God Sees the Truth, But Waits (1872) tells the story of a man wrongly convicted and imprisoned for a murder he did not commit; it is Tolstoy’s parable of forgiveness. Tolstoy’s tale inspired Stephen King’s novella Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption (1982), which was adapted into the famous 1994 film.
In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Aksyonov. He owned two shops and a house of his own.
Aksyonov was a handsome man with curly blond hair, full of cheer and very fond of singing. In his younger days, he was often invited to drink; when he drank too much, he would become reckless. But after marriage, he gave up alcohol, indulging only occasionally.
One summer, Aksyonov planned to travel to the Nizhny Fair. As he bid farewell to his family, his wife said to him, “Ivan Dmitrich, don’t go today. I had a bad dream about you.”
Aksyonov laughed. “Are you afraid I’ll go carousing at the fair?”
His wife replied, “I don’t know what I fear; I only know I had a bad dream. I dreamed you returned from town, and when you took off your cap, I saw your hair had turned quite gray.”
Aksyonov chuckled. “That’s a good sign,” he said. “See if I don’t sell everything and bring you back gifts from the fair.”
So he said goodbye to his family and set off.
Halfway there, he met a merchant he knew, and they stayed at the same inn overnight. They had tea together and then slept in adjoining rooms.
Aksyonov was not used to sleeping late. Hoping to leave while it was still cool, he woke the driver before dawn and told him to harness the horses.
Then he went to the innkeeper (who lived in a small cottage at the back), settled the bill, and continued his journey.
After traveling about twenty-five miles, he stopped to feed the horses. Aksyonov rested in the hallway of an inn for a while, then stepped onto the porch, ordered a pot of hot tea, and took out his guitar to play.
Suddenly, a troika arrived, its bells jingling, and an official stepped down, followed by two soldiers. He approached Aksyonov and began questioning him—who he was, where he came from. Aksyonov answered fully and said, “Would you like to share a cup of tea with me?” But the official pressed on: “Where did you stay last night? Were you alone, or with another merchant? Did you see the other merchant this morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?”
Aksyonov didn’t understand why he was being questioned like this, but he recounted everything that had happened. Then he asked, “Why are you interrogating me as if I were a thief or a robber? I’m traveling for my own business. There’s no need for such questioning.”
The official called the soldiers over and said, “I am the district police officer. I’m questioning you because the merchant who stayed with you at the inn last night was found with his throat cut. We must search your belongings.”
They entered the house. The soldiers and the officer unpacked Aksyonov’s luggage and searched it. Suddenly, the officer pulled a knife from the bag and shouted, “Whose knife is this?”
Aksyonov looked and was horrified to see a bloodstained knife drawn from his bag.
“How did blood get on this knife?”
Aksyonov tried to answer but could barely speak, stammering, “I—don’t know—it’s not mine.” The officer said, “This morning, the merchant was found in bed with his throat slit. You’re the only one who could have done it. The room was locked from the inside, and no one else was there. This bloodstained knife was in your bag, and your face and manner betray you! Tell me how you killed him and how much money you stole.”
Aksyonov swore he hadn’t done it; he hadn’t seen the merchant after they drank tea together; he had no money except his own eight thousand rubles, and the knife wasn’t his. But his voice faltered, his face turned pale, and he trembled with fear as if guilty.
The officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksyonov and place him in the cart. As they tied his feet and threw him onto the cart, Aksyonov crossed himself and wept. His money and goods were confiscated, and he was taken to the nearest town, where he was imprisoned. In Vladimir, inquiries were made about his character. The town’s merchants and other residents said that while he used to drink and idle away his time, he was a good man. Then the trial began: he was charged with murdering a merchant from Ryazan and stealing twenty thousand rubles from him.
His wife was in despair, not knowing what to believe. Her children were young—one still a nursing infant. She took them to the town where her husband was imprisoned. At first, she wasn’t allowed to see him, but after pleading, she was granted permission. When she saw her husband in prison garb, shackled and confined among thieves and criminals, she fainted and didn’t regain consciousness for a long time. Then she pulled the children close and sat beside her husband. She told him about home and asked what had happened. He told her everything, and she asked, “What can we do now?”
“We must petition the Tsar not to let an innocent man perish.”
His wife told him she had already submitted a petition to the Tsar, but it was rejected.
Aksyonov didn’t answer, only looking despondent.
Then his wife said, “My dream about your hair turning gray wasn’t for nothing. Do you remember? You shouldn’t have left that day.” She ran her fingers through his hair and said, “Dearest Vanya, tell your wife the truth—was it you?”
“So even you doubt me!” Aksyonov covered his face with his hands and wept. A soldier then came and said his wife and children had to leave. Aksyonov bid his family farewell for the last time.
After they left, Aksyonov recalled their words. Remembering that even his wife had doubted him, he thought, It seems only God knows the truth. We can only plead with Him, and only He can grant mercy.
Aksyonov stopped writing petitions, abandoned all hope, and prayed only to God.
He was sentenced to flogging and hard labor in the mines. So he was beaten with knotted lashes, and once the wounds healed, he was exiled to Siberia with other convicts.
Aksyonov lived as a convict in Siberia for twenty-six years. His hair turned snow-white, his beard grew long and thin, and gray streaked through it. He lost all joy; his back bent; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, only praying often.
In prison, Aksyonov learned to make boots, earning a little money, which he used to buy The Lives of the Saints. He read it when the prison was well-lit; on Sundays, he read in the prison church and sang in the choir, for his voice was still good.
The prison authorities liked Aksyonov for his meekness, and his fellow prisoners respected him—they called him “Grandfather” and “The Saint.” When they had requests for the authorities, they always asked Aksyonov to speak for them. When quarrels arose among the prisoners, they turned to Aksyonov to settle disputes and judge matters.
No news came from Aksyonov’s family, and he didn’t know if his wife and children were still alive.
One day, a new group of convicts arrived. That evening, the old prisoners gathered around the newcomers, asking where they were from and what crimes they’d committed. Only Aksyonov sat nearby, listening gloomily.
Among the new convicts was a tall, sturdy man of about sixty, with a short gray beard. He was telling the others why he’d been arrested.
“Well, friends,” he said, “I was arrested for stealing a horse. I just unhitched one from a sleigh, and they accused me of theft. I said I only meant to ride it home quickly and then let it go. Besides, the driver was a friend. So I said, ‘It’s nothing.’ But they said, ‘You stole the horse.’ Yet they couldn’t say how or where I stole it. True, I’ve done wrong before—I should’ve been sent here long ago, but I wasn’t caught then. Now I’m here for no reason… But I’m lying to you. I’ve been to Siberia before, though not for long.”
“Where are you from?” someone asked.
“From Vladimir. My family’s from there. My name’s Makar, and they call me Semyonich.”
Aksyonov looked up and said, “Tell me, Semyonich, do you know anything about the Aksyonov family in Vladimir? Are they still alive?”
“Know them? Of course! The Aksyonovs are rich, though their father’s in Siberia—seems he’s a convict like us! And you, Grandfather, how’d you end up here?”
Aksyonov didn’t like speaking of his misfortune. He sighed and said, “For my sins, I’ve been in prison twenty-six years.”
“What sins?” asked Makar Semyonich.
But Aksyonov only said, “Well, well—I must’ve deserved it!” He meant to say no more, but his companions told the newcomers how Aksyonov had come to Siberia—how someone had killed a merchant, planted the knife in his bag, and how Aksyonov had been wronged.
When Makar Semyonich heard this, he stared at Aksyonov, slapped his knee, and exclaimed, “Well, I never! Truly amazing! And you’re so old now, Grandfather!”
The others asked why he was so surprised, whether he’d seen Aksyonov before, but Makar Semyonich didn’t answer. He only said, “What a small world, meeting here like this!”
These words made Aksyonov wonder if this man knew who’d killed the merchant. So he asked, “Perhaps, Semyonich, you’ve heard of that affair or seen me before?”
“How could I not hear? The world’s full of rumors. But it was so long ago, I’ve forgotten what I heard.”
“Maybe you heard who killed the merchant?” asked Aksyonov.
Makar Semyonich laughed and replied, “Must’ve been the one whose bag the knife was found in! If someone else hid it there, as the saying goes, ‘Catch the thief with the goods, or he’s no thief.’ Who could slip a knife into your bag under your head without waking you?”
Hearing this, Aksyonov was certain this man was the murderer. He stood and walked away. Aksyonov didn’t sleep that night. He felt wretched, and scenes from his life flashed before him—his wife as she’d looked when he left for the fair, her face and eyes vivid in his mind, her voice laughing and talking. Then he saw his children, small as they’d been then, one in a little cloak, the other at his mother’s breast. He remembered his younger, happier self, sitting on the inn porch playing the guitar, carefree. He recalled the flogging, the executioner, the onlookers, the chains, the prisoners, the twenty-six years of prison life, his premature aging. The pain of it all made him long for death.
All because of that villain! Aksyonov thought. His anger at Makar Semyonich burned so fiercely he craved vengeance, even at the cost of his own life. He prayed all night but found no peace. The next day, he avoided Makar Semyonich, refusing even to look at him.
Two weeks passed. Aksyonov couldn’t sleep at night, tormented, unsure what to do.
One evening, as he paced the prison, he noticed dirt spilling from under a sleeping shelf. He stopped to look. Suddenly, Makar Semyonich crawled out from under the shelf and stared at Aksyonov in terror. Aksyonov tried to walk past, pretending not to see, but Makar grabbed his hand and confessed he’d dug a tunnel under the wall. He asked Aksyonov to carry out the dirt in his boots and empty them each day when the prisoners went to work.
“Old man, if you keep quiet, you can escape too. If you talk, they’ll flog me to death, but I’ll kill you first.”
Aksyonov trembled with rage, glaring at his enemy. He pulled his hand free and said, “I don’t want to escape, and you needn’t kill me. You killed me long ago! As for what I should do—God will guide me.”
The next day, as the prisoners marched to work, guards noticed one emptying dirt from his boots. The prison was searched, and the tunnel found. The warden interrogated the prisoners, demanding to know who’d dug it. All denied knowledge. Those who knew wouldn’t betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he’d be flogged nearly to death. Finally, the warden turned to Aksyonov, whom he considered honest:
“You’re a righteous old man. Before God, tell me—who dug that hole?”
Makar Semyonich stood as if indifferent, not even glancing at Aksyonov. Aksyonov’s lips and hands shook; for a long moment, he couldn’t speak. He thought, Should I shield the man who ruined my life? Let him pay for my suffering. But if I speak, they’ll flog him to death—and what if I’m wrong? What good would it do me?
“Well, old man?” the warden repeated. “Tell the truth—who dug the tunnel?”
Aksyonov glanced at Makar Semyonich and said, “I cannot say, sir. It’s not God’s will! Do as you please—I’m in your hands.”
No matter how the warden pressed, Aksyonov said no more, and the matter was dropped.
That night, as Aksyonov lay half-asleep, someone crept up and sat on his bunk. Peering through the dark, he recognized Makar.
“What more do you want?” Aksyonov asked. “Why are you here?”
Makar Semyonich was silent. Aksyonov sat up. “What do you want? Go, or I’ll call the guards!”
Makar leaned close and whispered, “Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!”
“For what?” asked Aksyonov.
“I killed the merchant and hid the knife in your things. I meant to kill you too, but I heard noise outside, so I slipped the knife into your bag and fled through the window.”
Aksyonov was silent, unsure what to say. Makar slid from the bunk and knelt. “Ivan Dmitrich,” he pleaded, “forgive me! For God’s sake, forgive me! I’ll confess to the murder—you’ll be freed and can go home.”
“Easy for you to say,” Aksyonov replied. “But I’ve suffered twenty-six years for you. Where can I go now? My wife is dead, my children have forgotten me. I’ve nowhere…”
Makar didn’t rise but knocked his head on the floor. “Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!” he cried. “When they flogged me with the knotted ropes, it hurt less than seeing you now… You pitied me, didn’t betray me. Forgive me, wretch that I am!” He began to weep.
Hearing his sobs, Aksyonov wept too. “God will forgive you!” he said. “Perhaps I’m a hundred times worse than you.” With these words, his heart lightened, and his longing for home faded. He no longer wished to leave prison, only to await the end of his sentence.
Though Aksyonov spoke thus, Makar Semyonich confessed his crime. But by the time the order for Aksyonov’s release came, he was already dead.
About the Author
Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy (Russian: Лев Николаевич Толстой, romanized: Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy; English: Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy; born September 9, 1828 [Old Style: August 28] – died November 20, 1910 [Old Style: November 7]) was born in Yasnaya Polyana, Russia.