God Sees the Truth, But Waits

On the morning he left for the fair, Ivan Aksionov's wife begged him not to go.

She had dreamed, she said, that he came home and took off his cap, and his hair was quite grey.

Aksionov laughed. It was a sign of luck, he told her. He would sell his goods well and bring her back presents. And he drove away.

The inn

Aksionov was a young merchant in the town of Vladimir. He owned two shops and a house, and he was handsome, fair-haired and full of fun. As a young man he had drunk too much, but since his marriage he had given it up almost entirely.

Halfway to the fair, he stopped at an inn and met another merchant he knew. They had tea together and went to sleep in rooms next to each other.

Aksionov liked to start early. Before dawn, he woke his driver, paid the innkeeper, and set off.

The knife

He had driven some way and had stopped to rest and play his guitar when a carriage came racing up. An official jumped out, with two soldiers.

The official asked him where he had spent the night, and whether he had been with the other merchant. Aksionov answered everything, puzzled. Then the official told him why he was asking. The other merchant had been found in his room with his throat cut.

The soldiers searched Aksionov's bag. Out came a knife, stained with blood.

Aksionov's hands trembled. He did not know how the knife had got there. He said again and again that he was innocent. But his voice shook and his face went white, and to the official, that looked like guilt.

Siberia

Aksionov was tied up, thrown in prison and put on trial. He was found guilty of murder. He was flogged with a knout, and sent away to hard labour in Siberia.

Before he left, his wife was allowed to see him. She brought the children. She talked about petitions to the Tsar. And then, quietly, she asked him whether he had done it.

Aksionov hid his face and wept. When she had gone, he thought: even my wife suspects me. It seems only God can know the truth. From now on, I will ask only God for help.

He gave up hope of any other.

Twenty-six years

Aksionov lived in Siberia as a convict for twenty-six years. His hair turned white as snow. His beard grew long, thin and grey. He no longer laughed. He walked slowly, spoke little, and prayed often.

In the prison he made boots, and with the money he bought a book of the lives of the saints, which he read when there was light. On holy days he sang in the prison choir.

The authorities trusted him for his gentleness. The other prisoners called him "Grandfather", and when they had quarrels, they brought them to him to settle.

The new prisoner

One day a new group of convicts arrived. Among them was a tall, strong man of about sixty, with a grey beard. His name was Makar Semyonich, and he came from Aksionov's own town.

As the men talked, Makar said, half laughing, that he had once got away with something much worse than the crime he had been sent there for. Then he seemed to recognise the name of Aksionov, and asked whether he had come there for killing a merchant.

Aksionov felt sure, suddenly, that this was the man who had killed the merchant, and hidden the knife in his bag.

That night he could not sleep. He saw his wife as she had been, his children small, himself young and laughing. And he saw all that he had lost. A terrible anger rose up in him. He wanted revenge, even if it cost him his own life.

The tunnel

For two weeks, Aksionov avoided Makar. Then one night, he noticed earth falling from under a sleeping-shelf. Makar was digging a tunnel under the prison wall, carrying the soil out in his boots each day.

Makar caught him watching. He told Aksionov to keep quiet, or he would kill him.

Aksionov looked at the man he hated and said he was not afraid of him. He had nothing left to lose.

The next day, the guards found the tunnel. The governor questioned the prisoners one by one, and nobody would speak. At last he turned to Aksionov, the old man he knew to be honest, and asked him who had dug it.

Aksionov looked at Makar. All he had to do was say the name.

He was silent for a long time. Then he said he could not tell. And whatever the governor said, he would say no more.

Forgiveness

That night, as Aksionov lay awake, someone came and sat at the foot of his bed. It was Makar.

In a whisper, Makar begged him for forgiveness. He confessed that it was he who had killed the merchant, and hidden the knife in Aksionov's bag. And now, he said, after Aksionov had refused to betray him, he could not bear it. He would confess to everyone, so that Aksionov could go home.

Aksionov said there was no home to go to now. His wife was dead and his children had forgotten him.

Makar wept and beat his head on the floor. Then Aksionov began to weep too. He told Makar that God would forgive him. Perhaps, he said, he himself was a hundred times worse.

And as he said it, his heart grew light. The longing for home left him. He no longer wished to go anywhere, and only waited for his last hour.

Makar did confess. But by the time the order came for Aksionov's release, he was already dead.

About this story

Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910) wrote this story in 1872. Years later, in his essay What Is Art?, he named it as one of the very few of his own works that he counted as good art. Its title comes from an old Russian saying. The best-known English translation is by Louise and Aylmer Maude. This version is a shortened, simplified retelling.