Doctor Zhivago Read Online Free PDF

surveyors were walking along the edge of the horizon and taking notes.
    “And these,” Nikolai Nikolaevich asked Pavel, a handyman and watchman at the publishing house, who was sitting sideways on the box, stooping and crossing his legs, as a sign that he was not a regular coachman and driving was not his calling, “are these the landowner’s or the peasants’?”
    “Them’s the master’s,” Pavel replied, lighting up, “and them there,” having lighted up and inhaled, he jabbed with the butt of the whip handle towards the other side and said after a long pause, “them there’s ours. Gone to sleep, eh?” he shouted at the horses every so often, glancing at their tails and rumps out of the corner of his eye, like an engineer watching a pressure gauge.
    But the horses pulled like all horses in the world; that is, the shaft horse ran with the innate directness of an artless nature, while the outrunner seemed to the uncomprehending to be an arrant idler, who only knew how to arch its neck like a swan and do a squatting dance to the jingling of the harness bells, which its own leaps set going.
    Nikolai Nikolaevich was bringing Voskoboinikov the proofs of his little book on the land question, which, in view of increased pressure from the censorship, the publisher had asked him to revise.
    “Folk are acting up in the district,” said Nikolai Nikolaevich. “In the Pankovo area they cut a merchant’s throat and a zemstvo man 4 had his stud burned down. What do you think of that? What are they saying in your village?”
    But it turned out that Pavel took an even darker view of things than the censor who was restraining Voskoboinikov’s agrarian passions.
    “What’re they saying? Folk got free and easy. Spoiled, they say. Can you do that with our kind? Give our muzhiks their head, they’ll throttle each other, it’s God’s truth. Gone to sleep, eh?”
    This was the uncle and nephew’s second trip to Duplyanka. Yura thought he remembered the way, and each time the fields spread out wide, with woods embracing them in front and behind in a narrow border, it seemed to Yura that he recognized the place where the road should turn right, and at the turn there would appear and after a moment vanish the seven-mile panorama of Kologrivovo, with the river glistening in the distance and the railroad running beyond it. But he kept being mistaken. Fields were succeeded by fields. Again and again they were embraced by woods. The succession of these open spaces tuned you to a vast scale. You wanted to dream and think about the future.
    Not one of the books that were later to make Nikolai Nikolaevich famous had yet been written. But his thoughts were already defined. He did not know how near his hour was.
    Soon he was to appear among the representatives of the literature of that time, university professors and philosophers of the revolution—this man who had thought over all their themes and who, apart from terminology, had nothing in common with them. The whole crowd of them held to some sort of dogma and contented themselves with words and appearances, but Father Nikolai was a priest who had gone through Tolstoyism and revolution 5 and kept going further all the time. He thirsted for a wingedly material thought, which would trace an impartially distinct path in its movement and would change something in the world for the better, and which would be noticeable even to a child or an ignoramus, like a flash of lightning or a roll of thunder. He thirsted for the new.
    Yura felt good with his uncle. He resembled his mother. He was a free spirit, as she had been, with no prejudice against anything inhabitual. Like her, he had an aristocratic feeling of equality with all that lived. He understood everything at first glance, just as she had, and was able to express his thoughts in the form in which they came to him at the first moment, while they were alive and had not lost their meaning.
    Yura was glad that his uncle was taking him to