God Sees the Truth, But Waits

In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops and a house of his own, a wife and small children, and everything a man could wish. He was handsome, fair-haired, full of fun and very fond of singing. One summer he prepared to travel to the great fair at Nizhny to sell his goods. As he said goodbye, his wife stopped him: "Ivan Dmitrich, do not start today. I had a bad dream about you — I dreamed you returned from the town, and when you took off your cap, your hair was quite grey." Aksionov laughed. "You are afraid I shall spend too much at the fair. Dreams mean nothing." And he drove away.

Halfway to the fair he met a merchant he knew, and they put up at the same inn for the night, drank tea together, and slept in adjoining rooms. Aksionov rose before dawn — he liked to travel in the cool of the day — paid his bill, and drove on. Some forty kilometres further, he stopped to feed the horses; and there, as he rested on the porch of an inn, a troika drove up with an official and two soldiers. The official began to question him: who was he, where from, where had he spent the night, had he seen the other merchant that morning? Aksionov answered everything openly, wondering at so many questions — until the official said plainly: the merchant he had shared the inn with had been found dead, and his money was gone. The official ordered Aksionov's luggage searched — and from his bag the soldiers drew out a knife that was not his. "Whose knife is this? How came it in your bag?" Aksionov tried to answer and could not: his voice broke, his face was pale, and he shook with fear like a guilty man. "I don't know — I — it is not mine —"

Nothing could save him. His money was taken as evidence; he was tried and convicted. His wife was allowed to visit him once before he was sent away. When she saw him in prison clothes, she fell senseless; then, recovering, she drew her children to her and asked him one question, quietly: "Vanya, tell me the truth — was it not you who did it?" "So you, too, believe it!" said Aksionov. He covered his face with his hands and wept. When his family had gone, he said to himself: "It seems that only God can know the truth. It is to Him alone we must appeal; from Him alone expect mercy." And from that time, Aksionov wrote no more petitions, gave up all hope in men, and only prayed.

Aksionov was sent to Siberia, and there he lived and worked for twenty-six years. His hair turned white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin and grey — exactly as in his wife's dream. All his cheerfulness was gone; he stooped as he walked, spoke little, never laughed, and prayed often. In the camp he learned to make boots, and with the money he earned he bought a book of the Lives of the Saints, which he read when there was light enough. On Sundays he read the lessons and sang in the choir, for his voice was still good. The authorities liked him for his quiet ways; the other men respected him deeply — they called him "Grandfather" and "the man of God", and when there were quarrels among them, it was to Aksionov they came to settle their disputes fairly. No news ever reached him from home. He did not even know whether his wife and children were still living.

One day a new group of convicts arrived at the camp. Among them was a tall, strong man of about sixty, with a clipped grey beard, called Makar Semyonich — talkative, boastful, from the town of Vladimir itself. Hearing the newcomer name his town, Aksionov asked whether he knew the merchant family Aksionov. "Know them? Of course! Rich people — though their father is in Siberia, a sinner like ourselves, it seems!" And when he heard the old man's name, Makar started, slapped his knee, and cried: "Well, this is wonderful! Truly wonderful — how old you have grown, Grandfather!" The others asked him where he had seen Aksionov before; Makar only laughed and turned the question aside. A thought went through Aksionov like a blade: perhaps this was the very man. Little by little, from the man's dropped hints and evasions, Aksionov became certain of it: Makar Semyonich knew everything about that night at the inn, twenty-six years ago — because he had been there.

Old memories rose up in Aksionov and gave him no peace. He remembered his young wife as she was when he last saw her; he remembered his little children; he remembered himself, young and merry, sitting on the inn porch with his guitar. And here he was now, white-haired, at the end of a life spent for another man's deed. Some nights he could not pray at all; on others he could not stop. For two weeks he avoided Makar Semyonich, and could not sleep, and did not know what to do with the misery inside him.

One night, Aksionov could not sleep and walked through the camp. Under one of the sleeping shelves he saw earth being scattered — and Makar Semyonich crept out from beneath it. Makar seized his hand in the dark: he was digging a tunnel under the wall, he whispered, carrying the earth out in his boots each day; if the old man kept silent, he would take him along — but if he told, the guards would show no mercy, and Makar would make him answer for it. Aksionov trembled with anger, drew his hand away, and said only: "I have no wish to escape, and you have no need to threaten me. You killed my life long ago. As for telling — I shall do as God directs me."

The next day the tunnel was discovered. The governor came and questioned every prisoner. All denied knowledge, for those who knew would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he would be punished terribly. At last the governor turned to Aksionov, whom he knew to be a truthful man. "You are old and honest," he said. "Tell me, before God: who dug the hole?" Here it was, at last — the moment of repayment. Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, who stood as if he were not concerned at all. Why should I protect him? Aksionov thought. Let him pay for what I have suffered. But then another thought came: what good would it do? "I cannot say, your honour," he answered at last. "It is not God's will that I should tell. Do what you like with me; I am in your hands." And however the governor pressed him, Aksionov would say no more, and the matter had to be left.

That night, as Aksionov lay half-asleep, someone came quietly and sat at the foot of his shelf. It was Makar — and he was weeping. He knelt down. "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me! It was I who did it that night at the inn — I hid the knife in your bag and escaped through the window. I will confess to them; they will release you; you can go home." "It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but where could I go now? My wife is dead, my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go…" Makar Semyonich did not rise. He beat his head on the floor. "Forgive me!" he cried. "When they flogged me it was not so hard to bear as it is to look at you now… yet you had pity on me and did not tell. For Christ's sake, forgive me!" And when Aksionov heard him sobbing, he wept too. "God will forgive you," he said. "Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you." And at these words his heart grew suddenly light, and the longing for home left him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, but only hoped for his last hour. In spite of everything Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed his guilt. But when the order for release came, Aksionov was already dead.