The Eagle

For some time an eagle also lived with us in the prison—a steppe eagle, a Karagu, one of the smaller breeds. Someone brought him into the prison wounded and exhausted. The whole prison gathered around him; he could not fly: his right wing hung down to the ground, and one leg was dislocated. I remember how fiercely he looked around, surveying the curious crowd, and opened his hooked beak, prepared to sell his life dearly.

When they had looked their fill and began to disperse, he hobbled away, limping, hopping on one leg and flapping his good wing, to the farthest corner of the prison, where he pressed himself tightly against the palisade. There he lived with us for about three months and never once came out of his corner the whole time. At first they often came to look at him and set the dog on him. Sharik would rush at him furiously but was clearly afraid to come too close, which greatly amused the prisoners.

“He’s a wild one!” they said. “Won’t give in!”

Later Sharik began to hurt him badly; his fear passed, and when they set him on the eagle, he learned to grab him by the injured wing. The eagle defended himself with all his might, using his talons and beak, and proudly and fiercely, like a wounded king, huddled in his corner, he surveyed the curious onlookers who came to stare at him. Finally everyone grew tired of him, everyone abandoned and forgot him, and yet every day one could see scraps of fresh meat and a shard of pottery with water beside him. Someone must have been looking after him. At first he would not eat at all—he did not eat for several days; finally he began to accept food, but never from anyone’s hand or in anyone’s presence.

I happened to observe him from a distance more than once. Seeing no one and thinking himself alone, he sometimes ventured to come out from his corner and hobble along the palisade, about twelve paces from his place, then returned, then came out again, as if taking exercise.

Catching sight of me, he would immediately hurry back to his place with all his might, limping and hopping, and throwing back his head, opening his beak, bristling, he would at once prepare himself for battle. No kindness could soften him: he bit and struggled, would not take beef from me, and the whole time, as I stood over him, he stared straight into my eyes with his evil, piercing gaze. Lonely and fierce, he awaited death, trusting no one and making peace with no one.

Finally the prisoners seemed to remember him, and though no one had cared for him, no one had mentioned him for about two months, suddenly in everyone there appeared a kind of sympathy for him.

They began saying that the eagle must be taken out.

“Let him die, at least not in prison,” some said.

“Of course, he’s a wild bird, a fierce one—you won’t train him to prison life,” others agreed.

“He must be different from us,” someone added.

“Listen to him! That’s a bird, but we’re human beings, you know.”

“The eagle, brothers, is the king of the forest…” the smooth talker Skuratov began, but this time they did not listen to him.

One day after dinner, when the drum had sounded for work, they took the eagle, holding his beak shut with their hand because he had begun to fight fiercely, and carried him out of the prison.

They reached the rampart. About a dozen men in the work party watched with curiosity to see where the eagle would go. A strange thing: everyone was pleased about something, as if they themselves had partly received their freedom.

“Look at him, the cur—you do him a kindness, and he still bites!” said the one holding him, looking at the fierce bird almost with love.

“Let him go, Mikitka!”

“He doesn’t need your fancy tricks. He needs freedom—real freedom!”

They threw the eagle from the rampart into the steppe. It was late autumn, a cold and gloomy day. The wind whistled across the bare steppe and rustled in the yellowed, withered, tufted grass. The eagle set off straight ahead, flapping his injured wing, as if hurrying to get away from us, wherever his eyes might lead.

The prisoners watched with curiosity as his head flickered through the grass.

“Look at him!” one said thoughtfully.

“He won’t even look back!” another added.

“Not once, brothers—he hasn’t looked back once, just runs along!”

“Did you think he’d come back to thank us?” a third remarked.

“Of course—freedom! He smells freedom.”

“Liberty, that’s what it means.”

“Can’t even see him anymore, brothers…”

“What are you standing around for? March!” shouted the guards; and everyone silently trudged off to work.

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Translator’s Notes:

• Karagu (Карагуш): A Turkic name for a type of small steppe eagle, common in the Siberian and Central Asian regions where Dostoevsky was imprisoned.
• The passage comes from Part I, Chapter 9 of Notes from the House of the Dead (1862), Dostoevsky’s fictionalized memoir of his years in a Siberian prison camp.
• Tolstoy selected this passage for its resonance with his philosophy: the eagle’s unconquerable spirit and refusal to submit to captivity mirrors Tolstoy’s views on human dignity and the soul’s innate longing for freedom.
• The prisoners’ spontaneous compassion—releasing the eagle despite their own bondage—illustrates Tolstoy’s belief in the natural goodness that persists even among criminals.
• “King of the forest” (tsar’ lesov): The phrase is deliberately comic—eagles are kings of the sky or steppe, not forests. Skuratov is a “smooth talker” (krasnobay) who often gets things wrong.