“The serfs held their tattered caps in their hands and fidgeted uneasily while their starosta was speaking. There was a look of intense anxiety upon their pinched faces, for they had been driven to the last extremity.
“‘It is your duty to pay me,’ replied my father impatiently. ‘If you do not I shall treat it as insubordination. You know what that means.’
“‘Batiushka!’ exclaimed the white-haired old man whose head was bowed. ‘We cannot pay just yet, even if our Father the Tzar came himself and demanded the tax.’
“‘Silence!’ thundered my father. ‘You shall pay it. I’ll hear no excuses, you understand. It must be paid within a week from to-day—every kopeck.’
“The starosta shook his head sorrowfully, saying—
“‘Your High Nobility, it is impossible. We have no money, and we have nothing that we can sell.’
“‘No more words!’ my father cried. ‘I’ll not be dictated to. You have nothing that you can sell, have you? Very well. I give you one week in which to find the money.’
“‘Have you no pity, barin?’ implored the old man.
“My father smiled sarcastically. ‘Begone! You know my decision,’ he said coldly, and, lighting a fresh cigarette, turned his back upon them.