑别让人碰上她。她搜刮老百姓，可凶了。喏，监狱到了。您在哪儿下？在大门口吗？我看他们是不让进去的。”