The
Long Exile by Leo Tolstoy
In the town of Vladimir lived a young
merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops and a house of his own.
Aksionov was a
handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, full of fun, and very fond of
singing. When quite a young man he had been given to drink, and was riotous
when he had had too much; but after he married he gave up drinking, except now
and then.
One summer Aksionov
was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his family, his wife
said to him, “Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about
you.”
Aksionov laughed, and
said, “You are afraid that when I get to the fair I shall go on a spree.”
His wife replied: “I
do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt
you returned from the town, and when you took off your cap I saw that your hair
was quite gray.”
Aksionov laughed.
“That’s a lucky sign,” said he. “See if I don’t sell out all my goods, and
bring you some presents from the fair.”
So he said good-bye to
his family, and drove away.
When he had traveled
half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and they put up at the same inn for
the night. They had some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.
It was not Aksionov’s
habit to sleep late, and wishing to travel while it was still cool, he aroused
his driver before dawn, and told him to put in the horses.
Then he made his way
across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a cottage at the back), paid
his bill, and continued his journey.
When he had gone about
twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to be fed. Aksionov rested awhile
in the passage of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch, and, ordering a
samovar to be heated, got out his guitar and began to play.
Suddenly a troika
drove up with tinkling bells and an official alighted, followed by two
soldiers. He came to Aksionov and began to question him asking him who he was
and whence he came. Aksionov answered him, fully, and said, “Won’t you have
some tea with me?” But the official went on cross-questioning him and asking
him, “Where did you spend last night? Were you alone, or with a
fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this morning? Why did you leave
the inn before dawn?”
Aksionov wondered why
he was asked all these questions, but he described all that had happened, and
then added, “Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber? I
am traveling on business of my own, and there is no need to question me.”
Then the official,
calling the soldiers, said, “I am the police-officer of this district, and I
question you because the merchant with whom you spent last night has been found
with his throat cut. We must search your things.”
They entered the
house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped Aksionov’s luggage and
searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, “Whose
knife is this?”
Aksionov looked, and
seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he was frightened.
“How is it there is
blood on this knife?”
Aksionov tried to
answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered: “I —don’t know—not
mine.”
Then the
police-officer said: “This morning the merchant was found in bed with his
throat cut. You are the only person who could have done it. The house was
locked from inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-stained knife
in your bag, and your face and manner betray you! Tell me how you killed him,
and how much money you stole?”
Aksionov swore he had
not done it; that he had not seen the merchant after they had had tea together;
that he had no money except eight thousand rubles of his own, and that the
knife was not his. But his voice was broken, his face pale, and he trembled
with fear as though he were guilty.
The police-officer
ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and to put him in the cart. As they tied
his feet together and flung him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and
wept. His money and goods were taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest
town and imprisoned there. Inquiries as to his character were made in Vladimir. The merchants
and other inhabitants of that town said that in former days he used to drink
and waste his time, but that he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was
charged with murdering a merchant from Ryazan,
and robbing him of twenty thousand rubles.
His wife was in
despair, and did not know what to believe. Her children were all quite small;
one was a baby at her breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the town
where her husband was in jail. At first she was not allowed to see him; but
after much begging, she obtained permission from the officials, and was taken
to him. When she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up with
thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not come to her senses for a long
time. Then she drew her children to her, and sat down near him. She told him of
things at home, and asked about what had happened to him. He told her all, and
she asked, “What can we do now?”
“We must petition the
Czar not to let an innocent man perish.”
His wife told him that
she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it had not been accepted.
Aksionov did not
reply, but only looked downcast.
Then his wife said,
“It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned gray. You remember? You
should not have started that day.” And passing her fingers through his hair,
she said: “Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not you who did it?”
“So you, too, suspect
me!” said Aksionov, and, hiding his face in his hands, he began to weep. Then a
soldier came to say that the wife and children must go away; and Aksionov said
good-bye to his family for the last time.
When they were gone,
Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he remembered that his wife also
had suspected him, he said to himself, “It seems that only God can know the
truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal, and from Him alone expect mercy.”
And Aksionov wrote no
more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.
Aksionov was condemned
to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was flogged with a knout, and when
the wounds made by the knout were healed, he was driven to Siberia
with other convicts.
For twenty-six years
Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. His
hair turned white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin, and gray. All his
mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but
he often prayed.
In prison Aksionov
learned to make boots, and earned a little money, with which he bought The
Lives of the Saints. He read this book when there was light enough in the
prison; and on Sundays in the prison- church he read the lessons and sang in
the choir; for his voice was still good.
The prison authorities
liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his fellow-prisoners respected him: they
called him “Grandfather,” and “The Saint.” When they wanted to petition the
prison authorities about anything, they always made Aksionov their spokesman,
and when there were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to put things
right, and to judge the matter.
No news reached
Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if his wife and children were
still alive.
One day a fresh gang
of convicts came to the prison. In the evening the old prisoners collected
round the new ones and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and
what they were sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the
newcomers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.
One of the new
convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped gray beard, was
telling the others what he had been arrested for.
“Well, friends,” he
said, “I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and
accused of stealing. I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had
then let it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend of mine. So I said,
‘It’s all right.’ ‘No,’ said they, ‘you stole it.’ But how or where I stole it
they could not say. I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights to
have come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I have been
sent here for nothing at all. … Eh, but it’s lies I’m telling you; I’ve been to
Siberia before, but I did not stay long.”
“Where are you from?”
asked some one.
“From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name
is Makar, and they also call me Semyonich.”
Aksionov raised his
head and said: “Tell me, Semyonich, do you know anything of the merchants
Aksionov of Vladimir? Are they still alive?”
“Know them? Of course
I do. The Aksionovs are rich, though their father is in Siberia:
a sinner like ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran’dad, how did you come
here?”
Aksionov did not like
to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and said, “For my sins I have been
in prison these twenty-six years.”
“What sins?” asked
Makar Semyonich.
But Aksionov only
said, “Well, well—I must have deserved it!” He would have said no more, but his
companions told the newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia;
how some one had killed a merchant, and had put the knife among Aksionov’s
things, and Aksionov had been unjustly condemned.
When Makar Semyonich
heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed, “Well,
this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you’ve grown, Gran’dad!”
The others asked him
why he was so surprised, and where he had seen Aksionov before; but Makar
Semyonich did not reply. He only said: “It’s wonderful that we should meet
here, lads!”
These words made
Aksionov wonder whether this man knew who had killed the merchant; so he said,
“Perhaps, Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe you’ve seen me
before?”
“How could I help
hearing? The world’s full of rumors. But it’s a long time ago, and I’ve
forgotten what I heard.”
“Perhaps you heard who
killed the merchant?” asked Aksionov.
Makar Semyonich
laughed, and replied: “It must have been him in whose bag the knife was found!
If some one else hid the knife there, ‘He’s not a thief till he’s caught,’ as
the saying is. How could any one put a knife into your bag while it was under
your head? It would surely have woke you up.”
When Aksionov heard
these words, he felt sure this was the man who had killed the merchant. He rose
and went away. All that night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly unhappy, and
all sorts of images rose in his mind. There was the image of his wife as she
was when he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were
present; her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her speak and laugh.
Then he saw his children, quite little, as they were at that time: one with a
little cloak on, another at his mother’s breast. And then he remembered himself
as he used to be—young and merry. He remembered how he sat playing the guitar
in the porch of the inn where he was arrested, and how free from care he had
been. He saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner, and
the people standing around; the chains, the convicts, all the twenty-six years
of his prison life, and his premature old age. The thought of it all made him
so wretched that he was ready to kill himself.
“And it’s all that
villain’s doing!” thought Aksionov. And his anger was so great against Makar
Semyonich that he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for
it. He kept repeating prayers all night, but could get no peace. During the day
he did not go near Makar Semyonich, nor even look at him.
A fortnight passed in
this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night, and was so miserable that he did
not know what to do.
One night as he was
walking about the prison he noticed some earth that came rolling out from under
one of the shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was.
Suddenky Malar Semyonich crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at
Aksionov with frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him,
but Makar seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole under the wall,
getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high-boots, and emptying it out
every day on the road when the prisoners were driven to their work.
“Just you keep quiet,
old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab, they’ll flog the life out of
me, but I will kill you first.”
Aksionov trembled with
anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his hand away, saying, “I have no wish
to escape, and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! As to
telling of you—I may do so or not, as God shall direct.”
Next day, when the
convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of
the prisoners emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was searched and
the tunnel found. The Governor came and questioned all the prisoners to find
out who had dug the hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who knew
would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he would be flogged almost to death.
At last the Governor turned to Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and
said:
“You are a truthful
old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole?”
Makar Semyonich stood
as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the Governor and not so much as
glancing at Aksionov. Aksionov’s lips and hands trembled, and for a long time
he could not utter a word. He thought, “Why should I screen him who ruined my
life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will probably
flog the life out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what
good would it be to me?”
“Well, old man,”
repeated the Governor, “tell me the truth: who has been digging under the
wall?”
Aksionov glanced at
Makar Semyonich, and said, “I cannot say, your honor. It is not God’s will that
I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am in your hands.”
However much the
Governor tried, Aksionov would say no more, and so the matter had to be left.
That night, when
Aksionov was lying on his bed and just beginning to doze, some one came quietly
and sat down on his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognized Makar.
“What more do you want
of me?” asked Aksionov, “Why have you come here?”
Makar Semyonich was
silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, “What do you want? Go away, or I will call
the guard!”
Makar Semyonich bent
close over Aksionov, and whispered, “Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!”
“What for?” asked
Aksionov.
“It was I who killed
the merchant and hid the knife among your things. I meant to kill you too, but
I heard a noise outside, so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of the
window.”
Aksionov was silent,
and did not know what to say. Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf and knelt
upon the ground. “Ivan Dmitrich,” said he, “forgive me! For the love of God,
forgive me! I will confess that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will
be released and can go to your home.”
“It is easy for you to
talk,” said Aksionov, “but I have suffered for you these twenty-six years.
Where could I go to now?… My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I
have nowhere to go…”
Makar Semyonich did
not rise, but beat his head on the floor. “Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!” he
cried. “When they flogged me with the knout it was not so hard to bear as it is
to see you now… yet you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ’s sake,
forgive me, wretch that I am!” And he began to sob.
When Aksionov heard
him sobbing he, too, began to weep.
“God will forgive
you!” said he. “Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you.” And at these words
his heart grew light, and the longing for home left him. He no longer had any
desire to leave the prison, but only hoped for his last hour to come.
In spite of what
Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed his guilt. But when the order for
his release came, Aksionov was already dead.
