“Of course!” replies the Village Elder, shrugging his shoulders. “The taxes must be paid. … Take Abakoúmof now, for instance,” said he, referring to the well-to-do peasant whose cow had been taken in payment of some Grain Reserve Fund. “His son is an isvóstchik : they have three horses. Why shouldn’t he pay? He’s always trying to get out of it.”
“Well, suppose it so in his case,” say I; “but how about those who are really poor?” And I name the old man whose samovar they are taking.
“Yes; they really are poor, and have nothing to pay with. But just as if such things get considered up there!”
I name the woman whose sheep was taken. The Elder is sorry for her too, but, as if excusing himself, explains that he must obey orders.
I inquire how long he has been an Elder, and what pay he gets.
“How much do I get?” he says, replying not to the question I ask, but to the question in my mind, which he guesses namely, why he takes part in such proceedings. “Well, I do want to resign! We get thirty roubles a month, but are obliged to do things that are wrong.”
“Well, and will they really confiscate the samovars and sheep and fowls?” I ask.
“Why, of course! We are bound to take them, and the District Government will arrange for their sale.”
“And will the things be sold?”
“The folk will manage to pay up somehow.”
I go to the woman who came to me about her sheep. Her hut is tiny, and in the passage outside is her only sheep, which is to go to support the Imperial Budget. Seeing me, she, a nervous woman worn out by want and overwork, begins to talk excitedly and rapidly, as peasant women do.