Chap­ter I presents the vil­lage of Uklee­vo as both hum­ble and harsh, shaped by its envi­ron­ment and the qui­et decline of rur­al tra­di­tions. The land is drained by fever and the smoke of small indus­tries that bare­ly lift the peo­ple above sub­sis­tence. Local leg­ends revolve not around great­ness, but around odd­i­ties, such as the tale of a dea­con who once overindulged in caviare at a funeral—humorous yet sym­bol­ic of how even minor events mark the town’s mem­o­ry. This sto­ry, passed around in whis­pers, becomes emblem­at­ic of Ukleevo’s slow pace and lim­it­ed joys. The peo­ple, bound by habit and worn by time, adapt to a life that expects lit­tle and promis­es less. Fac­to­ries poi­son the water, but the vil­lagers still drink from it; they fall ill, recov­er, and return to their labors with­out com­plaint.

Grig­o­ry Petro­vitch Tsy­bukin stands as a tow­er­ing fig­ure amid this worn-down back­drop. He is respect­ed, if not entire­ly admired, for his cun­ning in both hon­est trade and shady deal­ings. His small shop acts as a façade, behind which more ques­tion­able trans­ac­tions qui­et­ly unfold. He prof­its from vil­lagers’ igno­rance, yet no one con­fronts him—his pow­er rests not in charm, but in cal­cu­lat­ed con­trol. Grig­o­ry has mold­ed his fam­i­ly into exten­sions of his busi­ness, bend­ing roles and rules to suit his ambi­tions. His two sons serve as proof that lega­cy does not always fol­low blood; one is strong but dull, the oth­er smart yet absent. In this imbal­ance, he finds both frus­tra­tion and jus­ti­fi­ca­tion for main­tain­ing author­i­ty.

Stepan, the old­er son, adds lit­tle beyond mus­cle, a man more suit­ed for man­u­al tasks than men­tal ones. His wife, Aksinya, is the true engine behind his role, com­mand­ing respect not with words but with results. She is sharp, deci­sive, and unafraid of step­ping into tra­di­tion­al­ly male spheres of pow­er. Grig­o­ry, though out­ward­ly dis­mis­sive, silent­ly rec­og­nizes that she is every­thing Stepan is not. Her pres­ence forces oth­ers in the fam­i­ly to reeval­u­ate where strength tru­ly lies. In her, Uklee­vo sees a woman who has carved influ­ence in a world not made for her, reshap­ing the domes­tic hier­ar­chy in sub­tle, for­mi­da­ble ways.

When Var­vara Niko­laev­na enters Grigory’s life, she brings con­trast. Edu­cat­ed, gen­tle, and spir­i­tu­al, she radi­ates val­ues for­eign to the grind­ing machin­ery of Ukleevo’s econ­o­my. Her com­pas­sion doesn’t weak­en her—it com­pli­cates the house­hold. She intro­duces rit­u­als of kind­ness where exploita­tion once ruled. Meals grow warmer, rooms feel soft­er, and peo­ple begin to remem­ber that decen­cy is not a lia­bil­i­ty. The vil­lagers, espe­cial­ly the poor, start notic­ing her pres­ence, not through grandeur, but in acts of qui­et dig­ni­ty. She is the first Tsy­bukin woman to offer some­thing more than labor or lever­age.

Yet Varvara’s kind­ness does not erase the fam­i­ly’s dark­er truths. Grigory’s oper­a­tions continue—money still changes hands in secret, goods remain ques­tion­able in qual­i­ty, and moral lines blur in every deal. But her influ­ence can­not be ignored. It unset­tles those who pre­fer the old order, par­tic­u­lar­ly Aksinya, who sees in Var­vara both a rival and a reformer. The bal­ance of pow­er starts to shift, not vio­lent­ly, but per­sis­tent­ly, like a stream wear­ing down stone. Where Aksinya uses con­trol, Var­vara applies grace. Both are effec­tive, but their paths do not align.

The vil­lage watch­es these dynam­ics with the pas­sive inter­est of peo­ple too tired to inter­vene but alert enough to notice. Uklee­vo, though poor and weary, is rich in obser­va­tion. Peo­ple see more than they say. And with­in their silence, judg­ments are qui­et­ly made. Who is bet­ter fit to lead the fam­i­ly for­ward? Is it the ruth­less Aksinya or the benev­o­lent Var­vara? The answer, per­haps, lies not in who wins favor with Grig­o­ry, but in who reshapes the home in last­ing ways.

This chap­ter doesn’t mere­ly describe a place—it dis­sects it. Through Grig­o­ry, Aksinya, and Var­vara, we see the spec­trum of human response to strug­gle: dom­i­na­tion, adap­ta­tion, and redemp­tion. Uklee­vo may be small, but its con­flicts are vast. Each char­ac­ter reflects a piece of a soci­ety try­ing to hold on to pow­er, dig­ni­ty, or change. As this sto­ry unfolds, it becomes clear that sur­vival in the ravine depends not just on prof­it, but on who can tru­ly inspire loyalty—through fear, or through love.