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, fairhaired, 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
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 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 unstrappedAksionov’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 togetherand 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 havestarted 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 goodbye 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 andsang 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 toldthe 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 witha 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.
ABOUT THE AURTHOR:
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.
