[Illustration]
_Count Tolstoi, the son of a Russian nobleman, was born in 1828, so he
is to-day an old man. The greatest book that has come out of Russia
is the tragic but intensely lifelike “Anna Karenina,” published when
Tolstoi was forty-seven years old. Much of his early work is extremely
interesting and valuable, for artistic reasons, but his late years
have been devoted almost entirely to moralising and speculating. A
consensus of opinion among students of Russian literature shows that
they consider “The Long Exile” to be the author’s best short story._
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THE LONG EXILE
BY COUNT LEO TOLSTOI
Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole. Copyright, 1888,
by Thomas V. Crowell & Co.
“God sees the truth, but bides his time.”
Once upon a time there lived in the city of Vladímir a young merchant
named Aksénof. He had two shops and a house.
Aksénof himself had a ruddy complexion and curly hair; he was a very
jolly fellow and a good singer. When he was young he used to drink too
much, and when he was tipsy he was turbulent; but after his marriage he
ceased drinking, and only occasionally had a spree.
One time in summer Aksénof was going to Nízhni[1] to the great Fair. As
he was about to bid his family good-by, his wife said to him:
“Iván Dmítrievitch, do not go to-day; I had a dream, and dreamed that
some misfortune befell you.”
Aksénof laughed at her, and said: “You are always afraid that I shall
go on a spree at the Fair.”
His wife said: “I myself know not what I am afraid of, but I had such a
strange dream: you seemed to be coming home from town, and you took off
your hat, and I looked, and your head was all gray.”
Aksénof laughed. “That means good luck. See, I am going now. I will
bring you some rich remembrances.”
And he bade his family farewell and set off.
When he had gone half his journey, he fell in with a merchant of his
acquaintance, and the two stopped together at the same tavern for the
night. They took tea together, and went to sleep in two adjoining rooms.
Aksénof did not care to sleep long; he awoke in the middle of the
night, and in order that he might get a good start while it was cool he
aroused his driver and bade him harness up, went down into the smoky
hut, settled his account with the landlord, and started on his way.
After he had driven forty versts,[2] he again stopped to get something
to eat; he rested in the vestibule of the inn, and when it was noon, he
went to the doorstep and ordered the samovár[3] got ready; then he took
out his guitar and began to play.
Suddenly a troïka[4] with a bell dashed up to the inn, and from the
equipage leaped an official with two soldiers; he comes directly up to
Aksénof and asks: “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
Aksénof answers without hesitation, and asks him if he would not have a
glass of tea with him.
But the official keeps on with his questions: “Where did you spend
last night? Were you alone or with a merchant? Have you seen the
merchant this morning? Why did you leave so early this morning?”
Aksénof wondered why he was questioned so closely; but he told
everything just as it was, and he asks: “Why do you ask me so many
questions? I am not a thief or a murderer. I am on my own business;
there is nothing to question me about.”
Then the official called up the soldiers, and said: “I am the police
inspector, and I have made these inquiries of you because the merchant
with whom you spent last night has been stabbed. Show me your things,
and you men search him.”
They went into the tavern, brought in the trunk and bag, and began to
open and search them. Suddenly the police inspector pulled out from the
bag a knife, and demanded: “Whose knife is this?”
Aksénof looked and saw a knife covered with blood taken from his bag,
and he was frightened.
“And whose blood is that on the knife?”
Aksénof tried to answer, but he could not articulate his words:
“I--I--don’t--know.--I.--That knife--it is--not mine--”
Then the police inspector said: “This morning the merchant was found
stabbed to death in his bed. No one except you could have done it. The
tavern was locked on the inside, and there was no one in the tavern
except yourself. And here is the bloody knife in your bag, and your
guilt is evident in your face. Tell me how you killed him and how much
money you took from him.” Aksénof swore that he had not done it, that
he had not seen the merchant after he had drunken tea with him, that
the only money that he had with him--eight thousand rubles--was his
own, and that the knife was not his.
But his voice trembled, his face was pale, and he was all quivering
with fright, like a guilty person.
The police inspector called the soldiers, commanded them to bind
Aksénof and take him to the wagon.
When they took him to the wagon with his feet tied, Aksénof crossed
himself and burst into tears.
They confiscated Aksénof’s possessions and his money, and took him to
the next city and threw him into prison.
They sent to Vladímir to make inquiries about Aksénof’s character, and
all the merchants and citizens of Vladímir declared that Aksénof, when
he was young, used to drink and was wild, but that now he was a worthy
man. Then he was brought up for judgment. He was sentenced for having
killed the merchant and for having robbed him of twenty thousand rubles.
Aksénof’s wife was dumfounded by the event, and did not know what to
think. Her children were still small, and there was one at the breast.
She took them all with her and journeyed to the city where her husband
was imprisoned.
At first they would not grant her admittance, but afterward she got
permission from the chief, and was taken to her husband.
When she saw him in his prison garb, in chains together with murderers,
she fell to the floor, and it was a long time before she recovered
from her swoon. Then she placed her children around her, sat down amid
them, and began to tell him about their domestic affairs, and to ask
him about everything that had happened to him.
He told her the whole story.
She asked: “What is to be the result of it?”
He said: “We must petition the Czar. It is impossible that an innocent
man should be condemned.”
The wife said that she had already sent in a petition to the Czar, but
that the petition had not been granted. Aksénof said nothing, but was
evidently very much downcast.
Then his wife said: “You see the dream that I had, when I dreamed that
you had become gray-headed, meant something, after all. Already your
hair has begun to turn gray with trouble. You ought to have stayed at
home that time.”
And she began to tear her hair, and she said: “Vanya,[5] my dearest
husband, tell your wife the truth: Did you commit that crime or not?”
Aksénof said: “So you, too, have no faith in me!” And he wrung his
hands and wept.
Then a soldier came and said that it was time for the wife and children
to go. And Aksénof for the last time bade farewell to his family.
When his wife was gone, Aksénof began to think over all that they had
said. When he remembered that his wife had also distrusted him, and had
asked him if he had murdered the merchant, he said to himself: “It is
evident that no one but God can know the truth of the matter, and He
is the only one to ask for mercy, and He is the only one from whom to
expect it.”
And from that time Aksénof ceased to send in petitions, ceased to hope,
and only prayed to God. Aksénof was sentenced to be knouted, and then
to exile with hard labor.
And so it was done.
He was flogged with the knout, and then, when the wounds from the knout
were healed, he was sent with other exiles to Siberia.
Aksénof lived twenty-six years in the mines. The hair on his head had
become white as snow, and his beard had grown long, thin, and gray. All
his gaiety had vanished.
He was bent, his gait was slow, he spoke little, he never laughed, and
he spent much of his time in prayer.
Aksénof had learned while in prison to make boots, and with the money
that he earned he bought the “Book of Martyrs,”[6] and used to read it
when it was light enough in prison, and on holidays he would go to the
prison church, read the Gospels, and sing in the choir, for his voice
was still strong and good.
The authorities liked Aksénof for his submissiveness, and his prison
associates respected him and called him “Grandfather” and the “man of
God.” Whenever they had petitions to be presented, Aksénof was always
chosen to carry them to the authorities; and when quarrels arose among
the prisoners, they always came to Aksénof as umpire.
Aksénof never received any letters from home, and he knew not whether
his wife and children were alive.
One time some new convicts came to the prison. In the evening all the
old convicts gathered around the newcomers, and began to ply them with
questions as to the cities or villages from which this one or that had
come, and what their crimes were.
At this time Aksénof was sitting on his bunk, near the strangers, and,
with bowed head, was listening to what was said.
One of the new convicts was a tall, healthy looking old man of sixty
years, with a close-cropped gray beard. He was telling why he had been
arrested. He said:
“And so, brothers, I was sent here for nothing. I unharnessed a horse
from a postboy’s sledge, and they caught me in it, and insisted that I
was stealing it. ‘But,’ says I, ‘I only wanted to go a little faster,
so I whipped up the horse. And besides, the driver was a friend of
mine. It’s all right,’ says I. ‘No,’ say they; ‘you were stealing it.’
But they did not know what and where I had stolen. I have done things
which long ago would have sent me here, but I was not found out; and
now they have sent me here without any justice in it. But what’s the
use of grumbling? I have been in Siberia before. They did not keep me
here very long though--”
“Where did you come from?” asked one of the convicts.
“Well, we came from the city of Vladímir; we are citizens of that
place. My name is Makár, and my father’s name was Semyón.”
Aksénof raised his head and asked:
“Tell me, Semyónitch,[7] have you ever heard of the Aksénofs, merchants
in Vladímir city? Are they alive?”
“Indeed, I have heard of them! They are rich merchants, though their
father is in Siberia. It seems he was just like any of the rest of us
sinners. And now tell me, Grandfather, what you were sent here for?”
Aksénof did not like to speak of his misfortune; he sighed, and said:
“Twenty-six years ago I was condemned to hard labor on account of my
sins.”
Makár Semyónof said:
“But what was your crime?”
Aksénof replied: “I must, therefore, have deserved this.”
But he would not tell or give any further particulars; the other
convicts, however, related why Aksénof had been sent to Siberia. They
told how on the road some one had killed a merchant, and put the knife
into Aksénof’s luggage, and how he had been unjustly punished for this.
When Makár heard this, he glanced at Aksénof, clasped his hands round
his knees, and said:
“Well, now, that’s wonderful! You have been growing old, Grandfather!”
They began to ask him what he thought was wonderful, and where he had
seen Aksénof. But Makár did not answer; he only repeated:
“A miracle, boys! how wonderful that we should meet again!”
And when he said these words, it came over Aksénof that perhaps this
man might know who it was that had killed the merchant. And he said:
“Did you ever hear of that crime, Semyónitch, or did you ever see me
before?”
“Of course I heard of it! The country was full of it. But it happened a
long time ago. And I have forgotten what I heard,” said Makár.
“Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?” asked Aksénof.
Makár laughed, and said:
“Why, of course the man who had the knife in his bag killed him. If any
one put the knife in your things and was not caught doing it--it would
have been impossible. For how could they have put the knife in your
bag? Was it not standing close by your head? And you would have heard
it, wouldn’t you?”
As soon as Aksénof heard these words he felt convinced that this was
the very man who had killed the merchant.
He stood up and walked away. All that night he was unable to sleep.
Deep melancholy came upon him, and he began to call back the past in
his imagination.
He imagined his wife as she had been when for the last time she had
come to see him in the prison. She seemed to stand before him exactly
as though she were alive, and he saw her face and her eyes, and he
seemed to hear her words and her laugh.
Then his imagination brought up his children before him; one a little
boy in a little fur coat, and the other on his mother’s breast.
And he imagined himself as he was at that time, young and happy. He
remembered how he had sat on the steps of the tavern when they arrested
him, and how his soul was full of joy as he played on his guitar.
And he remembered the place of execution where they had knouted him,
and the knoutsman, and the people standing around, and the chains and
the convicts, and all his twenty-six years of prison life, and he
remembered his old age. And such melancholy came upon Aksénof that he
was tempted to put an end to himself.
“And all on account of this criminal!” said Aksénof to himself.
And then he began to feel such anger against Makár Semyónof that he
almost fell upon him, and was crazy with desire to pay off the load of
vengeance. He repeated prayers all night, but could not recover his
calm. When day came he walked by Makár and did not look at him.
Thus passed two weeks. Aksénof was not able to sleep, and such
melancholy had come over him that he did not know what to do.
One time during the night, as he happened to be passing through the
prison, he saw that the soil was disturbed under one of the bunks. He
stopped to examine it. Suddenly Makár crept from under the bunk and
looked at Aksénof with a startled face.
Aksénof was about to pass on so as not to see him, but Makár seized his
arm, and told him how he had been digging a passage under the wall, and
how every day he carried the dirt out in his boot-legs and emptied it
in the street when they went out to work. He said:
“If you only keep quiet, old man, I will get you out too. But if you
tell on me, they will flog me; but afterward I will make it hot for
you. I will kill you.”
When Aksénof saw his enemy, he trembled all over with rage, twitched
away his arm, and said: “I have no reason to make my escape, and to
kill me would do no harm; you killed me long ago. But as to telling on
you or not, I shall do as God sees fit to have me.”
On the next day, when they took the convicts out to work, the soldiers
discovered where Makár had been digging in the ground; they began to
make a search, and found the hole. The chief came into the prison and
asked every one, “Who was digging that hole?”
All denied it. Those who knew did not name Makár, because they were
aware that he would be flogged half to death for such an attempt.
Then the chief came to Aksénof. He knew that Aksénof was a truthful
man, and he said: “Old man, you are truthful; tell me before God who
did this.”
Makár was standing near, in great excitement, and did not dare to look
at Aksénof.
Aksénof’s hands and lips trembled, and it was some time before he could
speak a word. He said to himself: “If I shield him--But why should I
forgive him when he has been my ruin? Let him suffer for my sufferings!
But shall I tell on him? They will surely flog him? But what difference
does it make what I think of him? Will it be any the easier for me?”
Once more the chief demanded:
“Well, old man, tell the truth! Who dug the hole?”
Aksénof glanced at Makár, and then said:
“I can not tell, your Honor. God does not bid me tell. I will not tell.
Do with me as you please; I am in your power.”
In spite of all the chief’s efforts, Aksénof would say nothing more.
And so they failed to find out who dug the hole.
On the next night as Aksénof was lying on his bunk, and almost asleep,
he heard some one come along and sit down at his feet.
He peered through the darkness and saw that it was Makár.
Aksénof asked:
“What do you wish of me? What are you doing here?”
Makár remained silent. Aksénof arose, and said:
“What do you want? Go away, or else I will call the guard.”
Makár went up close to Aksénof, and said in a whisper:
“Iván Dmítritch,[8] forgive me!”
Aksénof said: “What have I to forgive you?”
“It was I who killed the merchant and put the knife in your bag. And I
was going to kill you too, but there was a noise in the yard; I thrust
the knife in your bag, and slipped out of the window.”
Aksénof said nothing, and he did not know what to say. Makár got down
from the bunk, knelt on the ground, and said:
“Iván Dmítritch, forgive me, forgive me for Christ’s sake. I will
confess that I killed the merchant--they will pardon you. You will be
able to go home.” Aksénof said:
“It is easy for you to say that, but how could I endure it? Where
should I go now? My wife is dead! My children have forgotten me. I have
nowhere to go.”
Makár did not rise; he beat his head on the ground, and said:
“Iván Dmítritch, forgive me! When they flogged me with the knout, it
was easier to bear than it is now to look at you. And you had pity on
me after all this--you did not tell on me. Forgive me for Christ’s
sake! Forgive me though I am a cursed villain!”
And the man began to sob.
When Aksénof heard Makár Semyónof sobbing, he himself burst into tears,
and said:
“God will forgive you; maybe I am a hundred times worse than you are!”
And suddenly he felt a wonderful peace in his soul. And he ceased to
mourn for his home, and had no desire to leave the prison, but only
thought of his last hour.
Makár would not listen to Aksénof, and confessed his crime.
When they came to let Aksénof go home, he was dead.