Among my acquaintance at Vyatka was an old gentleman who had been dismissed from the service as inspector of rural police. He now drew up petitions and managed lawsuits for other people—a profession which he had been expressly forbidden to adopt. He had entered the service in the year one, had robbed and squeezed and blackmailed in three provinces, and had twice figured in the dock. This veteran liked to tell surprising stories of what he and his contemporaries had done; and he did not conceal his contempt for the degenerate successors who now filled their places.
“Oh, they’re mere bunglers,” he used to say. “Of course they take bribes, or they couldn’t live; but as for dexterity or knowledge of the law, you needn’t expect anything of the kind from them. Just to give you an idea, let me tell you of a friend of mine who was a judge for twenty years and died twelve months ago. He was a genius! The peasants revere his memory, and he left a trifle to his family too. His method was all his own. If a peasant came with a petition, the Judge would admit him at once and be very friendly and cheerful.
“‘Well, my friend, tell me your name and your father’s name, too.’
“The peasant bows—‘Yermolai is my name, bátyushka, and my father’s name was Grigóri.’
“‘Well, how are you, Yermolai Grigorevitch, and where do you come from?’
“‘I live at Dubilov.’
“‘I know, I know—those mills on the right hand of the high road are yours, I suppose?’
“‘Just so, bátyushka, the mills belong to our village.’
“‘A prosperous village, too—good land—black soil.’
“‘We have no reason to murmur against Heaven, Your Worship.’