"It is a false world," you heard, and you knew it was so, looking at the Czar's portrait, and at the flags.

"Never tell a police officer the truth," was another saying, and you knew it was good advice.

That fine of three hundred rubles was a sentence of lifelong slavery for the poor locksmith, unless he freed himself by some trick.
As fast as he could collect a few rags and sticks, the police would be after them.

He might hide under a false name, if he could get away from Polotzk on a false passport; or he might bribe the proper officials to issue a false certificate of the missing brother's death.
Only by false means could he secure peace for himself and his family, as long as the Czar was after his dues.
It was bewildering to hear how many kinds of duties and taxes we owed the Czar.

We paid taxes on our houses, and taxes on the rents from the houses, taxes on our business, taxes on our profits.