As a man of letters, Lyoff Nikolaievitch, Count Tolstoi, holds
undisputed place in the first rank; as a philosophical preacher of
reform, his position is much less secure. And it is sadly ironical that
one who was so ready to lay aside those fictional laurels which all men
yielded to him readily, has not been accorded the preëminence among
moralists which he held to be of so much greater worth.
The last twenty years of his abundant life disclosed in this greatest
of all Russians that which was always really present--the single eye,
with its gaze constantly set upon ethical ideals. Even a swift survey
of his life and its so closely interpenetrating work will bear out this
estimate--perhaps surprisingly.
In 1828, on September 9--August 28, old style--Tolstoi was born at
Yasnaia Polyana, in the government of Tula, Russia. For several
centuries his wealthy and noble family was distinguished in military
and state affairs as well as in literature, one of his ancestors, Peter
Tolstoi, having been the intimate of Peter the Great. Lyoff’s father,
Nikolai, and his mother, the Princess Volkhonsky, died while he was yet
a lad, leaving him in charge of an aunt. He inherited a rich estate
which his father had succeeded in thriftily disencumbering from the
debts of extravagance contracted by his own father.
The future author was educated at home, spent some time (1843-44)
at the University of Kazan, did further private work at home, for a
while studied law in St. Petersburg, alternated between his estates
and the social life of the great cities, and eventually entered the
army in 1851. It was during this period that he gathered much of the
material for his early stories, notably “The Cossacks,” a short novel
of unmistakable power and insight; and the rambling autobiographical
stories, “Childhood,” “Boyhood,” and “Youth,” generally combined under
the first title. When the Crimean War broke out, in 1853, Tolstoi was
transferred to the army of the Danube, and distinguished himself for
bravery before Sevastopol--as well as by his three notable sketches
which bear the name of this great siege, “Sevastopol in December,”
“Sevastopol in May,” and “Sevastopol in August.”
Tolstoi’s life as a soldier was that of a rake--in which he differed
not at all from the young noblemen of the period. But this wild career
does not seem to have interfered with his fondness for moralizing,
nor with his conviction that he was the spiritual Moses, divinely
commissioned to lead the Russian people out of the wilderness. His
youthful diary confesses that the three passions to which he yielded,
gambling, sensuality, and vanity, were moral stumbling-blocks; and
with naïve premonition he wrote: “There is something in me which
makes me think that I was not born to be just like everybody else.”
But the most remarkable youthful forecast is found in the words which
Professor Phelps quotes from Tolstoi’s journal of this period: “The man
who has no other goal than his own happiness is a bad man. He whose
goal is the good opinion of others is a weak man. He whose goal is
the happiness of others is a virtuous man. He whose goal is God is a
great man.” In these cumulative epigrams we have a summary of Tolstoi’s
creed. However far afield he wandered in middle years, distressed by
doubts and confused by jangling voices, the sturdy seeking-soul of
him followed this great light with the single eye of an honest man,
and this altruistic doctrine he preached with increasing loftiness,
through excommunication and charges of insanity, down to the very end.
That so extreme a theory should lead him often into blind avenues, and
that the phantoms of many inconsistencies should challenge his way,
was inevitable; yet Tolstoi stands before the world today as a good
man and an earnest one, who never lay upon a couch of down while he
preached abnegation for others.
An insatiable psychological curiosity possessed the Russian master
from youth to the close of his fiction-writing years. In the exercise
of this minute observing power, he is as amazing a realist as was
Balzac, and when he confines his examinations to humans he is quite
as profoundly interesting, but rather tiresome when he records the
numberless details of inanimate nature.
A character so given to scrutiny would naturally be introspective, so
that his novels are markedly autobiographical. And it is always the
struggling, set-upon, brooding character which the novelist chooses
through which to depict his own nature. How different from the romantic
self-exploitation of Byron! In “Childhood,” _Nikolenka_ is Tolstoi
himself, as _Olénine_ is in “The Cossacks.” So too in _Levine_ of “Anna
Karenina,” _Pozdnichev_, of “The Kreutzer Sonata,” and _Nekhlioudov_,
of “Resurrection” (his final creed-summary), we have pictures of the
self-recognized characteristics and beliefs of the author.
Each of these distinguished novels exhibits the same loosely-knit,
diffuse, and digressive literary method, and the same marvellous
perfection of character analysis and description. Each, also, advances
a step toward that morbid idealism which was always seeking a new
expression for a philosophy which was never finally set, but remained a
shifting formulary to the last.
“War and Peace” is a huge study of the times of Napoleon and Alexander,
brilliant and tedious by turns, and requiring leisure for its
reading--in the last analysis, a really great novel. “Anna Karenina”
treats with great frankness and high moral purpose contemporaneous
Russian society. Both these remarkable books abound in striking
comparisons, witty comments, well differentiated character work, and
convincing pictures of their times.
Shortly after finishing these works, Tolstoi emerged from his groping,
pessimistic, skeptical, nihilistic philosophy and “discovered” the
Sermon on the Mount. Thenceforward he was the Preacher. It is true
that, as his devoted wife playfully said, he changed his views every
two years, yet his devotion to his altruistic creed--the creed of his
youth, as we have seen--was so firm that neither the dying adjurations
of his friend Turgenev nor the clamors of the forty-five peoples into
whose separate languages his writings have been translated could induce
him to return to fiction--he felt that the mantle of a new spiritual
leadership was upon his shoulders, and thenceforward the story-teller’s
art, when exercised at all, was to be merely a means to the ulterior
end of teaching.
A great number of didactic essays wearing the transparent gauze of
fiction came from Tolstoi’s pen in this period, as well as many
religious and ethical treatises, besides one astounding, ideal-smashing
discussion, “What is Art?” Radicalism is the native air of reform, and
our author was fond of drastic measures in practice and in theory. The
communism of his middle period found new emphasis in the later long
essay, “What, Then, Must be Done?” Yet his was a directly contrary
individualism of personal philosophy. Contradictory again was his
abandonment of the city and adoption of the peasant life on his own
estates. Indeed, one looks in vain for consistency in the working-out
of his whole career; and yet, while the general course swerved
startlingly time and again, no one could doubt the naïve sincerity
of this sophisticated, simple mind, this nobleman peasant, this
iconoclastic gentle man, this nihilistic Christian, this pessimistic
idealist, this contradictory soul of single purpose, this incarnation
of selfish unselfishness. For there can be no doubt that Tolstoi’s
character was greater than his confused system of ethics, just as
his intellect was greater than his philosophy. Think of the supreme
selfless egoism that could permit a wife with whom he lived as with a
sister for years--probably ever since he propounded his extreme marital
theories in “The Kreutzer Sonata”--to copy as often as ten times the
myriad pages of his works, all laboriously by hand! And yet, because
his followers demanded that he should exemplify his doctrines, and
partly also because this eighty-two-year-old father of ten children
could not live peacefully under stress of the divided beliefs of the
home, he broke the heart of this devoted woman by leaving home secretly
by night, and died thus in retreat shortly after, November 20 (O. S.
Nov. 7), 1910. For four days the Countess Sophia was beneath the roof
where her husband lay ill, yet only at the last did she venture to come
into his room, drop on her knees by his bedside, and kiss the hand that
for conscience’ sake had smitten her! Strange contradiction of human
life when this idealizer of family love, this apostle of gentleness,
this generous soul who could withhold nothing from the needy, make
over his estate to his family years before he died, refuse to receive
royalties from his books, beg the public to forget his masterpieces
of fiction and read only his tractates, labor in the fields and eat
peasant bread--when this great soul could love-starve the aged
helpmeet who had been his strength for three-score years!
* * * * *
In the midst of so many vague and divergent expressions throughout
his whole literary career, and especially in “My Religion” and
“Resurrection,” it is difficult to crystallize what Tolstoi taught. But
this seems to me to be the gist:
We have two natures: the animal nature, which decays and dies, and the
spiritual, which lives forever. Life consists in doing those things
which gratify our desires, and thus bring happiness. But when we
attempt to live and gain happiness by the gratification of our animal
natures we meet only disappointment, for animal desires can never
be really satisfied. Therefore we need to be regenerated, which is
nothing more than the enthronement of our spiritual natures and the
denying or casting-out of our animal natures. The gratification of
our spiritual selves is found in Love, the only good, and the essence
of love consists not in self-pleasing but in seeking our happiness
in the happiness and well-being of others. Thus do we obey the law
of God and become one with Him. In the exercise of our desires for
the well-being of others we will not only deny ourselves all carnal
desires, but never oppose force by force--love will be sufficient to
overcome all enemies. We must not even flee from suffering, danger, or
death, but accept each as good, whereupon it will cease to have power
to harm us. This life of love is opposed to all selfish acquisition of
property. To be truly happy, we must get back to the soil, abandon the
artificialities of city life, labor for our food, and give to others.
Though Tolstoi turned so often, and finally without backsliding, to the
peasant class, he did not so much champion their cause as he gemmed a
crown for the obscure life as such. He could not pity those whose ways
were laborious, because to him no other career than bodily toil could
bring the highest good. The outbursting, fiercely passionate soul of
all his later years was for the pitiable masses who still chose swords
rather than plowshares, who preferred a lawsuit to a loss, who loved
the city more than the country, who saw joy in the factory and none in
the farm.
Those who have only a shivering admiration for the terrors of Russian
fiction in general will find in Tolstoi’s short-stories much that
is sweet and gentle; yet, being the most Russian of all Russian
fiction-writers, he could but cry aloud with the pity of his people.
But greater than his pity was his passion for preaching.
Sermons big and little lurk in every corner of his stories to fix
you with their relentless eyes. Even when the tale is not clearly
didactic, a swift vision of moral relations is sure to come to him who
reads. For an instance, take “My Dream,” the story of a Russian prince
whose daughter runs away with a married man and bears him a child. At
length the sister-in-law of the prince pleads with him to forgive his
daughter. Here is his severe reply:
“I have suffered enough. I have now but one desire, and that
is to put her in such a position that she will be independent
of others, and that she shall have no further need of
communicating with me. Then she can live her own life, and my
family and I need know nothing more about her. That is all I
can do.”
But the woman-heart crystallizes the teaching of the story when she
replies:
“Michael, you say nothing but ‘I.’ She too is ‘I.’”
There is a fine, high spirit, too, in “Where Love is, There God is
Also.”
Martin Andyeeich was an honest Russian cobbler whose wife and children
had died, leaving him with but one child, a small boy, upon whom he had
set his heart. But that child also died, and Martin reproached God. At
length a pilgrim monk directed him to the gospels, and the cobbler
became a devout follower of their teachings.
One day he heard a Voice which bade him look tomorrow into the street,
for Christ would come to him. The Lord did not appear, however, and
for a long while the only one with whom Martin conversed was a chilled
old snow-sweeper, to whom the cobbler gave hot tea to drink, as he
explained to him the gospel; after which the grateful old man left.
Martin continued to look for Christ, but He did not come--though he
did see a poorly clad woman with a little child. These he fed and
warmed, hearing her story and bestowing an old jacket to cover her thin
summer garments. He next acted as mediator between an old woman and a
mischievous boy who had stolen her apples; and to her also he expounded
the new truth which had possessed him--the doctrine of love. Thus all
day long he had looked for the Christ and had not seen him. But now
as he returned to his cellar a Presence declared itself as He who had
said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these My brethren,
ye have done it unto Me.” “And Martin then understood that his dream
had not deceived him, and that the Saviour had really come to him that
day, and he had really received Him.”
One of the stories in Tolstoi’s earlier style is “A Prisoner in the
Caucasus.”
Zhilin was an officer in the Caucasus in wartime. His aged mother
persuaded him to come home once more to see her, and to marry the girl
she had chosen to be his bride. The roads were impassable. The Tartars
killed or carried into the mountains all Russians they captured.
For this reason a military escort passed twice a week from fortress
to fortress. Travelling thus, Zhilin became impatient at delays and
decided to ride on alone. Kostuilin, another mounted officer, decided
to go with him. They had not gone far when they were taken by the
Tartars, bound, and held in a Tartar village for ransom. After many
weeks, they escaped, only to be retaken and brought back to the
village. And now the hut in which they were thrown and their food were
worse than before. Again, after many weeks, Zhilin, with the aid of a
Tartar maid, escaped, and finally reached the fortress. “You see,” he
told his comrades, “I was going home to be married. But no; that is
evidently not to be my fate.” Eventually he and his comrades ransomed
Kostuilin for five thousand rubles.
I relate this perfectly plotless tale to show how on a slender thread
of actual incident Tolstoi could hang a tremendous weight, for this
story, with its naked truth-telling as to conditions, forced the
government to act, by the sheer force of public opinion, and this is a
miracle in Russia.
Another plotless story whose ten thousand words pile up a tremendous
impression of character is “An Old Acquaintance.” The narrative,
told in the first person by Prince Nelshiludof, is of how, during an
expedition in the Caucasus, he met an acquaintance from Moscow. The
splendor of the night in the open and the recreations of the officers
are given in gems of description.
During a game of skittles, Guskof, a cashiered officer who now lives
with the adjutant, comes to the prince, who seems faintly to recollect
having met him before. After some general conversation, the officers
retire for either sleep or gambling, leaving the prince and Guskof
alone. Upon being asked if they had not met before, Guskof reminds the
prince of their having met at the home of Guskof’s sister in Moscow,
and this leads to further reminiscences.
During a long walk that night, Guskof, who constantly by his own story
exhibits his weakness of character, tells how he once was of the
highest society of St. Petersburg, but had been--through a liaison
and a resulting duel--put under arrest and later cashiered. But this
weakness is further shown when he goes on to lament his treatment at
the hands of other officers with whom he comes in contact. He expresses
a feeling of great disgust at their mode of spending their leisure
hours. He admits that he is a moral coward--which is proven later. At
length, after further conversation, which inspires a mixed feeling of
disgust and pity in the prince, Guskof borrows from him some money.
Suddenly, the bursting of a shell causes Guskof to cringe in abject
terror, and in the confusion he disappears, but later is seen by the
prince in a tent offering in a maudlin voice the money which he had
borrowed, and boasting of how “his friend the prince” was rich, and how
he had just gotten ten rubles from him.
Perhaps the pity of life, and the tragic results of its sins, are
nowhere more piercingly set forth than in Tolstoi’s short-story “Korney
Vasiliev”--structurally, his most perfect little fiction, for generally
situation rather than plot makes the stronger appeal to our author.
Korney, a well-to-do merchant, after a temporary absence, is returning
to his home. While en route, Kuzma, his driver, tells him that Martha,
Korney’s wife, has taken a new workman in the house--Yevstiquey, her
former lover, and that she is again living with him. The affair, says
Kuzma, is the talk of the village.
Korney does not know whether to believe the unreliable Kuzma, but on
arriving home sets out to find out for himself. He distributes the
presents he had brought back with him--one for his little daughter
Agatha, one for his son Theodore, one for his wife, and so on. At
bedtime, no longer able to restrain himself, he blurts out his
suspicions to his wife, who first ridicules them, but finally, under
her husband’s blows, admits their truth, and spitefully suggests that
little Agatha is not a child of Korney’s, but of Yevstiquey’s. The
child, coming into the room, is brutally used by him--her arm being
broken. At the end of this violent scene, Korney leaves his home.
After seventeen years, now a broken old man, Korney is returning home,
begging his way. After he left his wife he had taken to drink, spent
all his money, and, being unreliable, no one would keep him long at
work. The idea takes hold of him that it is his wife who has been the
cause of all his misery, and his one thought is, before she dies, to
go to her and show her what she has made of him. He is very weak, but
manages to make his way to a village, where a kindly young peasant
woman, seeing his plight, takes him in for the night and gives him
food, drink, and shelter. Noticing that she has a lame arm, he mentions
it, and the fact is revealed that she is Agatha, in whose eyes he
recognizes Yevstiquey. He breaks down, but does not reveal himself,
though in his heart he is sorry for what he did to the girl.
In the morning he trudges on toward his wife’s village. He knocks
on the door, and a woman comes out. He recognizes his wife, but how
old and haggard she has grown--she who had been so beautiful and so
strong! And all the resentment vanishes from his heart, and in its
place springs up a terrible pity. Everything else about the place
seems also to have undergone change. Even after he says appealingly,
“Martha, let us die together!” she still pretends not to recognize him,
takes him for a tramp, and tells him to go from the door. However, his
son Theodore--an image of his father when he was young--takes pity
on the old man, not knowing who he is, and, angry at his mother for
her unkindness, brings to the old man some black bread. The father is
touched, and, even weaker than he was, drags himself back to Agatha’s
village and begs for shelter, which is given him.
In the meantime, Martha’s conscience gives her no peace, and, learning
what direction old Korney has taken, she follows. Arrived at her
daughter’s house, she finds a crowd there mourning the old man, who has
died, and from his dignified old face she does not know whether he had
forgiven her or not.
* * * * *
The story that follows in translation is one of the most representative
of all the Russian’s shorter work. It speaks its own praises.
A LONG EXILE
(Early title, “God Sees the Truth, but Bides His Time”)
_By Lyoff Tolstoi_
In the town of Vladimir there lived a young merchant, Aksenof by name.
He owned two shops and a home.
Aksenof was a fair, curly-headed, handsome fellow, always jolly and
singing. In his youth, Aksenof drank much, and when he was intoxicated
his ways were rough. Since his marriage, however, he had stopped
drinking, except upon rare occasions.
One day, in summer, Aksenof prepared to go to Nijni Novgorod, to the
fair. When he was bidding good-by to his wife she said to him:
“Ivan Dmitrievich,[4] don’t go this time. I dreamt a bad dream about
you.”
Aksenof laughed and replied:
“You are always afraid that I might get a bit jolly at the fair!”
His wife said:
“I myself hardly know why I’m afraid, but I dreamt evil. I dreamt that
you came home from town, and took off your hat; and I saw that your
head was gray.”
Aksenof laughed.
“Well, that means good luck. You’ll see. I’ll make some nice bargains,
and bring fine presents home.”
He bid his family farewell, and departed.
In the middle of his journey he met a merchant he knew, and they took
lodgings together for the night. First they drank tea, and then they
went to sleep in separate rooms which were near each other. Aksenof was
not a heavy sleeper. Awaking in the middle of the night, and wishing
to take advantage of its cool for travelling, he roused the driver and
ordered him to harness the carriage. Having paid his host, he took his
departure.
After he had covered some forty versts, he stopped again for food;
and, having rested and had his dinner in the shelter of the hotel, he
ordered tea, got hold of a guitar, and began to play. Suddenly there
arrived a troika, jingling its bells, and from the carriage descended
an official, accompanied by two soldiers. He approached Aksenof and
asked, “Who are you? Where are you from?” Aksenof answered properly,
and invited the official to tea. The latter, however, persisted in his
inquiries: “Where did you sleep the past night?”... “Alone or with the
merchant?”... “Did you see the merchant in the morning?”... “Why did
you depart so early from the hotel?” Aksenof told all as it happened,
and added, “Why do you ask all these questions? I’m not a thief or
a highwayman. I’m travelling on my business, and I do not see why I
should be asked questions.”
It was then that the official called to the soldiers, and said:
“I am a police official, and I am asking these questions because the
merchant with whom you lodged the past night has been found murdered.
Show us your things.... Search him!”
They entered the room, seized his travelling bag and sack, and started
to unbind and search. Suddenly the official brought forth a knife from
the sack, and roared out:
“Whose knife is this?”
Aksenof looked, and saw that a knife smeared with blood had been taken
out of his sack, and he was frightened.
“And why is there blood on this knife?”
Aksenof wished to reply, but he couldn’t utter a word.
“I--I don’t know. I--the knife is--I--not mine----”
Then the official said:
“This morning the merchant was found stabbed in his bed. It wasn’t
possible for any one else to do it. The house was locked from the
inside, and there was no one else in the house but you. Besides, the
knife covered with blood has been found in your sack; and your face too
shows it. Tell me, how did you kill him, and how much money did you
get?”
Aksenof swore that he was not the guilty man, that he did not see the
merchant after he had had tea with him, that the eight thousand rubles
in his possession were his own money, and that the knife was not his.
But his voice quavered, his face was pale, and he trembled from head to
foot, like one guilty.
The official called the soldiers, ordered him bound and taken into the
carriage. When, with his feet fast, he was thrust into the carriage,
Aksenof crossed himself and began to cry. Aksenof’s things and money
were taken from him, and he was sent to prison in a near-by city.
Inquiries were made in Vladimir to find out what sort of man he was,
and it was generally agreed among the merchants and inhabitants of the
city that while from the time of his youth Aksenof drank and had had a
good time, he was a good-hearted man. Then began his trial. The charge
against him was that he had killed the merchant and had stolen his
twenty thousand rubles.
Aksenof’s wife suffered intensely, and did not know what to think. Her
children were still young, one a suckling. She took them all with her
and arrived in the city where her husband was imprisoned. At first she
was refused admission, but after many petitions she was led to her
husband. When she saw him in prison apparel, in chains, among a lot of
cut-throats, she fell to the ground, and it was a long time before she
came to herself. Then she placed her children around her, sat down at
his side, and began to tell him all about the domestic affairs and to
ask him about all that had happened to him. After he had told her all,
she said:
“Well, what’s to be done now?”
He replied:
“It is necessary to send a petition to the Czar. It is wrong to let an
innocent person suffer.”
To this, his wife said that a petition to the Czar had already been
sent, but that it had not reached him. Thereupon Aksenof grew silent,
and seemed much downcast. Then she reminded him:
“There was something, after all, in that dream--do you remember?--in
which I saw you gray-headed. There, from sorrow you’ve really grown
gray. You shouldn’t have gone on the journey.”
And as she ran her fingers through his hair, she said:
“Vania, my dear one, tell your wife the truth: didn’t you really do it?”
Aksenof replied, “And you too believe it!” He covered his face with his
hands and wept. Later a soldier entered, and said that it was time for
the visitors to depart. And Aksenof for the last time bid farewell to
his family.
After his wife had gone, Aksenof began to recall his conversation with
her. When he remembered that his wife too suspected him and asked him
whether he had killed the merchant, he said to himself, “Now I see
that, except God, no one can know the truth, and that it is only to Him
we must appeal, and then await His mercy.” From that time on, Aksenof
ceased to send petitions, ceased to hope, and only prayed to God.
Aksenof was sentenced to the knout and hard labor.
The sentence was carried out. He was lashed with the knout, and when
the wounds healed he was driven with other convicts to Siberia.
In Siberia the convict lived twenty-six years, doing hard labor. The
hair on his head grew white like snow, while his beard grew long,
sparse, and gray. All his joy was gone. He was bent, walked slowly,
said little, never laughed, and prayed to God often.
In prison Aksenof learned to make boots, and with the money earned
thereby he purchased the Books of the Martyrs and read them when there
was sufficient light in his cell; but on holidays he attended the
prison chapel, read the Apostles, and sang in the choir--his voice
still remained good. The authorities liked Aksenof for his quiet
behavior, while his prison comrades held him in esteem and called him
“grandfather” and “holy man.” When the prisoners had any petitions to
make to the authorities they always sent Aksenof as their spokesman;
and when they had any quarrels among themselves, they always came
before Aksenof for judgment.
From home Aksenof received no letters, and he did not know whether or
not his wife and children were alive.
Once a new batch of convicts arrived at the prison. In the evening all
the old convicts gathered around the new arrivals and put all sorts of
questions to them, as to what town or village they had come from, and
for what crime they had been sentenced. Aksenof also sat down on a
bench near the new convicts, and, hanging his head, listened to what
was being said. Among the new convicts was a tall, robust old man of
sixty, with gray, trimmed beard. He was telling why he was sent away.
He said:
“Well, brothers, it wasn’t for anything that I’ve got here. I
unharnessed a horse from a shed. Got caught; stole the horse, they
said. ‘I only wished to get there quicker,’ said I, ‘and I let the
horse loose. And the driver was a friend of mine, besides. There’s
nothing wrong in that,’ said I. ‘No,’ they said; ‘you stole the horse.’
But they couldn’t really say what and where I stole. Well, I’ve done
things in my time for which I should have got here long ago if they had
only caught me at it; but this once I’ve been driven here not according
to law. To be honest, I’ve been in Siberia, but didn’t remain long.”
“Where do you come from?” asked one of the convicts.
“I’m from the town Vladimir, native of the place. I’m called Makar--and
my paternal name Semenovich.”
Aksenof raised his head and asked:
“And have you heard, Semenich, in Vladimir town, of the Aksenofs,
merchants? Are they alive?”
“To be sure, I’ve heard! They are rich merchants, though their father
is in Siberia--a sinner like the rest of us. And you, old man, why are
you here?”
Aksenof did not like to talk about his sorrow; so he sighed and said:
“For my sins I’ve been here twenty-six years at hard labor.”
Makar Semenof, however, persisted:
“But what sort of sins?”
Aksenof replied, “I must have deserved what I got.” Further than that
he would not say, but the other prisoners told the new-comer why
Aksenof was sent to Siberia. They related how some one had murdered a
merchant while on a journey and had foisted the knife upon Aksenof, who
had been sentenced, though innocent.
When Makar Semenof heard this he looked at Aksenof, clapped his hands
upon his knees, and exclaimed:
“Well, that’s strange! Certainly is strange! You’ve grown old,
grandfather!”
The rest began to ask him why he was astonished, and where he had seen
Aksenof, but Makar Semenof made no reply. He only said:
“A miracle, brothers! That we should meet here!”
And these words suggested to Aksenof the thought that this man knew
perhaps who had killed the merchant. He asked:
“Tell me, Semenich, have you heard about my case before? And have you
ever seen me before?”
“Why shouldn’t I have heard! News flies quickly. But it was such a long
time ago that what I had heard I had forgotten,” said Makar Semenof.
“Perhaps you’ve heard who killed the merchant?” asked Aksenof.
Makar Semenof broke into a laugh and said:
“To be sure, he killed him in whose sack was found the knife. And if
some one else did slip the knife in the sack! Not caught, not a thief!
Besides, how could any one have slipped the knife into the sack, since
it was at your very head? You surely would have heard.”
When Aksenof heard these words, the thought came to him that this very
man had killed the merchant. He arose and went away. Aksenof could not
sleep the entire night. A melancholy came upon him, and images began
to rise up before him. First, he imagined he saw his wife the same as
she looked when she saw him off to the fair for the last time. He saw
her as in life; he saw her face and eyes, and heard how she spoke and
laughed. Then he saw his children as they were then, little ones,
one in a fur coat, another at the breast. And he recalled himself as
he had been once--joyous, young; he recalled too how he looked as he
sat in the hotel when they arrested him; how he played on the guitar,
and how happy he had felt at that moment. And he recalled the place
of execution, where he was knouted, and the man with the knout, and
the throng all around, and the chains, and the convicts, and all the
twenty-six years of his prison life; and his old age too he recalled.
And such a melancholy came upon Aksenof, that death itself would have
been welcome.
“And all on account of that scoundrel!” thought Aksenof.
Then came into his heart such a vindictiveness against Makar Semenof
that he felt willing to die himself if only to revenge himself upon
him. He read prayers the entire night, but could not calm himself. Next
day he did not go near Makar Semenof and did not look at him.
So passed two weeks. Aksenof could not sleep nights, and such a
melancholy would come upon him that he did not know what to do with
himself.
Once at night, walking through the prison, he observed a stirring of
soil under one of the sleeping-bunks. He stopped to look. Suddenly
Makar Semenof leaped from under the bunk, and his frightened eyes
looked at Aksenof. Aksenof wished to go on, so as not to notice him;
but Makar caught him by the hand, and told him how he had dug a passage
under the walls, and how every day he disposed of dirt by carrying it
out with him in his boots and emptying it in the street, when sent out
to work. He continued:
“Only be silent, old man, and I’ll show you the way out. But if you
tell, I’ll get a knouting, which will be the worse for you--I’ll kill
you.”
When Aksenof looked at his enemy, he trembled from wrath, released his
hand from Makar’s, and said:
“I have no reason for escaping, and you can’t kill me, for you’ve
killed me long ago. As to telling on you, I may do it or not--as God
wills it, so I shall do.”
The next day, when the convicts were sent out to work, the soldiers
noticed that Makar Semenof was emptying dirt out of his boots. They
searched the prison and discovered a hole. Presently the superintendent
arrived and questioned every one who had dug the hole. All denied
it. Those who knew would not give Makar Semenof away, because they
knew that for this affair he would be knouted half to death. Then the
superintendent turned to Aksenof. He knew that the exile was a just
man, and so he said to him:
“Old man, I know you to be truthful; tell me, before God, who did this?”
Makar Semenof stood there as if nothing were happening, looked at the
superintendent, and did not even glance at Aksenof. Aksenof, however,
stood with his hands and lips all a-tremble, and for a long time he
could not utter a word. He thought, “Suppose I should hide him--but
why should I forgive him, when he has ruined me? Why shouldn’t I be
revenged for my misery? Then, again, to tell on him would mean a
knouting. But what put the thought into my head? Would it make my
burden lighter to bear?”
The superintendent repeated his question:
“Now, come, old man, tell the truth: who did the digging?”
Aksenof glanced at Makar Semenof and said:
“I can’t tell, Your Honor. God forbids me to tell. And I won’t tell, do
with me whatsoever you will--I’m at your mercy.”
The superintendent struggled with him, but Aksenof would say nothing
more.
So they never knew who had dug the hole.
The next night, when Aksenof lay down in his bunk and had hardly closed
his eyes, he became conscious that some one came near him and sat down
at his feet. He looked into the dark and recognized Makar. Aksenof
spoke first:
“What more do you want from me? What are you up to now?”
Makar Semenof remained silent. Aksenof raised himself and said:
“What is it you want? Begone! Or else I’ll call a soldier.”
Makar Semenof bent over close to Aksenof and said in a whisper:
“Ivan Dmitrievich, forgive me!”
Aksenof said, “Forgive you for what?”
“It was I who killed the merchant, and it was I who slipped the knife
into your sack. I wished to kill you too, but there was a noise
outdoors, and so I slipped the knife in and crawled out through the
window.”
Aksenof was silent, and he did not know what to say. Makar Semenof let
himself down from the bunk, performed a genuflection, and said:
“Ivan Dmitrievich, forgive me, forgive me for God’s sake! I will let
them know that I killed the merchant, and they will let you go free.
Then you can return home.”
Aksenof replied:
“It is easy for you to say that, but it is for me to suffer. Where can
I go now?... My wife is dead; my children have forgotten me; there is
nowhere for me to go....”
Makar Semenof did not rise from the ground; he beat his head against
the earth and continued saying:
“Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me! When they put the lash on me, it was much
easier for me to bear than to look at you now.... And to think that you
had pity on me--and did not tell. Forgive me, for the sake of Christ!
Forgive me, accursed wretch that I am!”
Then he began to weep.
When Aksenof saw that Makar Semenof was weeping, he too wept, and said:
“God will forgive you; perhaps I am a hundredfold worse than you!”
And all at once he felt as if something were lifted from his soul. And
he ceased to yearn for home, and did not wish to leave the prison, but
thought only of the final hour.
Makar Semenof did not listen to Aksenof, and confessed his guilt. But
when Aksenof’s release arrived, he was already dead.