Chapter 74 Part Two - Twelve

It was a long way to the prison, and it was getting late, so Nekhludoff hired a carriage.The coachman was a middle-aged man, intelligent and kind-looking.In one street he turned to Nekhludoff and pointed out a building which was being built. "You see, what a grand building they're building," he said, as if he were a shareholder in the house, too, and proud of it. The house was indeed very large, complex in structure, and peculiar in style.Sturdy scaffolding of thick pine, fastened with iron hooks, surrounded the building under construction; a board wall cut it off from the street.Workers, splashed with lime mortar, came and went on the scaffolding like ants, some were building walls, some were splitting bricks, some were lifting up heavy brick buckets and mud buckets, and then empty buckets and Put down the empty bucket.

A well-dressed fat gentleman, probably an architect, was standing by the scaffolding, gesticulating and talking to a Vladimir contractor who was listening respectfully.Some loaded carts come in through the gate, and some empty carts go out through the gate. Antagonistic contradictions are opposite to non-antagonistic contradictions.A form of contradictory struggle, all passed by the architect and the contractor. "Both those who work and those who force them to work, all think that this is the way to live. Although the wives of the workers are pregnant, and they have to do heavy work at home that they cannot do, their children wear rags. hat, grinning like a little old man before dying of starvation, kicking his thin legs, and they themselves have to build such a useless palace for a useless man, who robs them and drives them bankrupt," Nekhludoff thought to himself, looking at the house.

"Yes, it is absurd to build such a house," he said out of his mind. "How can it be absurd?" the coachman said angrily, "People rely on it for food, so you can't say it is absurd!" "Know that the job is useless." "Since people are building it, it is useful," the coachman retorted, "the common people have food to eat." Nekhludoff was silent, especially since the wheels were rattling and it was difficult to speak.Not far from the prison, the carriage turned from the gravel road to the post road, so it was convenient to talk.The coachman chatted again with Nekhludoff.

"Why are so many peasants flocking to the city this year," he said, turning from the driver's seat, and pointed out to Nekhludoff a group of workers from the countryside.They came forward with saws, axes, short leather jackets and pockets on their backs. "Are there more than usual?" asked Nekhludoff. "Much more! Crowded everywhere this year. It's deadly. The proprietor throws country folks here and there like shavings. Crowded everywhere." "How did that happen?" "There are more and more people, and there is nowhere to go." "Why are there more and more people? Why don't they stay in the country?"

"There's no work in the country. No land." Nekhludoff, like a wounded man, felt that his scar was always being touched on purpose, but it was only because of the painful place that he felt it. "Is this everywhere?" he thought, and asked the coachman how much land they had in the village, how much land he had in his own house, and why he was in the city. "Our land in the country, my lord, is only one dessiacre per person on average. There are three people in our family," said the coachman enthusiastically. "I have a father, a brother, and a brother who's gone to the army. They work in the fields, but they don't do much, and they're done. That's why my brother wants to come to Moscow."

"Can't you rent some land to plant?" "Where do you go to rent now? The original landlords have eaten up all their properties and sold them all. The merchants have all the land in their hands. Don't even try to rent land from them, they all manage it themselves. Here we come A Frenchman, he bought all the land from our old owner and managed it himself. If he refuses to lease the land, there is nothing you can do." "What kind of Frenchman is that?" "A Frenchman named Dufour, you may have heard of him. He made wigs for actors in the Grand Theatre. It was a good business, and he made a fortune. He bought our landlady's whole estate. Now we Had to be at his mercy. He bullied us all he wanted. Thank goodness, he's all right. But that Russian wife he married was a tigress, God bless no one should come across her. She searched People, it's terrible. Here, the prison is here. Where are you going? At the gate? I don't think they will let you in."