Chap­ter VII begins with an unset­tling qui­et in Zhuko­vo, bro­ken only by the slow, delib­er­ate arrival of the police inspec­tor. Known in the vil­lage sim­ply as the mas­ter, he comes not with aid but to collect—over two thou­sand rou­bles in unpaid tax­es owed by vil­lagers already drown­ing in debt. His first stop is the tav­ern, not out of inter­est in the peo­ple but for a cup of tea, an act that adds to the sense of detach­ment he car­ries like armor. When he final­ly reach­es the elder’s home, a crowd of anx­ious vil­lagers waits, their expres­sions a mix of hope and fear. Among them, Antip Syedel­nikov, the young vil­lage elder, stands with an air of grim author­i­ty. He uses for­mal words he like­ly doesn’t under­stand, mim­ic­k­ing the offi­cials above him, hop­ing they’ll shield him from blame. Despite his pover­ty, he sides with pow­er, enforc­ing its rules with­out ques­tion.

Osip, des­per­ate and weath­ered, steps for­ward to explain his sit­u­a­tion. He speaks of a failed deal with a man from Luto­ryd­sky and of being cheat­ed, left with noth­ing. His voice is not defi­ant but plead­ing, shaped by long years of dis­ap­point­ment. The inspec­tor bare­ly lis­tens. There’s no inter­est in Osip’s back­sto­ry, only a cold refusal that cuts deep­er than harsh words ever could. It’s the kind of dis­missal that reminds a man how invis­i­ble he’s become. No anger ris­es from the mas­ter, just an impa­tient nod to con­tin­ue col­lect­ing. The deci­sion has already been made—stories don’t change num­bers, and sym­pa­thy does­n’t bal­ance ledgers.

As the inspec­tor exits, still unmoved, the real blow falls not from him but from Antip, who steps for­ward with legal jus­ti­fi­ca­tion and a cold sense of duty. A samovar—one of the few items of val­ue in Osip’s home—is seized. It’s more than a piece of met­al; it’s a sym­bol of home, com­fort, and pride. The loss cuts deep­er than hunger, rep­re­sent­ing a strip of dig­ni­ty that can­not be replaced. Granny, shak­ing with rage and sor­row, lash­es out not with her fists but with words, a storm of accu­sa­tions and cries that echo through the vil­lage. She demands jus­tice, not from offi­cials who left, but from neigh­bors who look on in silence.

No one inter­venes. The vil­lagers, them­selves bur­dened by fear and debts, low­er their eyes and remain still. They know what it means to lose some­thing they love to hands that jus­ti­fy every­thing as law. The moment pass­es, but the wound remains. What could have been a ral­ly­ing point becomes just anoth­er scene in a life of com­pro­mise and qui­et suf­fer­ing. The bureau­cra­cy holds its pow­er not through vio­lence, but through indif­fer­ence. Antip enforces the law like a machine, numbed by duty and per­haps by sur­vival instinct. He is not cru­el for sport but com­plic­it by design.

What lingers most is the hol­low­ing effect this act has on Osip’s fam­i­ly. It frac­tures some­thing that words can­not repair. Granny’s fury slow­ly shifts into silence, the kind that sinks into bones. In that silence lies the real weight of poverty—not just lack, but the slow era­sure of joy, of voice, of iden­ti­ty. The samovar may be gone, but the greater theft is of pride, of secu­ri­ty in one’s home. For the poor in Zhuko­vo, pos­ses­sions are not mere items; they’re anchors to a past, to fam­i­ly, to a belief that life might still offer warmth.

This chap­ter cap­tures more than just a scene of confiscation—it holds a mir­ror to the way sys­tems pre­serve them­selves at the cost of peo­ple. Author­i­ty is shown not in loud dec­la­ra­tions, but in the qui­et exe­cu­tion of laws that don’t care who they crush. Antip’s role com­pli­cates mat­ters; he is both vic­tim and enforcer, a reminder that pow­er often co-opts the weak to con­trol the weak­er. In Zhuko­vo, this com­plex­i­ty defines dai­ly life—resigned com­pli­ance, silent suf­fer­ing, and moments of protest that flick­er but do not burn. Yet with­in that bleak­ness, there’s still some­thing unbro­ken in voic­es like Granny’s—voices that cry out even when no one answers.