God
Sees the Truth, But Waits
Leo Tolstoy
Here is a story about
faith, forgiveness, freedom and acceptance of a young merchant named Aksionov,
who was sent to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
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 grey.”
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 travelled
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 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
travelling 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 went 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. Enquiries 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 grey. 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 knot, and
when the wounds made by the knot 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 grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke
little, and never laughed, but he often prayed.
In prison Aksionov
learnt 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 grey beard, was telling the
others what be 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 someone
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 rumours. 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.
Suddenly Makar Semyonich crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at
Aksionov with a 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 honour. It is not God’s will
that I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am 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, someone came quietly
and sat down on his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognised 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 knot 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.
Leo Tolstoy was born on September 9, 1828, in Tula
Province, Russia. He is best known for the novels War
and Peace (1869)
and Anna Karenina (1877), often cited as pinnacles of realist fiction.
He first achieved literary acclaim in his twenties with his
semi-autobiographical trilogy, Childhood, Boyhood,
and Youth and Sevastopol Sketches, based upon his experiences in
the Crimean War. Tolstoy’s fiction includes dozens of short stories and several
novellas such as The Death of Ivan Ilyich (1886), Family
Happiness, and Hadji Murad. He also wrote plays and
numerous philosophical essays. Tolstoy died on November 20, 1910 in Astapovo,
Russia.
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