In Siberia the convict lived twenty-six years, doing hard labor. The hair on his head grew white like snow, while his beard grew long, sparse, and gray. All his joy was gone. He was bent, walked slowly, said little, never laughed, and prayed to God often.
In prison Aksenof learned to make boots, and with the money earned thereby he purchased the Books of the Martyrs and read them when there was sufficient light in his cell; but on holidays he attended the prison chapel, read the Apostles, and sang in the choir—his voice still remained good. The authorities liked Aksenof for his quiet behavior, while his prison comrades held him in esteem and called him “grandfather” and “holy man.” When the prisoners had any petitions to make to the authorities they always sent Aksenof as their spokesman; and when they had any quarrels among themselves, they always came before Aksenof for judgment.
From home Aksenof received no letters, and he did not know whether or not his wife and children were alive.
Once a new batch of convicts arrived at the prison. In the evening all the old convicts gathered around the new arrivals and put all sorts of questions to them, as to what town or village they had come from, and for what crime they had been sentenced. Aksenof also sat down on a bench near the new convicts, and, hanging his head, listened to what was being said. Among the new convicts was a tall, robust old man of sixty, with gray, trimmed beard. He was telling why he was sent away. He said:
“Well, brothers, it wasn’t for anything that I’ve got here. I unharnessed a horse from a shed. Got caught; stole the horse, they said. ‘I only wished to get there quicker,’ said I, ‘and I let the horse loose. And the driver was a friend of mine, besides. There’s nothing wrong in that,’ said I. ‘No,’ they said; ‘you stole the horse.’ But they couldn’t really say what and where I stole. Well, I’ve done things in my time for which I should have got here long ago if they had only caught me at it; but this once I’ve been driven here not according to law. To be honest, I’ve been in Siberia, but didn’t remain long.”
“Where do you come from?” asked one of the convicts.
“I’m from the town Vladimir, native of the place. I’m called Makar—and my paternal name Semenovich.”
Aksenof raised his head and asked:
“And have you heard, Semenich, in Vladimir town, of the Aksenofs, merchants? Are they alive?”
“To be sure, I’ve heard! They are rich merchants, though their father is in Siberia—a sinner like the rest of us. And you, old man, why are you here?”