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.