Sometimes he would talk with Itch, the serving man.
"Itch," he asked, "what is morality?" But Itch didn't know. In his simple life he had never heard of it.
At times people came to the house—Snip, the schoolmaster, who could read and write, and Cinch, the harness maker, who made harness.
Once there came Popoff, the inspector of police, in his blue coat with fur on it. He stood in front of the fire writing down the names of all the people in the house. And when he came to Itch, Serge noticed how Itch trembled and cowered before Popoff, cringing as he brought a three-legged stool and saying, "Sit near the fire, little father; it is cold." Popoff laughed and said, "Cold as Siberia, is it not, little brother?" Then he said, "Bare me your arm to the elbow, and let me see if our mark is on it still." And Itch raised his sleeve to the elbow and Serge saw that there was a mark upon it burnt deep and black.
"I thought so," said Popoff, and he laughed. But Yump, the cook, beat the fire with a stick so that the sparks flew into Popoff's face. "You are too near the fire, little inspector," she said. "It burns."
All that evening Itch sat in the corner of the kitchen, and Serge saw that there were tears on his face.
"Why does he cry?" asked Serge.
"He has been in Siberia," said Yump as she poured water into the great iron pot to make soup for the week after the next.
Serge grew more thoughtful each year.
All sorts of things, occurrences of daily life, set him thinking. One day he saw some peasants drowning a tax collector in the river. It made a deep impression on him. He couldn't understand it. There seemed something wrong about it.