And suddenly the door swung wide open, and the Ukrainian strode into the kitchen, whispering loudly:

“There’s the ringing of spurs!”

The mother leapt up from the bed, grabbing her clothes with trembling hands, but Pavel appeared in the doorway from the other room and said calmly:

“Stay in bed – you’re unwell.”

A cautious rustling was audible from the lobby. Pavel went up to the door and, giving it a push with his hand, asked:

“Who’s there?”

With strange speed, a tall grey figure drove in through the door, then after it another, and two gendarmes pressed Pavel back, taking up positions on either side of him, before a shrill, mocking voice rang out:

“Not who you were expecting, eh?”

This was said by a tall, slim officer with a sparse black moustache. The settlement policeman, Fedyakin, appeared by the mother’s bed and, putting one hand to his cap while pointing the other into the mother’s face, said, with a terrifying grimace:

“This here’s his mother, Your Honour!” and, waving at Pavel, added: “And this is him himself!”

“Pavel Vlasov?” asked the officer, narrowing his eyes, and when Pavel silently nodded, he declared, twisting his moustache: “I need to conduct a search of your house. Old woman, get up! Who’s in there?” he asked, looking into the other room, and strode briskly towards the door.

“Your names?” his voice resounded.

In from the lobby came two witnesses – Tveryakov, an old founder, and his lodger, Rybin, a stoker, a solid, black-haired fellow. In a loud, rich voice he said:

“Hello, Nilovna!”

She was getting dressed and, to give herself some courage, said quietly:

“What ever’s going on! They come in the night, people have gone to bed, but along they come!…”

It was cramped in the main room, and for some reason there was a strong smell of boot polish. With a loud stamping of feet, two gendarmes and the settlement’s chief of police, Ryskin, took the books off the shelf and put them all together on the table in front of the officer. The other two banged their fists on the walls and looked under the chairs, and one climbed clumsily up onto the stove. The Ukrainian and Vesovshchikov stood in a corner, pressed up tight against one another. Nikolai’s pockmarked face was covered in red blotches, and his little grey eyes watched the officer fixedly. The Ukrainian twisted his moustache, and when the mother came into the room, he grinned and nodded to her affectionately.

Trying to suppress her fear, she moved not sideways, as she always did, but straight ahead, with her chest forward; this lent her figure a funny, pompous self-importance. She stamped her feet loudly, but her eyebrows were trembling…

The officer grabbed the books quickly with the slender fingers of his white hand, leafed through them, gave them a shake and, with a deft movement of the wrist, tossed them aside. At times a book would plop softly onto the floor. All were silent, you could hear the heavy wheezing of the sweating gendarmes, spurs jingled and at times a low voice would ring out:

“Have you looked here?”

The mother went and stood by the wall next to Pavel, folding her arms over her chest as he had done, and she too watched the officer. She felt weak in the knees, and her eyes were shrouded by a dry mist.

Suddenly, in the silence, Nikolai’s grating voice rang out:

“And why is that necessary – throwing the books on the floor?”

The mother winced. Tveryakov shook his head, as though someone had given it a jolt from behind, and Rybin let out a croak and looked at Nikolai attentively.

The officer narrowed his eyes and drilled them for a second into the pockmarked, immobile face. His fingers started flicking over the pages of the books even more quickly. At times he would open his big grey eyes so wide, it was as if he were in unbearable pain and were about to emit a loud cry of impotent rage against that pain.

“Soldier!” said Vesovshchikov again. “Pick the books up…”

All the gendarmes turned around to him and then looked at the officer. The latter raised his head again and, taking a searching look at Nikolai’s broad figure, he drawled out through his nose:

“Go on then… pick them up…”

One of the gendarmes bent down and, with a sidelong glance at Vesovshchikov, began picking the tattered books up from the floor…

“Nikolai should keep quiet!” the mother whispered softly to Pavel.

He shrugged his shoulders. The Ukrainian bowed his head.

“Who is it that reads the Bible?”

“Me!” said Pavel.

“And whose are all these books?”

“Mine!” replied Pavel.

“So!” said the officer, leaning against the back of his chair. Cracking the fingers of his slender hands, he stretched his legs out under the table, smoothed his moustache and asked Nikolai:

“Are you Andrei Nakhodka?”

“I am!” answered Nikolai, moving forward. The Ukrainian reached out his hand, took him by the shoulder and moved him back again.

“He’s mistaken! I’m Andrei!…”

Raising his hand and wagging his little finger at Vesovshchikov, the officer said:

“Just you watch it!”

He started rummaging in his papers.

The bright, moonlit night looked into the window from the street with soulless eyes. Someone was walking around slowly outside the window, and the snow was squeaking.

“Nakhodka, have you been involved in an inquiry into political crimes before?” asked the officer.

“I have, in Rostov and in Saratov… Only the gendarmes were polite with me there…”

The officer blinked his right eye, wiped it and, baring his small teeth, began:

“Now are you aware, specifically you, Nakhodka, who the bastards are that are distributing criminal appeals at the factory, eh?”

The Ukrainian swayed on his feet and, smiling broadly, tried to say something, but again there was the sound of Nikolai’s irritating voice:

“This is the very first time we’ve seen any bastards…”

Silence fell, and for a second everyone stopped.

The scar on the mother’s face turned white, and her right eyebrow climbed upwards. Rybin’s black beard started trembling strangely; lowering his eyes, he began slowly combing it with his fingers.

“Get this swine out of here!” said the officer.

Two gendarmes took Nikolai by the arms and led him roughly into the kitchen. There he stopped, digging his heels hard into the floor, and cried:

“Wait… I’ll put my things on!”

In from the yard came the police chief and said:

“There’s nothing – we’ve examined everything!”

“Well, it stands to reason!” the officer exclaimed with a grin. “We have a man of experience here…”

The mother listened to his weak, quavering and brittle voice and, looking fearfully into his yellow face, sensed in this man a pitiless enemy with a heart full of lordly scorn for other people. She saw few such men and had almost forgotten there were any.

“So this is the sort of man they’ve stirred up,” she thought.

“Illegitimate Mr Andrei Onisimov Nakhodka, I’m arresting you!”

“What for?” the Ukrainian asked calmly.

“I’ll tell you that later!” the officer replied, angrily polite. And turning to Vlasova, he asked: “Are you literate?”

“No!” replied Pavel.

“I’m not asking you!” said the officer sternly, and asked again: “Old woman, answer!”

Involuntarily surrendering to a feeling of hatred for this man, and suddenly gripped by the shivers, as though she had jumped into cold water, the mother straightened up, her scar turned crimson, and her eyebrow sank down low.

“Don’t shout, you!” she began, stretching her arm out towards him. “You’re still a young man – you don’t know what woe is…”

“Calm down, Mamasha!” Pavel stopped her.

“Wait, Pavel!” his mother cried, surging towards the table. “What are you seizing people for?”

“That doesn’t concern you – silence!” the officer cried, standing up.