It is true that the interests of all are interwoven; but, even without any prolonged reckoning, the conscience of each man will say on whose side lies labor, and on whose idleness. But although conscience says this, the account-book, the cash-book, says it still more clearly. The more money any one spends, the more idle he is, that is to say, the more he makes others work for him. The less he spends, the more he works.] {142} But trade, but public undertakings, and, finally, the most terrible of words, culture, the development of sciences, and the arts,--what of them? [If I live I will make answer to those points, and in detail; and until such answer I will narrate the following.] {142} CHAPTER XX. LIFE IN THE CITY. Last year, in March, I was returning home late at night. As I turned from the Zubova into Khamovnitchesky Lane, I saw some black spots on the snow of the Dyevitchy Pole (field). Something was moving about in one place. I should not have paid any attention to this, if the policeman who was standing at the end of the street had not shouted in the direction of the black spots,-- "Vasily! why don't you bring her in?" "She won't come!" answered a voice, and then the spot moved towards the policeman. I halted and asked the police-officer, "What is it?" He said,--"They are taking a girl from the Rzhanoff house to the station- house; and she is hanging back, she won't walk." A house-porter in a sheepskin coat was leading her. She was walking forward, and he was pushing her from behind. All of us, I and the porter and the policeman, were dressed in winter clothes, but she had nothing on over her dress. In the darkness I could make out only her brown dress, and the kerchiefs on her head and neck. She was short in stature, as is often the case with the prematurely born, with small feet, and a comparatively broad and awkward figure. "We're waiting for you, you carrion. Get along, what do you mean by it? I'll give it to you!" shouted the policeman. He was evidently tired, and he had had too much of her. She advanced a few paces, and again halted. The little old porter, a good-natured fellow (I know him), tugged at her hand. "Here, I'll teach you to stop! On with you!" he repeated, as though in anger. She staggered, and began to talk in a discordant voice. At every sound there was a false note, both hoarse and whining. "Come now, you're shoving again. I'll get there some time!" She stopped and then went on. I followed them. "You'll freeze," said the porters "The likes of us don't freeze: I'm hot."