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GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS
Leo Tolstoy
IN the town of Vladímir lived a young merchant named Iván Dmítritch Aksyónof. He
had two shops and a house of his own.
Aksyónof was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, full of fun, and very fond of singing. When quite
a young man he had been given to drink, and was riotous when he had had too much, but after he married he gave
up drinking, except now and then.
One summer Aksyónof was going to the Nízhny Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his family his wife
said to him, 'Iván Dmítritch, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you.'
Aksyónof laughed, and said, 'You are afraid that when I get to the fair I shall go on the spree.'
His wife replied: 'I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you returned
from the town, and when you took off your cap I saw that your hair was quite grey.'
Aksyónof laughed. 'That's a lucky sign,' said he. 'See if I don't sell out all my goods, and bring you some
presents from the fair.'
So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away.
When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and they put up at the same inn for the night.
They had some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.
It was not Aksyónof's habit to sleep late, and, wishing to travel while it was still cool, he aroused his
driver before dawn, and told him to put in the horses.
Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a cottage at the back), paid his bill, and
continued his journey.
When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to be fed. Aksyónof rested awhile in
the passage of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch and, ordering a samovár
to be heated got out his guitar and began to play.
Suddenly a tróyka drove up with tinkling bells,
and an official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to Aksyónof and began to question him, asking
him who he was and whence he came. Aksyónof answered him fully, and said, 'Won't you have some tea with
me?' But the official went on cross-questioning him and asking him, 'Where did you spend last night? Were you alone,
or with a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?'
Aksyónof wondered why he was asked all these questions, but he described all that had happened, and then
added, 'Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber? I am travelling on business of my own, and
there is no need to question me.'
Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, 'I am the police-officer of this district, and I question you because
the merchant with whom you spent last night has been found with his throat cut. We must search your things.'
They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped Aksyónof's luggage and searched it.
Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, 'Whose knife is this?'
Aksyónof looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he was frightened.
'How is it there is blood on this knife?'
Aksyónof tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered: 'I -- I don't know -- not mine.'
Then the police-officer said, 'This morning the merchant was found in bed with his throat cut. You are the only
person who could have done it. The house was locked from inside, and no one else was there. Here is this bloodstained
knife in your bag, and your face and manner betray you! Tell me how you killed him, and how much money you stole?'
Aksyónof swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the merchant after they had had tea together; that
he had no money except eight thousand roubles of his own, and that the knife was not his. But his voice was broken,
his face pale, and he trembled with fear as though he were guilty.
The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksyónof and to put him in the cart. As they tied his feet
together and flung him into the cart, Aksyónof crossed himself and wept. His money and goods were taken
from him, and he was sent to the nearest town and imprisoned there. Enquiries as to his character were made in
Vladímir. The merchants and other inhabitants of that town said that in former days he used to drink and
waste his time, but that he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged with murdering a merchant from
Ryazán, and robbing him of twenty thousand roubles.
His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Her children were all quite small; one was a baby at
her breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the town where her husband was in gaol. At first she was not
allowed to see him; but, after much begging, she obtained permission from the officials, and was taken to him.
When she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and
did not come to her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to her, and sat down near him. She told
him of things at home, and asked about what had happened to him. He told her all, and she asked, 'What can we do
now?'
'We must petition the Tsar not to let an innocent man perish.'
His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Tsar, but that it had not been accepted.
Aksyónof did not reply, but only looked downcast.
Then his wife said, 'It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned grey. You remember? You should not have
started that day.' And passing her fingers through his hair, she said: 'Ványa dearest, tell your wife the
truth; was it not you who did it?'
'So you, too, suspect me!' said Aksyónof, and hiding his face in his hands, he began to weep. Then a soldier
came to say that the wife and children must go away; and Aksyónof said good-bye to his family for the last
time.
When they were gone, Aksyónof recalled what had been said, and when he remembered that his wife also had
suspected him, he said to himself, 'It seems that only God can know the truth, it is to Him alone we must appeal,
and from Him alone expect mercy.'
And Aksyónof wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.
Aksyónof was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was flogged with a knout, and when the
wounds made by the knout were healed, he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.
For twenty-six years Aksyónof lived as a convict in Siberia. His hair turned white as snow and his beard
grew long, thin, and grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but
he often prayed.
In prison Aksyónof learnt to make boots, and earned a little money, with which he bought The Lives of the
Saints. He read this book when there was light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in the prison-church he read
the lessons and sang in the choir; for his voice was still good.
The prison authorities liked Aksyónof for his meekness, and his fellow-prisoners respected him: they called
him 'Grandfather,' and 'The Saint.' When they wanted to petition the prison authorities about anything, they always
made Aksyónof their spokesman, and when there were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to put
things right, and to judge the matter.
No news reached Aksyónof from his home, and he did not even know if his wife and children were still alive.
One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the evening the old prisoners collected round the new ones
and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and what they were sentenced for. Among the rest Aksyónof
sat down near the new-comers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.
One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others
what he had been arrested for.
'Well, friends,' he said, 'I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing.
I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend
of mine. So I said, "It's all right." "No," said they, "you stole it." But how or
where I stole it they could not say. I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights to have come here long
ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I have been sent here for nothing at all. . . . Eh, but it's lies I'm
telling you; I've been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long.'
'Where are you from?' asked some one.
'From Vladímir. My family are of that town. My name is Makár, and they also call me Semyónitch.'
Aksyónof raised his head and said: 'Tell me, Semyónitch, do you know anything of the merchants Aksyónof,
of Vladímir? Are they still alive?'
'Know them? Of course I do. The Aksyónofs are rich, though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves,
it seems! As for you, Gran'dad, how did you come here?'
Aksyónof did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and said, 'For my sins I have been in
prison these twenty-six years.'
'What sins?' asked Makár Semyónitch.
But Aksyónof only said, 'Well, well -- I must have deserved it!' He would have said no more, but his companions
told the new-comer how Aksyónof came to be in Siberia: how some one had killed a merchant and had put a
knife among Aksyónof's things, and Aksyónof had been unjustly condemned.
When Makár Semyónitch heard this, he looked at Aksyónof, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed,
'Well this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you've grown, Gran'dad!'
The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he had seen Aksyónof before; but Makár Semyónitch
did not reply. He only said: 'It's wonderful that we should meet here, lads!'
These words made Aksyónof wonder whether this man knew who had killed the merchant; so he said 'Perhaps,
Semyónitch, you have heard of that affair or maybe you've seen me before?'
'How could I help hearing? The world's full of rumours. But it's long ago, and I've forgotten what I heard.'
'Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?' asked Aksyónof.
Makár Semyónitch laughed, and replied, 'It must have been him in whose bag the knife was found! If
some one else hid the knife there, "He's not a thief till he's caught," as the saying is. How could any
one put a knife into your bag while it was under your head? It would surely have woke you up?'
When Aksyónof heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had killed the merchant. He rose and
went away. All that night Aksyónof lay awake.
He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in his mind. There was the image of his wife as she was
when he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were present; her face and her eyes rose before
him; he heard her speak and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as they were at that time: one with
a little cloak on, another at his mother's breast. And then he remembered himself as he used to be -- young and
merry. He remembered how he sat playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was arrested, and how free
from care he had been. He saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner, and the people standing
around; the chains, the convicts, all the twenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old age. The thought
of it all made him so wretched that he was ready to kill himself.
'And it's all that villain's doing!' thought Aksyónof. And his anger was so great against Makár Semyónitch
that he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for it. He kept repeating prayers all night, but
could get no peace. During the day he did not go near Makár Semyónitch, nor even look at him.
A fortnight passed in this way. Aksyónof could not sleep at nights, and was so miserable that he did not
know what to do.
One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed some earth that came rolling out from under one of the
shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly Makár Semyónitch crept
out from under the shelf, and looked up at Aksyónof with frightened face. Aksyónof tried to pass
without looking at him, but Makár seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole under the wall, getting
rid of the earth by putting it into his high-boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when the prisoners
were driven to their work.
'Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab they'll flog the life out of me, but I will
kill you first.'
Aksyónof trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his hand away, saying, 'I have no wish to
escape, and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! As to telling of you -- I may do so or not, as
God shall direct.'
Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of the prisoners
emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was searched, and the tunnel found. The Governor came and questioned
all the prisoners to find out who had dug the hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who knew, would
not betray Makár Semyónitch, knowing he would be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor turned
to Aksyónof, whom he knew to be a just man, and said:
'You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole?'
Makár Semyónitch stood as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the Governor and not so much as
glancing at Aksyónof. Aksyónof's lips and hands trembled, and for a long time he could not utter
a word. He thought, 'Why should I screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I
tell, they will probably flog the life out of him and maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good would
it be to me?'
'Well, old man,' repeated the Governor, 'tell us the truth: who has been digging under the wall?'
Aksyónof glanced at Makár Semyónitch, and said 'I cannot say, your honour. It is not God's
will that I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am in your hands.'
However much the Governor tried, Aksyónof would say no more, and so the matter had to be left.
That night, when Aksyónof was lying on his bed and just beginning to doze, some one came quietly and sat
down on his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognized Makár.
'What more do you want of me?' asked Aksyónof. 'Why have you come here?'
Makár Semyónitch was silent. So Aksyónof sat up and said, 'What do you want? Go away, or I
will call the guard!'
Makár Semyónitch bent close over Aksyónof, and whispered, 'Iván Dmítritch, forgive
me!'
'What for?' asked Aksyónof.
'It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your things. I meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise
outside; so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of the window.'
Aksyónof was silent, and did not know what to say. Makár Semyónitch slid off the bed-shelf
and knelt upon the ground. 'Iván Dmítritch,' said he, 'forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me!
I will confess that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will be released and can go to your home.'
'It is easy for you to talk,' said Aksyónof, 'but I have suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where
could I go to now? . . . My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go. . . .'
Makár Semyónitch did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. 'Iván Dmítritch, forgive
me!' he cried. 'When they flogged me with the knout it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now . . . yet
you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ's sake forgive me, wretch that I am!' And he began to sob.
When Aksyónof heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep.
'God will forgive you!' said he. 'Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you.' And at these words his heart grew
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 to come.
In spite of what Aksyónof had said, Maker Semyónitch confessed his guilt. But when the order for
his release came, Aksyónof was already dead.
A SPARK NEGLECTED BURNS THE HOUSE
Leo Tolstoy
'Then came Peter, and said to him, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive
him? until seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times; but, Until seventy times
seven. Therefore is the kingdom of heaven likened unto a certain king, which would make a reckoning with his servants.
And when he had begun to reckon, one was brought unto him, which owed him ten thousand talents. But forasmuch as
he had not wherewith to pay, his lord commanded him to be sold, and his wife, and children, and all that he had,
and payment to be made. The servant therefore fell down and worshipped him, saying, Lord, have patience with me,
and I will pay thee all. And the lord of that servant, being moved with compassion, released him, and forgave him
the debt. But that servant went out, and found one of his fellow-servants, which owed him a hundred pence: and
he laid hold on him, and took him by the throat saying, Pay what thou owest. So his fellow-servant fell down and
besought him, saying, Have patience with me, and I will pay thee. And he would not: but went and cast him into
prison, till he should pay that which was due. So when his fellow-servants saw what was done, they were exceeding
sorry, and came and told unto their lord all that was done. Then his lord called him unto him, and saith to him,
Thou wicked servant, I forgave thee all that debt, because thou besoughtest me: shouldest not thou also have had
mercy on thy fellow-servant, even as I had mercy on thee? And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the tormentors,
till he should pay all that was due. So shall also my heavenly Father do unto you, if ye forgive not every one
his brother from your hearts.' -- Matt. xviii. 21-35.
THERE once lived in a village a peasant named Iván Stcherbakóf. He was comfortably off, in the prime
of life, the best worker in the village, and had three sons all able to work. The eldest was married, the second
about to marry, and the third was a big lad who could mind the horses and was already beginning to plough. Ivan's
wife was an able and thrifty woman, and they were fortunate in having a quiet, hard-working daughter-in-law. There
was nothing to prevent Iván and his family from living happily. They had only one idle mouth to feed; that
was Iván's old father, who suffered from asthma and had been lying ill on the top of the brick oven for
seven years. Iván had all he needed: three horses and a colt, a cow with a calf, and fifteen sheep. The
women made all the clothing for the family, besides helping in the fields, and the men tilled the land. They always
had grain enough of their own to last over beyond the next harvest and sold enough oats to pay the taxes and meet
their other needs. So Iván and his children might have lived quite comfortably had it not been for a feud
between him and his next-door neighbour, Limping Gabriel, the son of Gordéy Ivánof.
As long as old Gordéy was alive and Iván's father was still able to manage the household, the peasants
lived as neighbours should. If the women of either house happened to want a sieve or a tub, or the men required
a sack, or if a cart-wheel got broken and could not be mended at once, they used to send to the other house, and
helped each other in neighbourly fashion. When a calf strayed into the neighbour's thrashing-ground they would
just drive it out, and only say, 'Don't let it get in again; our grain is lying there.' And such things as locking
up the barns and outhouses, hiding things from one another, or backbiting were never thought of in those days.
That was in the fathers' time. When the sons came to be at the head of the families, everything changed.
It all began about a trifle.
Iván's daughter-in-law had a hen that began laying rather early in the season, and she started collecting
its eggs for Easter. Every day she went to the cart-shed, and found an egg in the cart; but one day the hen, probably
frightened by the children, flew across the fence into the neighbour's yard and laid its egg there. The woman heard
the cackling, but said to herself: 'I have no time now; I must tidy up for Sunday. I'll fetch the egg later on.'
In the evening she went to the cart, but found no egg there. She went and asked her mother-in-law and brother-in-law
whether they had taken the egg. 'No,' they had not; but her youngest brother-in-law, Tarás, said: 'Your
Biddy laid its egg in the neighbour's yard. It was there she was cackling, and she flew back across the fence from
there.'
The woman went and looked at the hen. There she was on the perch with the other birds, her eyes just closing ready
to go to sleep. The woman wished she could have asked the hen and got an answer from her.
Then she went to the neighbour's, and Gabriel's mother came out to meet her.
'What do you want, young woman?'
'Why, Granny, you see, my hen flew across this morning. Did she not lay an egg here?'
'We never saw anything of it. The Lord be thanked, our own hens started laying long ago. We collect our own eggs
and have no need of other people's! And we don't go looking for eggs in other people's yards, lass!'
The young woman was offended, and said more than she should have done. Her neighbour answered back with interest,
and the women began abusing each other. Ivan's wife, who had been to fetch water, happening to pass just then,
joined in too. Gabriel's wife rushed out, and began reproaching the young woman with things that had really happened
and with other things that never had happened at all. Then a general uproar commenced, all shouting at once, trying
to get out two words at a time, and not choice words either.
'You're this!' and 'You're that!' 'You're a thief!' and 'You're a slut!' and 'You're starving your old father-in-law
to death!' and 'You're a good-for-nothing!' and so on.
'And you've made a hole in the sieve I lent you, you jade! And it's our yoke you're carrying your pails on -- you
just give back our yoke!'
Then they caught hold of the yoke, and spilt the water, snatched off one another's shawls, and began fighting.
Gabriel, returning from the fields, stopped to take his wife's part. Out rushed Iván and his son and joined
in with the rest. Iván was a strong fellow, he scattered the whole lot of them, and pulled a handful of
hair out of Gabriel's beard. People came to see what was the matter, and the fighters were separated with difficulty.
That was how it all began.
Gabriel wrapped the hair torn from his beard in a paper, and went to the District Court to have the law of Iván.
'I didn't grow my beard,' said he, 'for pockmarked Iván to pull it out!' And his wife went bragging to the
neighbours, saying they'd have Iván condemned and sent to Siberia. And so the feud grew.
The old man, from where he lay on the top of the oven, tried from the very first to persuade them to make peace,
but they would not listen. He told them, 'It's a stupid thing you are after, children, picking quarrels about such
a paltry matter. Just think! The whole thing began about an egg. The children may have taken it -- well, what matter?
What's the value of one egg? God sends enough for all! And suppose your neighbour did say an unkind word -- put
it right; show her how to say a better one! If there has been a fight -- well, such things will happen; we're all
sinners, but make it up, and let there be an end of it! If you nurse your anger it will be worse for you yourselves.'
But the younger folk would not listen to the old man. They thought his words were mere senseless dotage. Iván
would not humble himself before his neighbour.
'I never pulled his beard,' he said, 'he pulled the hair out himself. But his son has burst all the fastenings
on my shirt, and torn it. . . . Look at it!'
And Iván also went to law. They were tried by the Justice of the Peace and by the District Court. While
all this was going on, the coupling-pin of Gabriel's cart disappeared. Gabriel's womenfolk accused Ivan's son of
having taken it. They said: 'We saw him in the night go past our window, towards the cart; and a neighbour says
he saw him at the pub, offering the pin to the landlord.'
So they went to law about that. And at home not a day passed without a quarrel or even a fight. The children, too,
abused one another, having learnt to do so from their elders; and when the women happened to meet by the river-side,
where they went to rinse the clothes, their arms did not do as much wringing as their tongues did nagging, and
every word was a bad one.
At first the peasants only slandered one another; but afterwards they began in real earnest to snatch anything
that lay handy, and the children followed their example. Life became harder and harder for them. Iván Stcherbakóf
and Limping Gabriel kept suing one another at the Village Assembly, and at the District Court, and before the Justice
of the Peace until all the judges were tired of them. Now Gabriel got Iván fined or imprisoned; then Iván
did as much to Gabriel; and the more they spited each other the angrier they grew -- like dogs that attack one
another and get more and more furious the longer they fight. You strike one dog from behind, and it thinks it's
the other dog biting him, and gets still fiercer. So these peasants: they went to law, and one or other of them
was fined or locked up, but that only made them more and more angry with each other. 'Wait a bit,' they said, 'and
I'll make you pay for it.' And so it went on for six years. Only the old man lying on the top of the oven kept
telling them again and again: 'Children, what are you doing? Stop all this paying back; keep to your work, and
don't bear malice -- it will be better for you. The more you bear malice, the worse it will be.'
But they would not listen to him.
In the seventh year, at a wedding, Ivan's daughter-in-law held Gabriel up to shame, accusing him of having been
caught horse-stealing. Gabriel was tipsy, and unable to contain his anger, gave the woman such a blow that she
was laid up for a week; and she was pregnant at the time. Iván was delighted. He went to the magistrate
to lodge a complaint. 'Now I'll get rid of my neighbour! He won't escape imprisonment, or exile to Siberia.' But
Ivan's wish was not fulfilled. The magistrate dismissed the case. The woman was examined, but she was up and about
and showed no sign of any injury. Then Ivan went to the Justice of the Peace, but he referred the business to the
District Court. Ivan bestirred himself: treated the clerk and the Elder of the District Court to a gallon of liquor
and got Gabriel condemned to be flogged. The sentence was read out to Gabriel by the clerk: 'The Court decrees
that the peasant Gabriel Gordéyef shall receive twenty lashes with a birch rod at the District Court.'
Ivan too heard the sentence read, and looked at Gabriel to see how he would take it. Gabriel grew as pale as a
sheet, and turned round and went out into the passage. Ivan followed him, meaning to see to the horse, and he overheard
Gabriel say, 'Very well! He will have my back flogged: that will make it burn; but something of his may burn worse
than that!'
Hearing these words, Ivan at once went back into the Court, and said: 'Upright judges! He threatens to set my house
on fire! Listen: he said it in the presence of witnesses!'
Gabriel was recalled. 'Is it true that you said this?'
'I haven't said anything. Flog me, since you have the power. It seems that I alone am to suffer, and all for being
in the right, while he is allowed to do as he likes.'
Gabriel wished to say something more, but his lips and his cheeks quivered, and he turned towards the wall. Even
the officials were frightened by his looks. 'He may do some mischief to himself or to his neighbour,' thought they.
Then the old Judge said: 'Look here, my men; you'd better be reasonable and make it up. Was it right of you, friend
Gabriel, to strike a pregnant woman? It was lucky it passed off so well, but think what might have happened! Was
it right? You had better confess and beg his pardon, and he will forgive you, and we will alter the sentence.'
The clerk heard these words, and remarked: 'That's impossible under Statute 117. An agreement between the parties
not having been arrived at, a decision of the Court has been pronounced and must be executed.'
But the Judge would not listen to the clerk.
'Keep your tongue still, my friend,' said he. 'The first of all laws is to obey God, Who loves peace.' And the
Judge began again to persuade the peasants, but could not succeed. Gabriel would not listen to him.
'I shall be fifty next year,' said he, 'and have a married son, and have never been flogged in my life, and now
that pockmarked Ivan has had me condemned to be flogged, and am I to go and ask his forgiveness? No; I've borne
enough. . . . Ivan shall have cause to remember me!'
Again Gabriel's voice quivered, and he could say no more, but turned round and went out.
It was seven miles from the Court to the village, and it was getting late when Ivan reached home. He unharnessed
his horse, put it up for the night, and entered the cottage. No one was there. The women had already gone to drive
the cattle in, and the young fellows were not yet back from the fields. Iván went in, and sat down, thinking.
He remembered how Gabriel had listened to the sentence, and how pale he had become, and how he had turned to the
wall; and Ivan's heart grew heavy. He thought how he himself would feel if he were sentenced, and he pitied Gabriel.
Then he heard his old father up on the oven cough, and saw him sit up, lower his legs, and scramble down. The old
man dragged himself slowly to a seat, and sat down. He was quite tired out with the exertion, and coughed a long
time till he had cleared his throat. Then, leaning against the table, he said: 'Well, has he been condemned?'
'Yes, to twenty strokes with the rods,' answered Iván.
The old man shook his head.
'A bad business,' said he. 'You are doing wrong, Iván! Ah! it's very bad -- not for him so much as for yourself!
. . . Well, they'll flog him: but will that do you any good?'
'He'll not do it again,' said Iván.
'What is it he'll not do again? What has he done worse than you?'
'Why, think of the harm he has done me!' said Iván. 'He nearly killed my wife, and now he's threatening
to burn us up. Am I to thank him for it?'
The old man sighed, and said: 'You go about the wide world, Iván, while I am lying on the oven all these
years, so you think you see everything, and that I see nothing. . . . Ah, lad! It's you that don't see; malice
blinds you. Others' sins are before your eyes, but your own are behind your back. "He's acted badly!"
What a thing to say! If he were the only one to act badly, how could strife exist? Is strife among men ever bred
by one alone? Strife is always between two. His badness you see, but your own you don't. If he were bad, but you
were good, there would be no strife. Who pulled the hair out of his beard? Who spoilt his haystack? Who dragged
him to the law court? Yet you put it all on him! You live a bad life yourself, that's what is wrong! It's not the
way I used to live, lad, and it's not the way I taught you. Is that the way his old father and I used to live?
How did we live? Why, as neighbours should! If he happened to run out of flour, one of the women would come across:
"Uncle Trol, we want some flour." "Go to the barn, dear," I'd say: "take what you need."
If he'd no one to take his horses to pasture, "Go, Iván," I'd say, "and look after his horses."
And if I was short of anything, I'd go to him. "Uncle Gordéy," I'd say, "I want so-and-so!"
"Take it Uncle Trol!" That's how it was between us, and we had an easy time of it. But now? . . . That
soldier the other day was telling us about the fight at Plevna[9]. Why, there's war between you worse than at Plevna!
Is that living? . . . What a sin it is! You are a man and master of the house; it's you who will have to answer.
What are you teaching the women and the children? To snarl and snap? Why, the other day your Taráska --
that greenhorn -- was swearing at neighbour Irena, calling her names; and his mother listened and laughed. Is that
right? It is you will have to answer. Think of your soul. Is this all as it should be? You throw a word at me,
and I give you two in return; you give me a blow, and I give you two. No, lad! Christ, when He walked on earth,
taught us fools something very different. . . . If you get a hard word from any one, keep silent, and his own conscience
will accuse him. That is what our Lord taught. If you get a slap, turn the other cheek. "Here, beat me, if
that's what I deserve!" And his own conscience will rebuke him. He will soften, and will listen to you. That's
the way He taught us, not to be proud! . . . Why don't you speak? Isn't it as I say?'
Iván sat silent and listened.
The old man coughed, and having with difficulty cleared his throat, began again: 'You think Christ taught us wrong?
Why, it's all for our own good. Just think of your earthly life; are you better off, or worse, since this Plevna
began among you? Just reckon up what you've spent on all this law business -- what the driving backwards and forwards
and your food on the way have cost you! What fine fellows your sons have grown; you might live and get on well;
but now your means are lessening. And why? All because of this folly; because of your pride. You ought to be ploughing
with your lads, and do the sowing yourself; but the fiend carries you off to the judge, or to some pettifogger
or other. The ploughing is not done in time, nor the sowing, and mother earth can't bear properly. Why did the
oats fail this year? When did you sow them? When you came back from town! And what did you gain? A burden for your
own shoulders. . . . Eh, lad, think of your own business! Work with your boys in the field and at home, and if
some one offends you, forgive him, as God wished you to. Then life will be easy, and your heart will always be
light.'
Iván remained silent.
'Iván, my boy, hear your old father! Go and harness the roan, and go at once to the Government office; put
an end to all this affair there; and in the morning go and make it up with Gabriel in God's name, and invite him
to your house for to-morrow's holiday' (it was the eve of the Virgin's Nativity). 'Have tea ready, and get a bottle
of vódka and put an end to this wicked business, so that there should not be any more of it in future, and
tell the women and children to do the same.'
Iván sighed, and thought, 'What he says is true,' and his heart grew lighter. Only he did not know how,
now, to begin to put matters right.
But again the old man began, as if he had guessed what was in Ivan's mind.
'Go, Iván, don't put it off! Put out the fire before it spreads, or it will be too late.'
The old man was going to say more, but before he could do so the women came in, chattering like magpies. The news
that Gabriel was sentenced to be flogged, and of his threat to set fire to the house, had already reached them.
They had heard all about it and added to it something of their own, and had again had a row, in the pasture, with
the women of Gabriel's household. They began telling how Gabriel's daughter-in-law threatened a fresh action: Gabriel
had got the right side of the examining magistrate, who would now turn the whole affair upside down; and the schoolmaster
was writing out another petition, to the Tsar himself this time, about Iván; and everything was in the petition
-- all about the coupling-pin and the kitchen-garden -- so that half of Ivan's homestead would be theirs soon.
Iván heard what they were saying, and his heart grew cold again, and he gave up the thought of making peace
with Gabriel.
In a farmstead there is always plenty for the master to do. Iván did not stop to talk to the women, but
went out to the threshing-floor and to the barn. By the time he had tidied up there, the sun had set and the young
fellows had returned from the field. They had been ploughing the field for the winter crops with two horses. Iván
met them, questioned them about their work, helped to put everything in its place, set a torn horse-collar aside
to be mended, and was going to put away some stakes under the barn, but it had grown quite dusk, so he decided
to leave them where they were till next day. Then he gave the cattle their food, opened the gate, let out the horses.
Tarás was to take to pasture for the night, and again closed the gate and barred it. 'Now,' thought he,
'I'll have my supper, and then to bed.' He took the horse-collar and entered the hut. By this time he had forgotten
about Gabriel and about what his old father had been saying to him. But, just as he took hold of the door-handle
to enter the passage, he heard his neighbour on the other side of the fence cursing somebody in a hoarse voice:
'What the devil is he good for?' Gabriel was saying. 'He's only fit to be killed!' At these words all Ivan's former
bitterness towards his neighbour re-awoke. He stood listening while Gabriel scolded, and, when he stopped, Iván
went into the hut.
There was a light inside; his daughter-in-law sat spinning, his wife was getting supper ready, his eldest son was
making straps for bark shoes, his second sat near the table with a book, and Tarás was getting ready to
go out to pasture the horses for the night. Everything in the hut would have been pleasant and bright, but for
that plague -- a bad neighbour!
Iván entered, sullen and cross; threw the cat down from the bench, and scolded the women for putting the
slop-pail in the wrong place. He felt despondent, and sat down, frowning, to mend the horse-collar. Gabriel's words
kept ringing in his ears: his threat at the law court, and what he had just been shouting in a hoarse voice about
some one who was 'only fit to be killed.'
His wife gave Tarás his supper, and, having eaten it, Tarás put on an old sheepskin and another coat,
tied a sash round his waist, took some bread with him, and went out to the horses. His eldest brother was going
to see him off, but Iván himself rose instead, and went out into the porch. It had grown quite dark outside,
clouds had gathered, and the wind had risen. Iván went down the steps, helped his boy to mount, started
the foal after him, and stood listening while Tarás rode down the village and was there joined by other
lads with their horses. Iván waited until they were all out of hearing. As he stood there by the gate he
could not get Gabriel's words out of his head: 'Mind that something of yours does not burn worse!'
'He is desperate,' thought Iván. 'Everything is dry, and it's windy weather besides. He'll come up at the
back somewhere, set fire to something, and be off. He'll burn the place and escape scot free, the villain! . .
. There now, if one could but catch him in the act, he'd not get off then!' And the thought fixed itself so firmly
in his mind that he did not go up the steps but went out into the street and round the corner. I'll just walk round
the buildings; who can tell what he's after?' And Iván, stepping softly, passed out of the gate. As soon
as he reached the corner, he looked round along the fence, and seemed to see something suddenly move at the opposite
corner, as if some one had come out and disappeared again. Iván stopped, and stood quietly, listening and
looking. Everything was still; only the leaves of the willows fluttered in the wind, and the straws of the thatch
rustled. At first it seemed pitch dark, but, when his eyes had grown used to the darkness, he could see the far
corner, and a plough that lay there, and the eaves. He looked a while, but saw no one.
'I suppose it was a mistake,' thought Iván; 'but still I will go round,' and Iván went stealthily
along by the shed. Iván stepped so softly in his bark shoes that he did not hear his own footsteps. As he
reached the far corner, something seemed to flare up for a moment near the plough and to vanish again. Iván
felt as if struck to the heart; and he stopped. Hardly had he stopped, when something flared up more brightly in
the same place, and he clearly saw a man with a cap on his head, crouching down, with his back towards him, lighting
a bunch of straw he held in his hand. Iván's heart fluttered within him like a bird. Straining every nerve,
he approached with great strides, hardly feeling his legs under him. 'Ah,' thought Iván, 'now he won't escape!
I'll catch him in the act!'
Iván was still some distance off, when suddenly he saw a bright light, but not in the same place as before,
and not a small flame. The thatch had flared up at the eaves, the flames were reaching up to the roof, and, standing
beneath it, Gabriel's whole figure was clearly visible.
Like a hawk swooping down on a lark, Iván rushed at Limping Gabriel. 'Now I'll have him; he shan't escape
me!' thought Iván. But Gabriel must have heard his steps, and (however he managed it) glancing round, he
scuttled away past the barn like a hare.
'You shan't escape!' shouted Iván, darting after him.
Just as he was going to seize Gabriel, the latter dodged him; but Iván managed to catch the skirt of Gabriel's
coat. It tore right off, and Iván fell down. He recovered his feet, and shouting, 'Help! Seize him! Thieves!
Murder!' ran on again. But meanwhile Gabriel had reached his own gate. There Iván overtook him and was about
to seize him, when something struck Iván a stunning blow, as though a stone had hit his temple, quite deafening
him. It was Gabriel who, seizing an oak wedge that lay near the gate, had struck out with all his might.
Iván was stunned; sparks flew before his eyes, then all grew dark and he staggered. When he came to his
senses Gabriel was no longer there: it was as light as day, and from the side where his homestead was something
roared and crackled like an engine at work. Iván turned round and saw that his back shed was all ablaze,
and the side shed had also caught fire, and flames and smoke and bits of burning straw mixed with the smoke, were
being driven towards his hut.
'What is this, friends? . . .' cried Iván, lifting his arms and striking his thighs.' Why, all I had to
do was just to snatch it out from under the eaves and trample on it! What is this, friends? . . .' he kept repeating.
He wished to shout, but his breath failed him; his voice was gone. He wanted to run, but his legs would not obey
him, and got in each other's way. He moved slowly, but again staggered and again his breath failed. He stood still
till he had regained breath, and then went on. Before he had got round the back shed to reach the fire, the side
shed was also all ablaze; and the corner of the hut and the covered gateway had caught fire as well. The flames
were leaping out of the hut, and it was impossible to get into the yard. A large crowd had collected, but nothing
could be done. The neighbours were carrying their belongings out of their own houses, and driving the cattle out
of their own sheds. After Ivan's house, Gabriel's also caught fire, then, the wind rising, the flames spread to
the other side of the street and half the village was burnt down.
At Ivan's house they barely managed to save his old father; and the family escaped in what they had on; everything
else, except the horses that had been driven out to pasture for the night, was lost; all the cattle, the fowls
on their perches, the carts, ploughs, and harrows, the women's trunks with their clothes, and the grain in the
granaries -- all were burnt up!
At Gabriel's, the cattle were driven out, and a few things saved from his house.
The fire lasted all night. Iván stood in front of his homestead and kept repeating, 'What is this? . . .
Friends! . . . One need only have pulled it out and trampled on it!' But when the roof fell in, Iván rushed
into the burning place, and seizing a charred beam, tried to drag it out. The women saw him, and called him back;
but he pulled out the beam, and was going in again for another when he lost his footing and fell among the flames.
Then his son made his way in after him and dragged him out. Iván had singed his hair and beard and burnt
his clothes and scorched his hands, but he felt nothing. 'His grief has stupefied him,' said the people. The fire
was burning itself out, but Iván still stood repeating: 'Friends! . . . What is this? . . . One need only
have pulled it out!'
In the morning the village Elder's son came to fetch Iván.
'Daddy Iván, your father is dying! He has sent for you to say good-bye.'
Iván had forgotten about his father, and did not understand what was being said to him.
'What father?' he said. 'Whom has he sent for?'
'He sent for you, to say good-bye; he is dying in our cottage! Come along, daddy Iván,' said the Elder's
son, pulling him by the arm; and Iván followed the lad.
When he was being carried out of the hut, some burning straw had fallen on to the old man and burnt him, and he
had been taken to the village Elder's in the farther part of the village, which the fire did not reach.
When Iván came to his father, there was only the Elder's wife in the hut, besides some little children on
the top of the oven. All the rest were still at the fire. The old man, who was lying on a bench holding a wax candle[10]
in his hand, kept turning his eyes towards the door. When his son entered, he moved a little. The old woman went
up to him and told him that his son had come. He asked to have him brought nearer. Iván came closer.
'What did I tell you, Iván?' began the old man 'Who has burnt down the village?'
'It was he, father!' Iván answered. 'I caught him in the act. I saw him shove the firebrand into the thatch.
I might have pulled away the burning straw and stamped it out, and then nothing would have happened.'
'Iván,' said the old man, 'I am dying, and you in your turn will have to face death. Whose is the sin?'
Iván gazed at his father in silence, unable to utter a word.
'Now, before God, say whose is the sin? What did I tell you?'
Only then Iván came to his senses and understood it all. He sniffed and said, 'Mine, father!' And he fell
on his knees before his father, saying, 'Forgive me, father; I am guilty before you and before God.'
The old man moved his hands, changed the candle from his right hand to his left, and tried to lift his right hand
to his forehead to cross himself, but could not do it, and stopped.
'Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!' said he, and again he turned his eyes towards his son.
'Iván! I say, Iván!'
'What, father?'
'What must you do now?'
Iván was weeping.
'I don't know how we are to live now, father!' he said.
The old man closed his eyes, moved his lips as if to gather strength, and opening his eyes again, said: 'You'll
manage. If you obey God's will, you'll manage!' He paused, then smiled, and said: 'Mind, Iván! Don't tell
who started the fire! Hide another man's sin, and God will forgive two of yours!' And the old man took the candle
in both hands and, folding them on his breast, sighed, stretched out, and died.
Iván did not say anything against Gabriel, and no one knew what had caused the fire.
And Ivan's anger against Gabriel passed away, and Gabriel wondered that Iván did not tell anybody. At first
Gabriel felt afraid, but after awhile he got used to it. The men left off quarrelling, and then their families
left off also. While rebuilding their huts, both families lived in one house; and when the village was rebuilt
and they might have moved farther apart, Iván and Gabriel built next to each other, and remained neighbours
as before.
They lived as good neighbours should. Iván Stcherbakóf remembered his old father's command to obey
God's law, and quench a fire at the first spark; and if any one does him an injury he now tries not to revenge
himself, but rather to set matters right again; and if any one gives him a bad word, instead of giving a worse
in return, he tries to teach the other not to use evil words; and so he teaches his womenfolk and children. And
Iván Stcherbakóf has got on his feet again, and now lives better even than he did before.
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