Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida (Penguin Classics)

by Chandler, Robert

  GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS

  In the city of Vladimir there lived a young merchant by the name of Aksyonov. He had two shops and a house of his own.

  Aksyonov was a handsome fellow with light-brown curly hair; he was the life and soul of a party and he was fond of singing. As a young man he had drunk a lot, then got into brawls, but when he married he stopped drinking, except very occasionally.

  One summer he was about to go to Nizhny Novgorod, to the fair. As he began saying goodbye to his family, his wife said to him, ‘Don’t go today, Ivan Dmitrych, I’ve had a bad dream about you.’

  Aksyonov laughed and said, ‘Still afraid I’ll go on a binge at the fair?’

  ‘I don’t know myself what I’m afraid of,’ said his wife. ‘All I know is that I’ve had a bad dream. I dreamt you’d just got back from the fair. You took off your hat – and your hair had turned grey.’

  Aksyonov laughed. ‘That means good luck. Just you wait – I’ll sell all my goods and I’ll come back with expensive gifts for you.’

  He said goodbye to his family and set off.

  When he was halfway there, he met a merchant he knew and the two of them put up at the same inn for the night. They had some tea together and then went to bed in adjoining rooms. Aksyonov didn’t like sleeping late; he woke while it was still dark and, wanting to set off before it got hot, he woke his driver and told him to harness the horses. Then he settled up with the landlord, who lived in a small hut at the back, and set off.

  After about twenty-five miles, he stopped at an inn to feed the horses. He rested for a while in the entrance room, then went out on to the porch to have something to eat and drink himself. He told them to heat up the samovar, got out his guitar and began to play.

  Suddenly a troika with a bell drove into the yard. Out got an official, together with two soldiers. He went up to Aksyonov and asked him who he was and where he had come from. Aksyonov answered these questions and asked the official if he wouldn’t like to drink some tea with him. But the official kept on with his questions: ‘Where did you spend the night? Alone, or with a merchant? Did you see the merchant this morning? Why did you leave so early?’

  Aksyonov wondered why he was being questioned like this. He recounted everything that had happened, then said, ‘Why are you interrogating me as if I were a thief or a robber? I’m travelling on business, and you’ve no reason to question me like this.’

  Then the official called the soldiers over and said to Aksyonov, ‘I’m the district police captain and I am questioning you because the merchant you spent last night with has had his throat cut. We have to search you and your belongings.’

  They went inside, took his trunk and his bag and began going through them. Suddenly the police captain took a knife out of the bag and shouted, ‘Whose knife is this?’

  The knife was covered in blood: Aksyonov felt frightened.

  ‘Why is there blood on this knife?’

  Aksyonov wanted to answer, but he couldn’t get the words out. ‘I… I don’t know… I… the knife… I… it’s not mine…’

  Then the police captain said, ‘The merchant was found in bed this morning with his throat cut. No one but you can have done this. The hut was locked from the inside, and there was no one else there. Now we’ve found a bloodstained knife in your bag, and anyway I can tell from the look on your face. Tell me how you killed him and how much money you stole.’

  Aksyonov swore he had done nothing; he had not seen the merchant after having supper with him, he had eight thousand roubles of his own and the knife was not his. But his voice quavered, his face was pale and he was trembling all over from fear, as if he were guilty.

  The police captain told his soldiers to arrest Aksyonov and put him on the cart. When he was flung on to the cart with his legs tied together, Aksyonov crossed himself and began to cry. His goods and money were confiscated and he was taken to the nearest town and put in prison. Enquiries were made about him in Vladimir, and all the merchants and other inhabitants of Vladimir attested that Aksyonov might have drunk and caroused when he was young, but that he was a good man. Soon the trial began; Aksyonov was charged with the murder of a merchant from Ryazan and the theft of twenty thousand roubles.

  His wife was in despair; she didn’t know what to believe. Her children were all little; she was still nursing the youngest. She took them with her and went to the town where her husband was in prison. At first she was not admitted but, after begging the officers in charge, she was taken in to his cell. When she saw him in prison clothes, in chains, locked up with criminals, she passed out, fell to the ground and only came back to her senses after a long time. Then she gathered her children around her, sat down beside him, said how things were at home and asked him to tell her what had happened. He told her everything. ‘What can we do?’ she said.

  ‘We must appeal to the Tsar,’ said Aksyonov. ‘He can’t let an innocent man perish!’

  His wife said that she had already submitted a petition to the Tsar, but it had not been accepted. Aksyonov didn’t say anything; he just bowed his head. Then his wife said, ‘It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned grey. Remember? Now you really have gone grey with grief. You shouldn’t have left home that day.’ Running her fingers through his hair, she went on, ‘Vanya, dearest, tell the truth to your wife. Wasn’t it you who did it?’

  ‘So you suspect me too,’ said Aksyonov. He hid his face in his hands and began to weep. Then a soldier came in and said it was time for his wife and children to leave. And Aksyonov said goodbye to his family for the last time.

  After his wife had left, Aksyonov thought everything over. When he thought about how his wife had suspected him and asked him if he had killed the merchant, he said to himself, ‘It seems no one but God can know the truth. It is to Him alone I must appeal, and from Him alone that I must expect mercy.’ And Aksyonov gave up writing petitions and abandoned all hope; all he did was pray to God.

  Aksyonov was sentenced to a flogging, followed by penal servitude. And so he was flogged with a knout and, when his wounds had healed, he was marched with a group of other convicts to Siberia.

  For twenty-six years Aksyonov lived the life of a convict. The hair on his head became white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin and grey. His merriment vanished. He grew hunched and began to move more slowly; he spoke little, never laughed, but often prayed to God.

  In prison Aksyonov learned to make boots. With the money he earned he bought The Lives of the Saints and, when it was light enough inside the prison, he read. On Sundays and feast days he went to the prison church, read the Epistle and sang in the choir – he still had a good voice. The authorities liked Aksyonov for his meekness and his fellow convicts respected him, calling him ‘Grandfather’ and ‘a godly man’. When they wanted to petition the authorities, they always chose Aksyonov as their spokesman; and when they quarrelled with one another, they always called on him to adjudicate.

  Aksyonov received no letters from home; he did not even know if his wife and children were still alive.

  One day some new convicts were brought to the prison. In the evening the old convicts gathered round the new arrivals, asking each of them which town or village he was from and what he had been sentenced for. Looking down at the ground, Aksyonov sat on the bed-boards beside the newcomers and listened. A tall, strong-looking old man of about sixty, with a short grey beard, was explaining why he had been arrested.

  ‘Well, brothers,’ he said, ‘I’ve ended up here for no reason at all. I took a horse that was tied to a sledge. I was arrested and accused of theft. I said I’d been in a hurry to get home and that I’d let the horse go. And that the coachman was a friend of mine – so everything was above board. “No,” they said, “you’re a thief.” What I really did steal, and where, they never discovered. By rights I should have been sent here long ago, but I was never found out. And now I’ve been sent here for nothing. But I’m lying: I’ve been in Siberia before, though I didn’t han
g about long.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ someone asked.

  ‘My family are small merchants from the city of Vladimir. My name’s Makar, my father’s name was Semyon.’

  Aksyonov looked up and asked, ‘Tell me, Semyonych, have you heard anything of the Aksyonov family? They’re Vladimir merchants. Are they still living?’

  ‘How could I not have heard of them? They’re rich merchants – even though the father’s in Siberia. Seems he’s a sinner like us. And what about you, Granddad, what brought you here?’

  Aksyonov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He sighed and said, ‘Because of my sins I’ve been here for twenty-six years, doing forced labour.’

  ‘What sins?’ asked Makar Semyonov.

  ‘Great sins,’ Aksyonov replied, ‘or I wouldn’t still be here.’ He did not want to say any more, but the other convicts recounted how it was that Aksyonov had ended up in Siberia. On the road, they said, someone had killed a merchant and hidden the knife in Aksyonov’s bag. He had been unjustly sentenced.

  When Makar Semyonov heard this, he looked at Aksyonov, slapped his hands on his knees and said, ‘Who’d have believed it? Who’d ever have believed it? But you’ve grown old, Grandfather!’

  The others asked what he was so surprised about and where he had seen Aksyonov before, but he just answered, ‘Who’d have believed we’d end up meeting here?’

  At this Aksyonov began to wonder if this man might not know who had killed the merchant. He asked, ‘Have you heard about all this before, Semyonych? Or have you seen me somewhere before?’

  ‘How could I not have heard about it? The world’s full of stories. But it was all a long time ago. Whatever I heard, I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Maybe you heard who killed the merchant?’ asked Aksyonov.

  Makar Semyonov laughed and said, ‘Must have been the man with the bag they found the knife in. If someone else really did put a knife in your bag – well, no one’s a thief till he’s caught. Anyway, how could a man put a knife in your bag when it was under your head? You’d have woken up!’

  When Aksyonov heard this, he felt sure that this was the man who had killed the merchant. He got up and walked away. All that night Aksyonov lay awake. He fell into melancholy and began to see things in his mind’s eye. He saw his wife saying goodbye to him before he set off on his last journey to the fair. He saw her as if she were there before him; he saw her face and her eyes, he heard her talking and laughing. Then he saw his children as they were then – very small, one in a little fur coat, the youngest at his mother’s breast. And he remembered the man he had once been – young and merry. He remembered sitting on the porch of the inn where he had been arrested; he had been playing the guitar, without a care in the world. And he remembered the town square where he had been flogged, and the man with the knout, and the people watching, and his chains, and the other convicts, and his twenty-six years of prison life, and how he had grown old. And Aksyonov felt so sad he wanted to kill himself.

  ‘And all because of that villain!’ he said to himself. And he felt furious with Makar Semyonov: even if it was his own undoing, he had to revenge himself. He said prayers all night, but this did nothing to calm him. During the day he did not go near Makar Semyonov or even look at him.

  Two weeks went by like this. Aksyonov couldn’t sleep at night, and in the daytime he felt so wretched he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  One evening, as he was walking about the prison, he saw earth spilling out from somewhere beneath the bed-boards. He stopped to look. All of a sudden Makar Semyonov crept out and gave Aksyonov a frightened look. Aksyonov tried to walk on by, so he wouldn’t see who it was, but Makar grabbed him by the hand and told him that he was digging a tunnel under the wall; he was taking the earth away in his boots, emptying the earth onto the ground when they were escorted to work in the morning. ‘You just be quiet, old man,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take you with me. But if you breathe a word, I’ll be flogged – and I won’t let you off lightly. I’ll kill you.’

  When Aksyonov realized it was his enemy, he trembled all over with rage, pulled his hand away and said, ‘I’ve no need to escape, and you’ve no need to kill me. You killed me long ago. And as to whether or not I say what I’ve seen, that’s as God wills.’

  The next morning, when they’d escorted the convicts to work, the soldiers saw the earth that had been emptied onto the ground by Makar Semyonov. They searched the prison and found the hole. The Governor himself came and began questioning the prisoners: who had dug the hole? Everyone kept their mouths shut. Those who knew did not betray Makar Semyonov; they knew he’d be flogged almost to death. Then the Governor turned to Aksyonov, whom he knew to be a righteous man. ‘You’re an honest man,’ he said. ‘Tell me, before God: who did it?’

  Makar Semyonov stood there as if this were a matter of no concern to him, looking at the Governor and not glancing at Aksyonov for even a moment. Aksyonov’s lips and hands, however, were trembling, and for a long time he was unable to utter a word. ‘Why should I protect him?’ he was thinking. ‘Why should I forgive the man who ruined my life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I do tell, they’ll flog the life out of him. And what if I’m wrong? Anyway, am I going to feel any better for it myself?’

  ‘Well, old man?’ the Governor said once again. ‘Tell me the truth: who’s been digging under the wall?’

  Aksyonov glanced at Makar Semyonov and said, ‘I cannot say, Your Excellency. God does not permit me to tell. And I will not. Do what you like with me; I am in your power.’

  No matter how hard the Commandant struggled with him, Aksyonov said nothing more. And so they never found out who had dug the tunnel.

  The following evening, as Aksyonov was dozing off, he heard someone draw near and then sit down by his feet. He looked into the darkness and recognized Makar. ‘What do you want from me now?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Makar Semyonov said nothing. Aksyonov raised himself up on one elbow and said, ‘What do you want? Go away or I’ll call the guard!’

  Makar Semyonov bent over towards Aksyonov and whispered, ‘Ivan Dmitrych, forgive me!’

  ‘What for?’ asked Aksyonov.

  ‘I killed the merchant, and I hid the knife in your bag. I’d have killed you too, but there was a noise outside. I left the knife in your bag and climbed out of the window.’

  Aksyonov was silent. He did not know what to say. Makar Semyonov got down off the bed-boards, knelt on the ground and said, ‘Ivan Dmitrych, forgive me, forgive me for the love of God! I’ll confess that I killed the merchant and you will be pardoned. You’ll go back home.’

  ‘Fine words,’ said Aksyonov, ‘but do you know what I’ve suffered? My wife is dead, my children have forgotten me. Where can I go now?’

  Still on his knees, Makar Semyonov beat his head against the floor. ‘Ivan Dmitrych,’ he said, ‘forgive me! The knout on my back was easier for me to bear than the sight of you now. And yet you had pity on me, you didn’t tell. Forgive me, for the love of Christ! Forgive me, cursed wretch that I am!’ And he began to sob.

  When Aksyonov heard Makar Semyonov weeping, he began to weep too. ‘God will forgive you,’ he said. ‘Maybe I myself am a hundred times worse than you are.’ At this, he felt a weight off his heart. He stopped feeling homesick, he no longer wanted to leave the prison, and his only wish was to die.

  Aksyonov told him not to say anything, but Makar Semyonov confessed to the murder. And by the time the order for his release came, Aksyonov had died.

  First published in 1872

  Translated by Robert Chandler

  NIKOLAY SEMYONOVICH LESKOV (1831–95)

  Born in the province of Oryol, Leskov’s ancestry was unusually hybrid. His mother was born to an impoverished gentleman who married a merchant’s daughter. His father, though technically ennobled as a result of promotion in government service, came from a line of village priests; dismissed from his administrative post after a conflict
with the provincial governor, he unsuccessfully farmed a small estate. There Nikolay Leskov grew up in close contact with the peasantry and much of his education was informal, although he attended a secondary school in Oryol for several years. All this combined to endow him with a broader knowledge of Russian society than any other writer of his time; he wrote that, since he had grown up among the common people, it was not for him ‘either to place the peasants on a pedestal or to trample them beneath [his] feet’.1 Aged sixteen, Leskov started work for the civil service in Oryol, moving to Kiev two years later. This was followed by three years in estate management for the firm of Scott (his uncle by marriage) & Wilkins; this entailed a vast amount of travel over the whole of European Russia.

  In 1860 Leskov began his career as a professional writer, living briefly in Moscow and then in St Petersburg. Among the most important of his many works are Life of a Peasant Woman (1863); Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk (1865), later used by Shostakovich for the plot of his opera; the long novel Cathedral Folk (1872); and two more explorations of Russian spirituality, The Sealed Angel and The Enchanted Wanderer (both 1873). The Sealed Angel is one of the few adequate portrayals in Russian literature of the life of the Old Believers, the outlawed schismatics who rejected the seventeenth-century liturgical reforms and who, by the end of the nineteenth century, made up a fifth of the country’s population.

  No great Russian writer of the nineteenth century is so little known to the English-speaking reader today as Leskov. This is in part due to the variety of his novels, stories and journalism; literary historians tend to prefer writers who are easier to pigeon-hole. It is also because of the complexity of his language. For Leskov, according to Hugh McLean, ‘language was not simply a medium of communication, but a potential art object in its own right, something to be played with, sculpted into interesting shapes’.2 The language of many of his works moves between the colloquial, the folk-poetic and the pseudoeducated, and these shifts of register are difficult to reproduce in translation.

  Even in Russia Leskov has been undervalued, under both the Tsarist and the Soviet regimes. During his lifetime he was more popular with the public than with the critics. His undoctrinaire liberalism offended both religious conservatives and radical socialists, while the latter also disapproved of his religious concerns. And he has suffered from the misfortune of being identified with his characters, many of whom are bigoted and xenophobic. This is especially absurd: Leskov was in fact unusually open to Western ideas. He was strongly influenced, for example, by British Low Church morality.