I cast a glance at the Town Hall, where is a crowd of peasant women. In a corner is a table. With the notice:
"Employment Bureau."
A stout lady sitting there says to a peasant woman standing with a child in her arms:
"With us, my dear, the conditions of employment for servants are usually ..."
Tiny Roslavl. How is it possible to find employment here for tens of thousands of people! The peasant women stand in the waiting rooms. They stand patiently, they stand all day. And having obtained nothing whatever, go away.
In the street you are stopped by people, saying:
"Are you not in need of workmen in your village?"
"Are you not hiring people?"
And all in such melancholy, hopeless, gentle voices. I drive back to the place where last night I saw a horde of nomads—an actual horde. From the high bank of the Oster, on that side from which the forest has been cleared, you see for versts and versts a cloud of bluish, half-transparent smoke. That's the evening camping-ground.
I walk farther and farther into the forest over the soft wilted grass. Everywhere are glades, everywhere people, huts of pine-branches, and from all sides is heard the sound of axes. How many thousands of people are there here! People tell you various enormous numbers.... How many drops of water are there in the river?