It seemed as though a shadow had fallen upon the house.  The house looked darker, the roof was rustier, the heavy, iron-bound door into the shop, which was painted green, was covered with cracks, or, as the deaf man expressed it, “blisters”; and old Tsybukin seemed to have grown dingy, too.  He had given up cutting his hair and beard, and looked shaggy.  He no longer sprang jauntily into his chaise, nor shouted to beggars:  “God will provide!” His strength was on the wane, and that was evident in everything.  People were less afraid of him now, and the police officer drew up a formal charge against him in the shop though he received his regular bribe as before; and three times the old man was called up to the town to be tried for illicit dealing in spirits, and the case was continually adjourned owing to the non-appearance of witnesses, and old Tsybukin was worn out with worry.

He often went to see his son, hired somebody, handed in a petition to somebody else, presented a holy banner to some church.  He presented the governor of the prison in which Anisim was confined with a silver glass stand with a long spoon and the inscription:  “The soul knows its right measure.”

“There is no one to look after things for us,” said Varvara.  “Tut, tut....  You ought to ask someone of the gentlefolks, they would write to the head officials....  At least they might let him out on bail!  Why wear the poor fellow out?”

She, too, was grieved, but had grown stouter and whiter; she lighted the lamps before the ikons as before, and saw that everything in the house was clean, and regaled the guests with jam and apple cheese.  The deaf man and Aksinya looked after the shop.  A new project was in progress—­a brickyard in Butyokino—­and Aksinya went there almost every day in the chaise.  She drove herself, and when she met acquaintances she stretched out her neck like a snake out of the young rye, and smiled naively and enigmatically.  Lipa spent her time playing with the baby which had been born to her before Lent.  It was a tiny, thin, pitiful little baby, and it was strange that it should cry and gaze about and be considered a human being, and even be called Nikifor.  He lay in his swinging cradle, and Lipa would walk away towards the door and say, bowing to him: 

“Good-day, Nikifor Anisimitch!”

And she would rush at him and kiss him.  Then she would walk away to the door, bow again, and say: 

’Good-day, Nikifor Anisimitch!

And he kicked up his little red legs, and his crying was mixed with laughter like the carpenter Elizarov’s.

At last the day of the trial was fixed.  Tsybukin went away five days before.  Then they heard that the peasants called as witnesses had been fetched; their old workman who had received a notice to appear went too.

The trial was on a Thursday.  But Sunday had passed, and Tsybukin was still not back, and there was no news.  Towards the evening on Tuesday Varvara was sitting at the open window, listening for her husband to come.  In the next room Lipa was playing with her baby.  She was tossing him up in her arms and saying enthusiastically: