Short Fiction by Leo Tolstoy (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

the Migoúrskis, a Pole named Rosolówski arrived at Urálsk. He had been concerned in a widespread plot organized in Siberia by the exiled Polish priest Sirocínski, to raise an insurrection and escape from exile.

Rosolówski, who, like Migoúrski and thousands of others, was being punished with exile in Siberia for wishing to remain what he had been born⁠—a Pole⁠—had taken part in this plot and had been flogged for it; and he was now sent as a common soldier to serve in Migoúrski’s battalion. Rosolówski, who had been a teacher of mathematics, was a tall, thin, round-shouldered man, with hollow cheeks and wrinkled brows.

On the first evening after his arrival, as he sat at tea with the Migoúrskis, he naturally began to tell them, in his slow quiet bass voice, about the affair for which he had suffered so cruelly.

It was this: Sirocínski had organized a secret society all over Siberia, the aim of which was, by the aid of the Poles serving in the Cossack and line regiments, to incite the soldiers and convicts to mutiny, to get the exiles to rise, to seize the artillery at Omsk, and to liberate everybody.

“Would that have been possible?” asked Migoúrski.

“Certainly it would⁠ ⁠… everything was ready,” said Rosolówski, frowning gloomily. And slowly and calmly he explained the whole plan of liberation, and all the measures taken to secure success, or, in case of failure, to save the conspirators. If two scoundrels had not betrayed the plan, success was assured. According to Rosolówski, Sirocínski was a man of genius and great spiritual power. He died like a hero and a martyr. And Rosolówski, in his calm, steady deep voice, told them the details of the execution, which, by order of the Authorities, he and all who had been tried for this affair were compelled to witness.

“Two battalions of soldiers stood in two rows, forming a long passage. Every soldier held a flexible switch, of a thickness which, by regulations Imperially confirmed, allowed three of them to go into the muzzle of a musket. The first man to be led out was Doctor Szakálski. Two soldiers led him, and the men beat him with the switches on his bare back as he passed. I only saw this when he passed the place where I stood. At first I could hear only the beating of the drum, but when I heard the swishing of the sticks and the sound of the strokes on the flesh, I knew he was approaching. I saw how the soldiers dragged him along by the musket to which he was tied, and how he went shuddering and turning his head from side to side. And once, as they led him past us, I heard a Russian doctor say to the soldiers: ‘Don’t hit hard; have some pity!’ But they continued to beat him, and when he passed me the second time, he could no longer walk, but was simply being dragged along. It was dreadful to see his back; and I closed my eyes. He fell, and was carried away. Then another prisoner was brought out, then a third, and then a fourth. They all sank under it, and were all carried away, some dead, some just alive⁠—and we had to stand by and witness it. It lasted six hours, from early morning till two in the afternoon. The last to be brought out was Sirocínski himself. I had not seen him for a long time, and should hardly have recognized him, he had aged so. His clean-shaven face was all wrinkled and livid. His bare body was thin and yellow, the ribs protruded above his shrunken stomach. He went, as they all did, shuddering at each stroke and jerking back his head, yet he did not groan, but loudly repeated the prayer, Miserere mei, Deus, secundam magnam misericordiam tuam.

“I heard it myself,” muttered Rosolówski quickly and hoarsely; and, shutting his mouth firmly, he sniffed.

Ludwíka, sitting at the window, sobbed, hiding her face in her handkerchief.

“Why do you describe it? Beasts⁠—beasts that they are!” shouted Migoúrski; and, throwing down his pipe, he sprang from his chair and strode rapidly into his dark bedroom.

Albína sat as if petrified, her eyes fixed on a dark corner.

VIII

On returning home after drill next day, Migoúrski was surprised and delighted to notice a great change in his wife. She came to meet him with a light step and beaming face as of old, and led him into their bedroom.

“Now, Josy, listen!⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes; what is it?”

“I have been thinking all night of what Rosolówski told us, and I have made up my mind. I can’t live like this⁠—I can’t live here, I can’t! I’ll die rather than remain here!”

“But what can we do?”

“Run away!”

“Run away? How?”

“I have thought it all out. Listen.⁠ ⁠…”

And she told him the plan she had devised during the night. It was this: Migoúrski was to go away one evening and leave his overcoat on the banks of the Urál, and with it a letter saying he was going to take his life. It would be supposed that he had drowned himself. He would be searched for, and then the fact would be notified. But in reality he would be hidden. She would hide him so that no one would find him. It would be possible to live like that for a month, say, and when all had blown over, they would escape.

At first Migoúrski thought her scheme impracticable; but towards evening, after her passionate and confident persuading, he began to agree with her. He was the more inclined to do so because the punishment for an unsuccessful attempt to desert⁠—such punishment as Rosolówski had described⁠—would fall on him; while success would set her free, and he knew how hard life there had become for her since the children died.

Rosolówski and Ludwíka were taken into their confidence; and after long discussions, alterations and improvements, a plan was finally adopted. Their first idea was that when Migoúrski’s death should have