Part 10

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Nízhni Nóvgorod: it means Lower New Town.

[2] Nearly twenty-six and a half miles.

[3] Water-boiler for making Russian tea.

[4] A team of three horses harnessed abreast: the outside two gallop; the shaft horse trots.

[5] Diminutive of Iván. John.

[6] Chetyá Minyéi.

[7] Son of Semyón.

[8] Son of Dmitry (or Dmítrievitch; see page 137).

EASTER NIGHT

BY VLADIMIR GALAKTIONOVITCH KOROLÉNKO

[Illustration]

_Twenty-five years separate Korolénko from Tolstoi, and a new and more modern point of view becomes apparent in the work of the younger man. “Easter Night” is distinguished from its predecessors in this volume by a romantic note of imaginative dramatic interest that shows the developed artistic temperament of the author._

_Korolénko was born in 1853, made his literary début in 1879, and with “The Blind Musician,” in 1886, rose to the front rank among the younger generation of writers. It is the story of the life of a boy who has been blind from birth who becomes a musician under the tender care of his father and mother._

[Illustration]

EASTER NIGHT BY VLADIMIR KOROLÉNKO

Translated by Mrs. Aline Delano. Copyright, 1887, by Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. It was Holy Saturday in 188-.

Evening had long since enfolded the silent earth. The ground, warmed during the day by the rays of the sun, was now cooling beneath the invigorating influence of the night-frost. It seemed like one sighing, while its breath, forming a silvery mist, rose glistening in the rays of the starlit sky, like clouds of incense, to greet the approaching holiday.

All was still. In the cool night-breeze the small provincial town of N---- stood silent, waiting to hear the first stroke of the bell from the high cathedral tower. But the town was not sleeping; a spirit of expectancy brooded beneath the veil of darkness, breathing through the shadows of the silent and deserted streets. Now and then a belated workman, who had but just escaped from his servile task ere the holiday began, passed, hurrying on his way; once in a while a droshky rattled by, leaving silence behind it. Life had fled indoors and hidden itself, in palace and hovel, from whose windows the lights shone far out upon the street, while over the city and the fields hovered the spirit of Resurrection.

Although the moon stood high above the horizon, the town still rested in the broad, deep shadow of a hill, crowned by a gloomy and massive edifice, whose peculiarly straight and severe outlines were sharply defined in the golden ether. The sombre gates were hardly to be distinguished amid the gloom of its deeply shadowed walls, while the towers on the four corners stood out boldly against the azure sky, and gradually over all the moon poured its flood of liquid gold.

Suddenly on the sensitive air of the expectant night came the first stroke from the high cathedral belfry; then another, and still another. A minute later and the whole air throbbed and swelled, as the countless bells rang out, uniting in one harmonious peal. From the gloomy building overshadowing the town there came a faint, broken harmony, that seemed to flutter helplessly in the air, and thence to rise into the ethereal light, and join the mighty chord. The singing ceased, the sounds dissolved in air, and the silence of the night gradually resumed its sway; a faint echo seemed to hover for a while, like the vibration of an invisible harp-string. Now the fires were gradually extinguished, the church windows shone forth brightly, and the earth seemed ready to proclaim once more the old tidings of peace, love, and good-will.

The bolts of the dark gates in the gloomy building creaked, and a band of soldiers, with clanking arms, sallied forth to relieve the night sentinels; on approaching the corners, they would halt, and a dark form, with measured steps, would detach itself from the rest, while the former sentinel took his place in the ranks, and the soldiers went on their way, skirting the high prison wall, that glistened in the moonbeams.

As they reached its western side, a young recruit stepped forward from the ranks to relieve the sentry who was posted there; a rustic awkwardness still showed itself in his movements, and his young face betrayed the absorbed attention of a novice who was to occupy for the first time a responsible post. He faced the wall, presented arms, made two steps forward, and, shouldering his musket, stood beside the sentry he was to replace. The latter, turning slightly toward him, repeated the usual formula, in the singsong tone of discipline.

“From corner to corner--Look out! Do not sleep or doze!” He spoke rapidly, while the recruit listened with close attention, and a peculiar expression of anxiety and sadness in his gray eyes.

“You understand?” asked his superior.

“Yes, sir!”

“Then, look out!” he added, sharply; but, suddenly changing his tone, he said, good-naturedly:

“Don’t be afraid, Faddeyef; you are not a woman! I hope you are not afraid of the Lyeshy!”

“Why should I be afraid of him?” replied Faddeyef. Then he added: “But I tell you, my good fellows, I have a misgiving.”

This simple and almost childish confession made the soldiers laugh.

“There’s simplicity for you!” exclaimed the leader, in tones of contempt. Then giving the order, “Shoulder arms! March!” the sentries, with measured tread, disappeared around the corner, and the sound of their footsteps was soon lost in the distance. The sentinel shouldered his musket, and began to pace along the wall.

Inside the prison, at the first stroke of the bell, all was in motion. It was long since the sad and gloomy prison night had witnessed so much life. It seemed as if the church bells had really brought tidings of liberty; for the grimy doors of the cells opened in turn, and their occupants, clad in long gray garments, the fatal patches on their backs, filed in rows along the corridors, on their way to the brilliantly lighted prison church. They came from all directions--from right and left, descending and ascending the stairway--and amid the echoing footsteps rang the sound of arms and the clanking of chains. On entering the church, this gray mass of humanity poured into the space allotted to them, behind the railing, and stood there in silence. The windows of the church were protected by strong iron bars.

The prison was empty, except in the four towers, where, in small, strongly bolted cells, four men, in solitary confinement, were restlessly pacing to and fro, stopping once in a while to listen at the keyhole to the snatches of church singing that reached their ears.

And, beside these, in one of the ordinary cells, in a bunk, lay a sick man. The overseer, to whom this sudden illness had been reported, went into his cell as they were escorting the prisoners to church, and, leaning over him, looked into his eyes, that were gazing fixedly before him, and in which shone a peculiar light.

“Ivanof! Ivanof!” he called out to the invalid.

The convict never turned his head, but continued muttering something unintelligible, moving his parched lips with difficulty.

“Carry him to the hospital to-morrow!” said the overseer, as he left the cell, appointing a sentry to guard the door. The latter, after a close examination of the delirious patient, shook his head, saying as he did so: “A vagrant! Poor fellow! you are not likely to tramp any more!” The overseer continued his way along the corridor, and entered the church, taking up his post by the door, where, with frequent genuflections, he listened devoutly to the service. Meanwhile the mutterings of the unconscious man filled the empty cell.

He did not seem old; on the contrary, he looked strong and muscular. He was delirious, apparently reliving his recent past, while a look of distress disfigured his face. Fate had played him a sorry trick. He had tramped thousands of versts through the Siberian forests and mountains, had suffered countless dangers and privations, always urged onward by a consuming homesickness, and sustained by one hope--that he might live to see his native place, and be once more with his own people, if it were but for a month, or even a week. Then he would be resigned, even if he had to go back again. But it chanced that when only a few hundred versts from his native village he had been recaptured, and confined in this prison. Suddenly his mutterings ceased. His eyes dilated, and his breathing became more even--Brighter dreams flitted across his fevered brain--The forest soughs--He knows it well, that soughing; monotonous, musical, and powerful--He can distinguish its various tones; the language of each tree: the majestic pine, dusky green, rustling high overhead--the whispering cedars--the bright, merry birch, tossing its flexible branches--the trembling aspen, fluttering its timid, sensitive leaves--The free birds sing; the stream rushes across the stony chasm; and a swarm of gibbering magpies, detectives of the forest, are soaring in the air over the path followed by the vagrant through this almost impenetrable thicket.

It seemed as if a breeze from the free forest were wafted through the prison cell. The invalid sat up and drew a long breath, gazing intently before him, while a sudden gleam of consciousness flashed into his eyes--The vagrant, the habitual fugitive, beheld before him an unaccustomed sight--an open door?

In his frame, enfeebled by disease, a powerful instinct sprang to life. His delirium either disappeared, or centred itself on one idea, which, like a ray of sunlight, illumined the chaos of his thoughts. Alone! and with an open door! In a moment he was on his feet. It seemed as if the fever had left his brain, and was only perceptible in his eyes, which had a fixed and menacing expression.

Some one had just come out from the church, leaving the door ajar.

The strains of the harmonious singing, subdued by the distance, reached the ear of the vagrant, and then died away. His face softened, his eyes grew dim, and his imagination reproduced a long cherished scene: A mild night, the whisper of the pines, their branches swaying above the old church of his native village--a throng of countrymen; the lights reflected in the river, and this same chant--He must make haste with his journey, that he may hear this at home, with his family!

All this time, in the corridor, near the church door, the overseer prayed devoutly, kneeling, and touching his forehead to the ground.

Meanwhile, the young recruit paced to and fro on his beat along the prison wall, which glowed with a phosphorescent light. A broad, level field, recently freed from snow, lay before him.

A light wind rustled through the tall grass, inclining him to a sad and pensive mood.

The moon hung high above the horizon; the expression of anxiety had vanished from Faddeyef’s face. He stopped by the wall, and, setting his musket on the ground, rested his hand on the muzzle, on which he leaned his head, falling into a deep reverie. He could not yet wholly grasp the idea of his presence in this place, on this solemn Easter night, beside the wall, with a musket in his hand, and opposite the vacant field. He had by no means ceased to be a peasant; many things clear to a soldier were to him incomprehensible; and he was often teased by being called “a rustic.” But a short time ago he was a free man, had the care of a household, owned a field, and was at liberty to labor when and where he pleased. Now, an indefinite, inexplicable fear beset his every step and movement, forcing the awkward young rustic into the groove of strict discipline. At this moment he was alone--the bleak landscape before him, and the wind, whistling through the dry grass, made him dreamy; and memories of familiar scenes passed through his mind. He seemed to see his native village! The same moon shone above it, the same breeze blew over it; he saw the lighted church, and the dark pines tossing their green heads--