Chapter IV introduces a reflective exchange that pulls back the curtain on the household’s moral underpinnings. Anisim, five days after his wedding, readies himself for departure and chooses to speak with Varvara one last time. Their conversation unfolds slowly under the warm glow of lamps and the faint fragrance of incense, setting a tone that contrasts the weight of their words. Varvara knits quietly, her needles clicking like a metronome to their discourse, and speaks without anger but with disappointment. She questions the family’s method of doing business, pointing out the dishonesty behind their prosperity—how profit often came at the cost of another’s hardship. Her tone is steady, but the message cuts deep, suggesting that wealth without conscience erodes not only others but also the soul of the household.

Anisim, taken aback, defends their approach by asserting that people must focus on their own roles. His response lacks warmth, brushing past the ethical dilemma as if it were a logistical problem, not a human one. Varvara listens and then offers a more enduring truth—God’s justice cannot be dodged by compartmentalizing duties. Her words carry the weight of conviction, and for a moment, silence hovers between them. Anisim reacts not with understanding but with doubt. He questions God’s existence outright, revealing his internal unraveling. The absence he felt during his wedding wasn’t about the rituals or the crowd—it was the emptiness of meaning. His disillusionment is not just with faith, but with the entire scaffolding of moral obligation built around it.

What follows is Anisim’s critique of those who use religion to mask moral failures. He points out that priests deliver sermons with no fire in their hearts, and believers quote Scripture without living it. This hypocrisy, in his view, has made conscience a relic rather than a guide. Anisim’s tone shifts from defensive to philosophical, voicing a crisis that stretches beyond the personal. The problem isn’t broken traditions—it’s the erosion of self-honesty. People, he believes, no longer know what’s right because they’ve stopped listening to the quiet voice inside them. That silence, more than any law or ritual, is what has truly damned their village. His bitterness isn’t only towards others; it’s laced with the frustration of his own spiritual vacancy.

Varvara responds not with argument, but with compassion. Her presence becomes an anchor, offering a kind of faith that doesn’t rely on lofty beliefs but on daily acts of love and duty. Anisim softens. He thanks her—not just politely, but with genuine respect—recognizing her strength and steadiness as a rare good in a life full of noise. His words hint at regret, masked by practicality, as he asks her to comfort his father if things turn for the worse. He does not specify what awaits him, but the ambiguity suggests danger, maybe even guilt. In that moment, Anisim becomes more than a cynic—he becomes someone afraid of what might follow next.

Before leaving, he speaks of Lipa with a strange detachment, asking Varvara to show her affection. The request feels sudden but sincere, revealing that beneath his arguments and ideals lies a man unsure of how to be close to anyone. He understands the value of kindness but cannot seem to extend it himself. That contradiction gives depth to his character, showing that disillusionment doesn’t always harden the heart—it sometimes just confuses it. The conversation closes with no dramatic climax, only a lingering sense of uncertainty. As Anisim steps out into the world, the chapter leaves readers with a sense of quiet foreboding, wrapped in questions of faith, truth, and what it means to do right when belief itself is in doubt.

This chapter lingers in the reader’s mind not because of events, but because of its moral and emotional complexity. The dialogues between Anisim and Varvara are not just family talk—they are philosophical arguments wrapped in domestic clothes. In a time where external success masks internal decay, their exchange reminds us that real virtue might lie not in the loud rituals or public actions, but in the silent decisions we make when no one is watching. And in that stillness, we are all, like Anisim, left to decide whether we believe that goodness needs a witness—or if it’s enough for it to simply exist.