Book 2 Chapter 12 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.