“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.