Since that time things had gradually improved.  The peasants had discovered that they could not support themselves and pay their taxes from the land ceded to them, and had accordingly consented to till the proprietor’s fields for a moderate recompense.  “These last two years,” said Karl Karl’itch to me, with an air of honest self-satisfaction, “I have been able, after paying all expenses, to transmit little sums to the young master in St. Petersburg.  It was certainly not much, but it shows that things are better than they were.  Still, it is hard, uphill work.  The peasants have not been improved by liberty.  They now work less and drink more than they did in the times of serfage, and if you say a word to them they’ll go away, and not work for you at all.”  Here Karl Karl’itch indemnified himself for his recent self-control in the presence of his workers by using a series of the strongest epithets which the combined languages of his native and of his adopted country could supply.  “But laziness and drunkenness are not their only faults.  They let their cattle wander into our fields, and never lose an opportunity of stealing firewood from the forest.”

“But you have now for such matters the rural justices of the peace,” I ventured to suggest.

“The justices of the peace!” . . .  Here Karl Karl’itch used an inelegant expression, which showed plainly that he was no unqualified admirer of the new judicial institutions.  “What is the use of applying to the justices?  The nearest one lives six miles off, and when I go to him he evidently tries to make me lose as much time as possible.  I am sure to lose nearly a whole day, and at the end of it I may find that I have got nothing for my pains.  These justices always try to find some excuse for the peasant, and when they do condemn, by way of exception, the affair does not end there.  There is pretty sure to be a pettifogging practitioner prowling about—­some rascally scribe who has been dismissed from the public offices for pilfering and extorting too openly—­and he is always ready to whisper to the peasant that he should appeal.  The peasant knows that the decision is just, but he is easily persuaded that by appealing to the Monthly Sessions he gets another chance in the lottery, and may perhaps draw a prize.  He lets the rascally scribe, therefore, prepare an appeal for him, and I receive an invitation to attend the Session of Justices in the district town on a certain day.

“It is a good five-and-thirty miles to the district town, as you know, but I get up early, and arrive at eleven o’clock, the hour stated in the official notice.  A crowd of peasants are hanging about the door of the court, but the only official present is the porter.  I enquire of him when my case is likely to come on, and receive the laconic answer, ’How should I know?’ After half an hour the secretary arrives.  I repeat my question, and receive the same answer.  Another half hour passes, and one of the justices drives up in his tarantass.