Before I reach the Elder’s house, a woman comes to meet me: a quick-eyed, black-eyed ex-pupil of mine⁠—Ólga, now already an old woman. She is in the same plight: they have seized her calf.

I come to the Elder. He is a strong, intelligent-looking peasant, with a grizzly beard. He comes out into the street to me. I ask him what taxes are being collected, and why so rigorously. He replies that he has had very strict orders to get in all arrears before the New Year.

“Have you had orders to confiscate samovars and cattle?”

“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.”