Chap­ter V intro­duces a moment of decep­tive calm where rou­tine and rela­tion­ships mask deep­er under­cur­rents. Lipa, once weighed down by silence, begins to blos­som as the house­hold breathes with­out Anisim’s tense pres­ence. Her chores, once dull and drain­ing, are now per­formed with sur­pris­ing ener­gy, and her worn-out pet­ti­coat twirls light­ly as she scrubs the stairs and hums. The trans­for­ma­tion in her demeanor feels almost like a silent rebel­lion against the con­trol that once silenced her. Her face, usu­al­ly tired, glows with relief, as if each note of her song frees her a lit­tle more from the fears she nev­er voiced. Free­dom in this con­text is tem­po­rary but significant—it reveals the human need to reclaim joy even when per­ma­nence is uncer­tain.

Her husband’s return from church seems to restore some sense of mar­i­tal duty, though the glow in Lipa dims sub­tly. As they walk with her moth­er Praskovya, their steps are heavy with unspo­ken con­cerns. The fields are gold­en and calm, yet their minds drift back to the house, to Aksinya’s unnerv­ing stare and unset­tling ambi­tion. Lipa con­fides her fear, not root­ed in past vio­lence but in the sim­mer­ing inten­si­ty behind Aksinya’s eyes—a force that doesn’t strike but con­trols through pres­ence alone. She sens­es a change brew­ing, espe­cial­ly with the men­tion of the brick­yard. This future, paved in clay and flame, threat­ens the frag­ile bal­ance of pow­er with­in the fam­i­ly, and Lipa feels her place shift­ing beneath her feet.

The fair brings a rare hap­pi­ness to Praskovya, who smiles more than usu­al, seem­ing­ly intox­i­cat­ed by the music, food, and fes­tiv­i­ty. Yet, joy from the out­side world does not last long when brought into the house. As the fam­i­ly approach­es home, dusk set­tles over the vil­lage and with it, an air of unease. The mow­ers’ laugh­ter in the dis­tance fades into a silence filled by Crutch’s story—a tale not of mer­ri­ment, but of deceit. A bad half-rou­ble coin, inno­cent at first glance, reveals itself as a sym­bol of loom­ing dan­ger. The name tied to it—Anisim—brings sus­pi­cion and dread to a house­hold already strug­gling to keep its stand­ing.

Old Tsybukin’s deci­sion to qui­et­ly destroy the fake coins under­scores his des­per­a­tion to pro­tect the fam­i­ly’s rep­u­ta­tion. It’s not jus­tice he seeks, but silence. His old hands trem­ble slight­ly as he toss­es the coins into the stove, each one hiss­ing as if protest­ing its demise. That act of burn­ing isn’t just about money—it’s about burn­ing truth before it spreads. Yet fire doesn’t erase mem­o­ry. In the minds of those who know, ques­tions are already form­ing, and respect is begin­ning to waver. The qui­et cov­er-up feels more like a delay than a solu­tion, and every­one in the room feels it.

Lipa and her moth­er retreat to the barn, a space not built for com­fort but sud­den­ly kinder than the walls of the house. There, under the rustling of straw and the hum of night insects, they find a sliv­er of peace. Their con­ver­sa­tion is light, filled with noth­ing pro­found, but that sim­plic­i­ty brings them clos­er. Praskovya, who had once feared every­thing, seems less bur­dened now, per­haps because fear final­ly feels shared, no longer hers alone. Lipa clos­es her eyes not because she feels safe, but because she is exhaust­ed. Sleep comes quick­ly in the barn, unlike in the house, where peace must be per­formed, not felt.

This chap­ter empha­sizes the con­trast between sur­face and substance—how smiles can mask dread, and how silence often speaks the loud­est. The fair and the brick­yard, the coin and the fire, all become sym­bols of move­ment in a world that resists change. Each char­ac­ter, from Praskovya to Tsy­bukin, responds to uncer­tain­ty in their own way, reveal­ing how deeply fear and hope are inter­wo­ven. As night set­tles ful­ly over the vil­lage, what remains is not res­o­lu­tion but a pause. The sto­ry does not offer safe­ty, only stillness—a tem­po­rary shel­ter from con­se­quences that grow loud­er in the qui­et.