by Leo Tolstoy
Two hours later Dútlov’s two carts were driving through the outskirts of the town. In the first, to which was harnessed the roan mare, her sides fallen in and her neck moist with sweat, sat the old man and Ignát. Behind them jerked strings of ring-shaped fancy-bread. In the second cart, in which nobody held the reins, the young wife and her mother-in-law, with shawls over their heads, were sitting, sedate and happy. The former held a bottle of vodka under her apron. Elijah, very red in the face, sat all in a heap with his back to the horse, jolting against the front of the cart, biting into a roll and talking incessantly. The voices, the rumbling of the cart-wheels on the stony road, and the snorting of the horses, blent into one note of merriment. The horses, swishing their tails, increased their speed more and more, feeling themselves on the homeward road. The passers-by, whether driving or on foot, involuntarily turned round to look at the happy family party.
Just as they left the town the Dútlovs overtook a party of recruits. A group of them were standing in a ring outside a tavern. One of the recruits, with that unnatural expression on his face which comes of having the front of the head shaved,9 his grey cap pushed back, was vigorously strumming a balaláyka; another, bareheaded and with a bottle of vodka in his hand, was dancing in the middle of the ring. Ignát stopped his horse and got down to tighten the traces. All the Dútlovs looked with curiosity, approval, and amusement at the dancer. The recruit seemed not to see anyone, but felt that the public admiring him had grown larger, and this added to his strength and agility. He danced briskly. His brows were knitted, his flushed face was set, and his lips were fixed in a grin that had long since lost all meaning. It seemed as if all the strength of his soul was concentrated on placing one foot as quickly as possible after the other, now on the heel and now on the toe. Sometimes he stopped suddenly and winked to the balaláyka-player, who began playing still more briskly, strumming on all the strings and even striking the case with his knuckles. The recruit would stop, but even when he stood still he still seemed to be dancing all over. Then he began slowly jerking his shoulders, and suddenly twirling round, leaped in the air with a wild cry, and descending, crouched down, throwing out first one leg and then the other. The little boys laughed, the women shook their heads, the men smiled approvingly. An old sergeant stood quietly by, with a look that seemed to say: ‘You think it wonderful, but we have long been familiar with it.’ The balaláyka-player seemed tired; he looked lazily round, struck a false chord, and suddenly knocked on the case with his knuckles, and the dance came to an end.
‘Eh, Alëkha,’ he said to the dancer, pointing at Dútlov, ‘there’s your sponsor!’
‘Where? You, my dearest friend!’ shouted Alëkha, the very recruit whom Dútlov had bought; and staggering forward on his weary legs and holding the bottle of vodka above his head he moved towards the cart. ‘Míshka, a glass!’ he cried to the player. ‘Master! My dearest friend! What a pleasure, really!’ he shouted, drooping his tipsy head over the cart, and he began to treat the men and women to vodka. The men drank, but the women refused. ‘My dear friends, what can I offer you?’ exclaimed Alëkha, embracing the old women.
A woman selling eatables was standing among the crowd. Alëkha noticed her, seized her tray, and poured its contents into the cart.
‘I’ll pay, no fear, you devil!’ he howled tearfully, pulling a purse from his pocket and throwing it to Míshka.
He stood leaning with his elbows on the cart and looking with moist eyes at those who sat in it.
‘Which is the mother … you?’ he asked. ‘I must treat you too.’
He stood thinking for a moment, then he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a new folded handkerchief, hurriedly took off a sash which was tied round his waist under his coat, and also a red scarf he was wearing round his neck, and, crumpling them all together, thrust them into the old woman’s lap.
‘There! I’m sacrificing them for you,’ he said in a voice that was growing more and more subdued.
‘What for? Thank you, sonny! Just see what a simple lad it is!’ said the old woman, addressing Dútlov, who had come up to their cart.
Alëkha was now quite quiet, quite stupefied, and looked as if he were falling asleep. He drooped his head lower and lower.
‘It’s for you I am going, for you I am perishing!’ he muttered; ‘that’s why I am giving you gifts.’
‘I dare say he, too, has a mother,’ said someone in the crowd. ‘What a simple fellow! What a pity!’
Alëkha lifted his head.
‘I have a mother,’ said he; ‘I have a father too. All have given me up. Listen to me, old woman,’ he went on, taking Elijah’s mother by the hand. ‘I have given you presents. Listen to me for Christ’s sake! Go to Vódnoe village, ask for the old woman Nikónovna – she’s my own mother, see? Say to this same old woman, Nikónovna, the third hut from the end, by the new well. Tell her that Alëkha – her son, you see.… Eh! musician! strike up!’ he shouted.
And muttering something he immediately began dancing again, and hurled the bottle with the remaining vodka to the ground.
Ignát got into the cart and was about to start.
‘Good-bye! May God bless you!’ said the old woman, wrapping her cloak closer round her.
Alëkha suddenly stopped.
‘Go to the devil!’ he shouted, clenching his fists threateningly. ‘May your mother be …’
‘O Lord!’ exclaimed Elijah’s mother, crossing herself.
Ignát touched the reins, and the carts rattled on again. Alëkha, the recruit, stood in the middle of the road with clenched fists and with a look of fury on his face, and abused the peasants with all his might.
‘What are you stopping for? Go on, devils! cannibals!’ he cried. ‘You won’t escape me! … Devil’s clodhoppers!’
At these words his voice broke, and he fell full length to the ground just where he stood.
Soon the Dútlovs reached the open fields, and looking back could no longer see the crowd of recruits. Having gone some four miles at a walking pace Ignát got down from his father’s cart, in which the old man lay asleep, and walked beside Elijah’s cart.
Between them they emptied the bottle they had brought from town. After a while Elijah began a song, the women joined in, and Ignát shouted merrily in time with the song. A post-chaise drove merrily towards them. The driver called lustily to his horses as he passed the two festive carts, and the post-boy turned round and winked at the men and women who with flushed faces sat jolting inside singing their jovial song.
1 The Intercession of the Virgin, the ist of October old style.
2 The Village Commune.
3 ‘Dare to err and dream.’
4 Made by scalding wood-ash taken from the stove, and used for washing clothes.
5 It sometimes happened that to escape service men mutilated themselves, for instance by cutting off the finger needed to pull the trigger.
6 Equal to 462 ‘silver rubles’, at 3 1/2 assignations for one silver ruble.
7 The abacus, with wires and beads to count on, was much used in Russia.
8 Julia Pastrana was exhibited as being half-woman half-monkey, and created a considerable sensation.
9 On being conscripted a man’s head was partially shaved to make desertion more difficult.
Three Tales for Children
(1) GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS
IN the town of Vladímir lived a young merchant named Iván Dmítritch Aksyónof. He had two shops and a house of his own.
Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof was going to the Nízhny Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his family his wife said to him, ‘Iván Dmítritch, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you.’
Aksyónof laughed, and said, ‘You are afraid that when I get to
the fair I shall go on the 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.’
Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof’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. Aksyónof rested a while 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 tróyka drove up with tinkling bells, and an official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to Aksyónof and began to question him, asking him who he was and whence he came. Aksyónof 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?’
Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof’s luggage and searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, ‘Whose knife is this?’
Aksyónof looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he was frightened.
‘How is it there is blood on this knife?’
Aksyónof tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered: ‘I – 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?’
Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof and to put him in the cart. As they tied his feet together and flung him into the cart, Aksyónof 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 Vladímir. 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 Ryazán, 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 gaol. 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 Tsar not to let an innocent man perish.’
His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Tsar, but that it had not been accepted.
Aksyónof 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: ‘Ványa dearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not you who did it?’
‘So you, too, suspect me!’ said Aksyónof, 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 Aksyónof said good-bye to his family for the last time.
When they were gone, Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.
Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof 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 Aksyónof sat down near the new-comers, 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 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 someone.
‘From Vladímir. My family are of that town. My name is Makár, and they also call me Semyónitch.’
Aksyónof raised his head and said: ‘Tell me, Semyónitch, do you know anything of the merchants Aksyónof, of Vladímir? Are they still alive?’
‘Know them? Of course I do. The Aksyónofs are rich, though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran’dad, how did you co
me here?’
Aksyónof 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 Makár Semyónitch.
But Aksyónof only said, ‘Well, well – I must have deserved it!’ He would have said no more, but his companions told the new-comer how Aksyónof came to be in Siberia: how someone had killed a merchant, and had put a knife among Aksyónofs things, and Aksyónof had been unjustly condemned.
When Makár Semyónitch heard this, he looked at Aksyónof, 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 Aksyónof before; but Makár Semyónitch did not reply. He only said: ‘It’s wonderful that we should meet here, lads!’
These words made Aksyónof wonder whether this man knew who had killed the merchant; so he said, ‘Perhaps, Semyónitch, 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 long ago, and I’ve forgotten what I heard.’
‘Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?’ asked Aksyónof.
Makár Semyónitch laughed, and replied, ‘It must have been him in whose bag the knife was found! If someone else hid the knife there, “He’s not a thief till he’s caught,” as the saying is. How could anyone put a knife into your bag while it was under your head? It would surely have woke you up?’
When Aksyónof heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had killed the merchant. He rose and went away. All that night Aksyónof 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.