Part 10

Martin Andyeeich was an honest Russian cobbler whose wife and children had died, leaving him with but one child, a small boy, upon whom he had set his heart. But that child also died, and Martin reproached God. At length a pilgrim monk directed him to the gospels, and the cobbler became a devout follower of their teachings.

One day he heard a Voice which bade him look tomorrow into the street, for Christ would come to him. The Lord did not appear, however, and for a long while the only one with whom Martin conversed was a chilled old snow-sweeper, to whom the cobbler gave hot tea to drink, as he explained to him the gospel; after which the grateful old man left. Martin continued to look for Christ, but He did not come--though he did see a poorly clad woman with a little child. These he fed and warmed, hearing her story and bestowing an old jacket to cover her thin summer garments. He next acted as mediator between an old woman and a mischievous boy who had stolen her apples; and to her also he expounded the new truth which had possessed him--the doctrine of love. Thus all day long he had looked for the Christ and had not seen him. But now as he returned to his cellar a Presence declared itself as He who had said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.” “And Martin then understood that his dream had not deceived him, and that the Saviour had really come to him that day, and he had really received Him.”

One of the stories in Tolstoi’s earlier style is “A Prisoner in the Caucasus.”

Zhilin was an officer in the Caucasus in wartime. His aged mother persuaded him to come home once more to see her, and to marry the girl she had chosen to be his bride. The roads were impassable. The Tartars killed or carried into the mountains all Russians they captured. For this reason a military escort passed twice a week from fortress to fortress. Travelling thus, Zhilin became impatient at delays and decided to ride on alone. Kostuilin, another mounted officer, decided to go with him. They had not gone far when they were taken by the Tartars, bound, and held in a Tartar village for ransom. After many weeks, they escaped, only to be retaken and brought back to the village. And now the hut in which they were thrown and their food were worse than before. Again, after many weeks, Zhilin, with the aid of a Tartar maid, escaped, and finally reached the fortress. “You see,” he told his comrades, “I was going home to be married. But no; that is evidently not to be my fate.” Eventually he and his comrades ransomed Kostuilin for five thousand rubles.

I relate this perfectly plotless tale to show how on a slender thread of actual incident Tolstoi could hang a tremendous weight, for this story, with its naked truth-telling as to conditions, forced the government to act, by the sheer force of public opinion, and this is a miracle in Russia.

Another plotless story whose ten thousand words pile up a tremendous impression of character is “An Old Acquaintance.” The narrative, told in the first person by Prince Nelshiludof, is of how, during an expedition in the Caucasus, he met an acquaintance from Moscow. The splendor of the night in the open and the recreations of the officers are given in gems of description.

During a game of skittles, Guskof, a cashiered officer who now lives with the adjutant, comes to the prince, who seems faintly to recollect having met him before. After some general conversation, the officers retire for either sleep or gambling, leaving the prince and Guskof alone. Upon being asked if they had not met before, Guskof reminds the prince of their having met at the home of Guskof’s sister in Moscow, and this leads to further reminiscences.

During a long walk that night, Guskof, who constantly by his own story exhibits his weakness of character, tells how he once was of the highest society of St. Petersburg, but had been--through a liaison and a resulting duel--put under arrest and later cashiered. But this weakness is further shown when he goes on to lament his treatment at the hands of other officers with whom he comes in contact. He expresses a feeling of great disgust at their mode of spending their leisure hours. He admits that he is a moral coward--which is proven later. At length, after further conversation, which inspires a mixed feeling of disgust and pity in the prince, Guskof borrows from him some money. Suddenly, the bursting of a shell causes Guskof to cringe in abject terror, and in the confusion he disappears, but later is seen by the prince in a tent offering in a maudlin voice the money which he had borrowed, and boasting of how “his friend the prince” was rich, and how he had just gotten ten rubles from him.

Perhaps the pity of life, and the tragic results of its sins, are nowhere more piercingly set forth than in Tolstoi’s short-story “Korney Vasiliev”--structurally, his most perfect little fiction, for generally situation rather than plot makes the stronger appeal to our author.

Korney, a well-to-do merchant, after a temporary absence, is returning to his home. While en route, Kuzma, his driver, tells him that Martha, Korney’s wife, has taken a new workman in the house--Yevstiquey, her former lover, and that she is again living with him. The affair, says Kuzma, is the talk of the village.

Korney does not know whether to believe the unreliable Kuzma, but on arriving home sets out to find out for himself. He distributes the presents he had brought back with him--one for his little daughter Agatha, one for his son Theodore, one for his wife, and so on. At bedtime, no longer able to restrain himself, he blurts out his suspicions to his wife, who first ridicules them, but finally, under her husband’s blows, admits their truth, and spitefully suggests that little Agatha is not a child of Korney’s, but of Yevstiquey’s. The child, coming into the room, is brutally used by him--her arm being broken. At the end of this violent scene, Korney leaves his home.

After seventeen years, now a broken old man, Korney is returning home, begging his way. After he left his wife he had taken to drink, spent all his money, and, being unreliable, no one would keep him long at work. The idea takes hold of him that it is his wife who has been the cause of all his misery, and his one thought is, before she dies, to go to her and show her what she has made of him. He is very weak, but manages to make his way to a village, where a kindly young peasant woman, seeing his plight, takes him in for the night and gives him food, drink, and shelter. Noticing that she has a lame arm, he mentions it, and the fact is revealed that she is Agatha, in whose eyes he recognizes Yevstiquey. He breaks down, but does not reveal himself, though in his heart he is sorry for what he did to the girl.

In the morning he trudges on toward his wife’s village. He knocks on the door, and a woman comes out. He recognizes his wife, but how old and haggard she has grown--she who had been so beautiful and so strong! And all the resentment vanishes from his heart, and in its place springs up a terrible pity. Everything else about the place seems also to have undergone change. Even after he says appealingly, “Martha, let us die together!” she still pretends not to recognize him, takes him for a tramp, and tells him to go from the door. However, his son Theodore--an image of his father when he was young--takes pity on the old man, not knowing who he is, and, angry at his mother for her unkindness, brings to the old man some black bread. The father is touched, and, even weaker than he was, drags himself back to Agatha’s village and begs for shelter, which is given him.

In the meantime, Martha’s conscience gives her no peace, and, learning what direction old Korney has taken, she follows. Arrived at her daughter’s house, she finds a crowd there mourning the old man, who has died, and from his dignified old face she does not know whether he had forgiven her or not.

* * * * *

The story that follows in translation is one of the most representative of all the Russian’s shorter work. It speaks its own praises.

A LONG EXILE (Early title, “God Sees the Truth, but Bides His Time”)

_By Lyoff Tolstoi_

In the town of Vladimir there lived a young merchant, Aksenof by name. He owned two shops and a home.

Aksenof was a fair, curly-headed, handsome fellow, always jolly and singing. In his youth, Aksenof drank much, and when he was intoxicated his ways were rough. Since his marriage, however, he had stopped drinking, except upon rare occasions.

One day, in summer, Aksenof prepared to go to Nijni Novgorod, to the fair. When he was bidding good-by to his wife she said to him:

“Ivan Dmitrievich,[4] don’t go this time. I dreamt a bad dream about you.”

Aksenof laughed and replied:

“You are always afraid that I might get a bit jolly at the fair!”

His wife said:

“I myself hardly know why I’m afraid, but I dreamt evil. I dreamt that you came home from town, and took off your hat; and I saw that your head was gray.”

Aksenof laughed.

“Well, that means good luck. You’ll see. I’ll make some nice bargains, and bring fine presents home.”

He bid his family farewell, and departed.

In the middle of his journey he met a merchant he knew, and they took lodgings together for the night. First they drank tea, and then they went to sleep in separate rooms which were near each other. Aksenof was not a heavy sleeper. Awaking in the middle of the night, and wishing to take advantage of its cool for travelling, he roused the driver and ordered him to harness the carriage. Having paid his host, he took his departure.

After he had covered some forty versts, he stopped again for food; and, having rested and had his dinner in the shelter of the hotel, he ordered tea, got hold of a guitar, and began to play. Suddenly there arrived a troika, jingling its bells, and from the carriage descended an official, accompanied by two soldiers. He approached Aksenof and asked, “Who are you? Where are you from?” Aksenof answered properly, and invited the official to tea. The latter, however, persisted in his inquiries: “Where did you sleep the past night?”... “Alone or with the merchant?”... “Did you see the merchant in the morning?”... “Why did you depart so early from the hotel?” Aksenof told all as it happened, and added, “Why do you ask all these questions? I’m not a thief or a highwayman. I’m travelling on my business, and I do not see why I should be asked questions.”

It was then that the official called to the soldiers, and said:

“I am a police official, and I am asking these questions because the merchant with whom you lodged the past night has been found murdered. Show us your things.... Search him!”

They entered the room, seized his travelling bag and sack, and started to unbind and search. Suddenly the official brought forth a knife from the sack, and roared out:

“Whose knife is this?”

Aksenof looked, and saw that a knife smeared with blood had been taken out of his sack, and he was frightened.

“And why is there blood on this knife?”

Aksenof wished to reply, but he couldn’t utter a word.

“I--I don’t know. I--the knife is--I--not mine----”

Then the official said:

“This morning the merchant was found stabbed in his bed. It wasn’t possible for any one else to do it. The house was locked from the inside, and there was no one else in the house but you. Besides, the knife covered with blood has been found in your sack; and your face too shows it. Tell me, how did you kill him, and how much money did you get?”

Aksenof swore that he was not the guilty man, that he did not see the merchant after he had had tea with him, that the eight thousand rubles in his possession were his own money, and that the knife was not his. But his voice quavered, his face was pale, and he trembled from head to foot, like one guilty.

The official called the soldiers, ordered him bound and taken into the carriage. When, with his feet fast, he was thrust into the carriage, Aksenof crossed himself and began to cry. Aksenof’s things and money were taken from him, and he was sent to prison in a near-by city. Inquiries were made in Vladimir to find out what sort of man he was, and it was generally agreed among the merchants and inhabitants of the city that while from the time of his youth Aksenof drank and had had a good time, he was a good-hearted man. Then began his trial. The charge against him was that he had killed the merchant and had stolen his twenty thousand rubles.

Aksenof’s wife suffered intensely, and did not know what to think. Her children were still young, one a suckling. She took them all with her and arrived in the city where her husband was imprisoned. At first she was refused admission, but after many petitions she was led to her husband. When she saw him in prison apparel, in chains, among a lot of cut-throats, she fell to the ground, and it was a long time before she came to herself. Then she placed her children around her, sat down at his side, and began to tell him all about the domestic affairs and to ask him about all that had happened to him. After he had told her all, she said:

“Well, what’s to be done now?”

He replied:

“It is necessary to send a petition to the Czar. It is wrong to let an innocent person suffer.”

To this, his wife said that a petition to the Czar had already been sent, but that it had not reached him. Thereupon Aksenof grew silent, and seemed much downcast. Then she reminded him:

“There was something, after all, in that dream--do you remember?--in which I saw you gray-headed. There, from sorrow you’ve really grown gray. You shouldn’t have gone on the journey.”

And as she ran her fingers through his hair, she said:

“Vania, my dear one, tell your wife the truth: didn’t you really do it?”

Aksenof replied, “And you too believe it!” He covered his face with his hands and wept. Later a soldier entered, and said that it was time for the visitors to depart. And Aksenof for the last time bid farewell to his family.

After his wife had gone, Aksenof began to recall his conversation with her. When he remembered that his wife too suspected him and asked him whether he had killed the merchant, he said to himself, “Now I see that, except God, no one can know the truth, and that it is only to Him we must appeal, and then await His mercy.” From that time on, Aksenof ceased to send petitions, ceased to hope, and only prayed to God.

Aksenof was sentenced to the knout and hard labor.

The sentence was carried out. He was lashed with the knout, and when the wounds healed he was driven with other convicts to Siberia.

In Siberia the convict lived twenty-six years, doing hard labor. The hair on his head grew white like snow, while his beard grew long, sparse, and gray. All his joy was gone. He was bent, walked slowly, said little, never laughed, and prayed to God often.

In prison Aksenof learned to make boots, and with the money earned thereby he purchased the Books of the Martyrs and read them when there was sufficient light in his cell; but on holidays he attended the prison chapel, read the Apostles, and sang in the choir--his voice still remained good. The authorities liked Aksenof for his quiet behavior, while his prison comrades held him in esteem and called him “grandfather” and “holy man.” When the prisoners had any petitions to make to the authorities they always sent Aksenof as their spokesman; and when they had any quarrels among themselves, they always came before Aksenof for judgment.

From home Aksenof received no letters, and he did not know whether or not his wife and children were alive.

Once a new batch of convicts arrived at the prison. In the evening all the old convicts gathered around the new arrivals and put all sorts of questions to them, as to what town or village they had come from, and for what crime they had been sentenced. Aksenof also sat down on a bench near the new convicts, and, hanging his head, listened to what was being said. Among the new convicts was a tall, robust old man of sixty, with gray, trimmed beard. He was telling why he was sent away. He said:

“Well, brothers, it wasn’t for anything that I’ve got here. I unharnessed a horse from a shed. Got caught; stole the horse, they said. ‘I only wished to get there quicker,’ said I, ‘and I let the horse loose. And the driver was a friend of mine, besides. There’s nothing wrong in that,’ said I. ‘No,’ they said; ‘you stole the horse.’ But they couldn’t really say what and where I stole. Well, I’ve done things in my time for which I should have got here long ago if they had only caught me at it; but this once I’ve been driven here not according to law. To be honest, I’ve been in Siberia, but didn’t remain long.”

“Where do you come from?” asked one of the convicts.

“I’m from the town Vladimir, native of the place. I’m called Makar--and my paternal name Semenovich.”

Aksenof raised his head and asked:

“And have you heard, Semenich, in Vladimir town, of the Aksenofs, merchants? Are they alive?”

“To be sure, I’ve heard! They are rich merchants, though their father is in Siberia--a sinner like the rest of us. And you, old man, why are you here?”

Aksenof did not like to talk about his sorrow; so he sighed and said:

“For my sins I’ve been here twenty-six years at hard labor.”

Makar Semenof, however, persisted:

“But what sort of sins?”

Aksenof replied, “I must have deserved what I got.” Further than that he would not say, but the other prisoners told the new-comer why Aksenof was sent to Siberia. They related how some one had murdered a merchant while on a journey and had foisted the knife upon Aksenof, who had been sentenced, though innocent.

When Makar Semenof heard this he looked at Aksenof, clapped his hands upon his knees, and exclaimed:

“Well, that’s strange! Certainly is strange! You’ve grown old, grandfather!”

The rest began to ask him why he was astonished, and where he had seen Aksenof, but Makar Semenof made no reply. He only said:

“A miracle, brothers! That we should meet here!”

And these words suggested to Aksenof the thought that this man knew perhaps who had killed the merchant. He asked:

“Tell me, Semenich, have you heard about my case before? And have you ever seen me before?”

“Why shouldn’t I have heard! News flies quickly. But it was such a long time ago that what I had heard I had forgotten,” said Makar Semenof.

“Perhaps you’ve heard who killed the merchant?” asked Aksenof.

Makar Semenof broke into a laugh and said:

“To be sure, he killed him in whose sack was found the knife. And if some one else did slip the knife in the sack! Not caught, not a thief! Besides, how could any one have slipped the knife into the sack, since it was at your very head? You surely would have heard.”

When Aksenof heard these words, the thought came to him that this very man had killed the merchant. He arose and went away. Aksenof could not sleep the entire night. A melancholy came upon him, and images began to rise up before him. First, he imagined he saw his wife the same as she looked when she saw him off to the fair for the last time. He saw her as in life; he saw her face and eyes, and heard how she spoke and laughed. Then he saw his children as they were then, little ones, one in a fur coat, another at the breast. And he recalled himself as he had been once--joyous, young; he recalled too how he looked as he sat in the hotel when they arrested him; how he played on the guitar, and how happy he had felt at that moment. And he recalled the place of execution, where he was knouted, and the man with the knout, and the throng all around, and the chains, and the convicts, and all the twenty-six years of his prison life; and his old age too he recalled. And such a melancholy came upon Aksenof, that death itself would have been welcome.

“And all on account of that scoundrel!” thought Aksenof.

Then came into his heart such a vindictiveness against Makar Semenof that he felt willing to die himself if only to revenge himself upon him. He read prayers the entire night, but could not calm himself. Next day he did not go near Makar Semenof and did not look at him.

So passed two weeks. Aksenof could not sleep nights, and such a melancholy would come upon him that he did not know what to do with himself.

Once at night, walking through the prison, he observed a stirring of soil under one of the sleeping-bunks. He stopped to look. Suddenly Makar Semenof leaped from under the bunk, and his frightened eyes looked at Aksenof. Aksenof wished to go on, so as not to notice him; but Makar caught him by the hand, and told him how he had dug a passage under the walls, and how every day he disposed of dirt by carrying it out with him in his boots and emptying it in the street, when sent out to work. He continued:

“Only be silent, old man, and I’ll show you the way out. But if you tell, I’ll get a knouting, which will be the worse for you--I’ll kill you.”

When Aksenof looked at his enemy, he trembled from wrath, released his hand from Makar’s, and said:

“I have no reason for escaping, and you can’t kill me, for you’ve killed me long ago. As to telling on you, I may do it or not--as God wills it, so I shall do.”

The next day, when the convicts were sent out to work, the soldiers noticed that Makar Semenof was emptying dirt out of his boots. They searched the prison and discovered a hole. Presently the superintendent arrived and questioned every one who had dug the hole. All denied it. Those who knew would not give Makar Semenof away, because they knew that for this affair he would be knouted half to death. Then the superintendent turned to Aksenof. He knew that the exile was a just man, and so he said to him:

“Old man, I know you to be truthful; tell me, before God, who did this?”