Part 9

“‘It is only that--that I would like to do something--some kind of work, Astafi Ivanich.’

“‘But what kind of work, Emelian?’

“‘Oh, any kind. Maybe I will go into some kind of service, as before. I have already been at my former employer’s asking. It will not do for me, Astafi Ivanich, to use you any longer. I, Astafi Ivanich, will perhaps obtain some employment, and then I will pay you for everything, food and all.’

“‘Don’t, Emelian, don’t. Well, let us say you committed a sin; well, it is all over! The devil take it all! Let us live as before--as if nothing had happened!’

“‘You, Astafi Ivanich, you are probably hinting about _that_. But I have not taken your breeches.’

“‘Well, just as you please, Emelian!’

“‘No, Astafi Ivanich, evidently I can not live with you longer. You will excuse me, Astafi Ivanich.’

“‘But God be with you, Emelian,’ I said to him; ‘who is it that is offending you or driving you out of the house? Is it I who am doing it?’

“‘No, but it is unseemly for me to misuse your hospitality any longer, Astafi Ivanich; ‘twill be better to go.’

“I saw that he had in truth risen from his place and donned his ragged cloak--he felt offended, the man did, and had gotten it into his head to leave, and--basta.

“‘But where are you going, Emelian? Listen to sense: what are you? Where will you go?’

“‘No, it is best so, Astafi Ivanich, do not try to keep me back,’ and he once more broke into tears; ‘let me be, Astafi Ivanich, you are no longer what you used to be.’

“‘Why am I not? I am just the same. But you will perish when left alone--like a foolish little child, Emelian.’

“‘No, Astafi Ivanich. Lately, before you leave the house, you have taken to locking your trunk, and I, Astafi Ivanich, see it and weep.--No, it is better you should let me go, Astafi Ivanich, and forgive me if I have offended you in any way during the time we have lived together.’

“Well, sir! And so he did go away. I waited a day and thought: Oh, he will be back toward evening. But a day passes, then another, and he does not return. On the third--he does not return. I grew frightened, and a terrible sadness gripped at my heart. I stopped eating and drinking, and lay whole nights without closing my eyes. The man had wholly disarmed me! On the fourth day I went to look for him; I looked in all the taverns and pot-houses in the vicinity, and asked if any one had seen him. No, Emelian had wholly disappeared! Maybe he has done away with his miserable existence, I thought. Maybe, when in his cups, he has perished like a dog, somewhere under a fence. I came home half dead with fatigue and despair, and decided to go out the next day again to look for him, cursing myself bitterly for letting the foolish, helpless man go away from me. But at dawn of the fifth day (it was a holiday) I heard the door creak. And whom should I see but Emelian! But in what a state! His face was bluish and his hair was full of mud, as if he had slept in the street; and he had grown thin, the poor fellow had, as thin as a rail. He took off his poor cloak, sat down on my trunk, and began to look at me. Well, sir, I was overjoyed, but at the same time felt a greater sadness than ever pulling at my heart-strings. This is how it was, sir: I felt that if a thing like that had happened to me, that is--I would sooner have perished like a dog, but would not have returned. And Emelian did. Well, naturally, it is hard to see a man in such a state. I began to coddle and to comfort him in every way.

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘Emelian, I am very glad you have returned; if you had not come so soon, you would not have found me in, as I intended to go hunting for you. Have you had anything to eat?’

“‘I have eaten, Astafi Ivanich.’

“‘I doubt it. Well, here is some cabbage soup--left over from yesterday; a nice soup with some meat in it--not the meagre kind. And here you have some bread and a little onion. Go ahead and eat; it will do you good.’

“I served it to him; and immediately realized that he must have been starving for the last three days--such an appetite as he showed! So it was hunger that had driven him back to me. Looking at the poor fellow, I was deeply touched, and decided to run into the nearby dramshop. I will get him some vodka, I thought, to liven him up a bit and make peace with him. It is enough. I have nothing against the poor devil any longer. And so I brought the vodka and said to him: ‘Here, Emelian, let us drink to each other’s health in honor of the holiday. Come, take a drink. It will do you good.’

“He stretched out his hand, greedily stretched it out, you know, and stopped; then, after a while, he lifted the glass, carried it to his mouth, spilling the liquor on his sleeve; at last he did carry it to his mouth, but immediately put it back on the table.

“‘Well, why don’t you drink, Emelian?’

“‘But no, I’ll not, Astafi Ivanich.’

“‘You’ll not drink it!’

“‘But I, Astafi Ivanich, I think--I’ll not drink any more, Astafi Ivanich.’

“‘Is it for good you have decided to give it up, Emelian, or only for to-day?’

“He did not reply, and after a while I saw him lean his head on his hand, and I asked him: ‘Are you not feeling well, Emelian?’

“‘Yes, pretty well, Astafi Ivanich.’

“I made him go to bed, and saw that he was truly in a bad way. His head was burning hot and he was shivering with ague. I sat by him the whole day; toward evening he grew worse. I prepared a meal for him of kvass, butter, and some onion, and threw in it a few bits of bread, and said to him: ‘Go ahead and take some food; maybe you will feel better!’

“But he only shook his head: ‘No, Astafi Ivanich, I shall not have any dinner to-day.’

“I had some tea prepared for him, giving a lot of trouble to the poor old woman from whom I rented a part of the room--but he would not take even a little tea.

“Well, I thought to myself, it is a bad case. On the third morning I went to see the doctor, an acquaintance of mine, Dr. Kostopravov, who had treated me when I still lived in my last place. The doctor came, examined the poor fellow, and only said: ‘There was no need of sending for me, he is already too far gone, but you can give him some powders which I will prescribe.’

“Well, I didn’t give him the powders at all, as I understood that the doctor was only doing it for form’s sake; and in the mean while came the fifth day.

“He lay dying before me, sir. I sat on the window-seat with some work I had on hand lying on my lap. The old woman was raking the stove. We were all silent, and my heart was breaking over this poor, shiftless creature, as if he were my own son whom I was losing. I knew that Emelian was gazing at me all the time; I noticed from the earliest morning that he longed to tell me something, but seemingly dared not. At last I looked at him, and saw that he did not take his eyes from me, but that whenever his eyes met mine, he immediately lowered his own.

“‘Astafi Ivanich!’

“‘What, Emelian?’

“‘What if my cloak should be carried over to the old clothes market, would they give much for it, Astafi Ivanich?’

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I do not know for certain, but three rubles they would probably give for it, Emelian.’ I said it only to comfort the simple-minded creature; in reality they would have laughed in my face for even thinking to sell such a miserable, ragged thing.

“‘And I thought that they might give a little more, Astafi Ivanich. It is made of cloth, so how is it that they would not wish to pay more than three rubles for it?’

“‘Well, Emelian, if you wish to sell it, then of course you may ask more for it at first.’

“Emelian was silent for a moment, then he once more called to me.

“‘Astafi Ivanich!’

“‘What is it, Emelian?’

“‘You will sell the cloak after I am no more; no need of burying me in it, I can well get along without it; it is worth something, and may come handy to you.’

“Here I felt such a painful gripping at my heart as I can not even express, sir. I saw that the sadness of approaching death had already come upon the man. Again we were silent for some time. About an hour passed in this way. I looked at him again and saw that he was still gazing at me, and when his eyes met mine he immediately lowered his.

“‘Would you like a drink of cold water?’ I asked him.

“‘Give me some, and may God repay you, Astafi Ivanich.’

“‘Would you like anything else, Emelian?’

“‘No, Astafi Ivanich, I do not want anything, but I--’

“‘What?’

“‘You know that--’

“‘What is it you want, Emelian?’

“‘The breeches.--You know.--It was I who took them--Astafi Ivanich--’

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘the great God will forgive you, Emelian, poor, unfortunate fellow that you are! Depart in peace.’

“And I had to turn away my head for a moment because grief for the poor devil took my breath away and the tears came in torrents from my eyes.

“‘Astafi Ivanich!--’

“I looked at him, saw that he wished to tell me something more, tried to raise himself, and was moving his lips.--He reddened and looked at me.--Suddenly I saw that he began to grow paler and paler; in a moment he fell with his head thrown back, breathed once, and gave his soul into God’s keeping.”

THE LONG EXILE

BY COUNT LEO NIKOLAIEVITCH TOLSTOI

_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._

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.”