The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

by Nikolai Leskov

  He was so alarmed that he lay ill for three days, but on the fourth he got up, went to Peter’s Little House,7 had prayers of thanksgiving offered before the icon of the Savior, and, returning home with a quieted soul, sent to ask Captain Miller to come to him.

  “Well, thank God, Nikolai Ivanovich,” he said to Miller, “now the storm that has been hanging over us is quite gone, and our unfortunate affair with the sentry is completely settled. Now, it seems, we can breathe easy. We owe it all, without doubt, first to God’s mercy, and then to General Kokoshkin. They may say he’s unkind and heartless, but I’m filled with gratitude for his magnanimity and with esteem for his resourcefulness and tact. With astonishing skill he made use of the boasting of that shifty invalid, who, in truth, should have been rewarded for his insolence not with a medal, but with a thorough thrashing behind the woodpile, but there was no other choice: he had to be made use of for the salvation of many, and Kokoshkin turned the whole affair so intelligently that no unpleasantness came of it for anybody—on the contrary, everybody’s very glad and pleased. Just between us, it has been conveyed to me through a trustworthy person that Kokoshkin himself is also very pleased with me. He liked it that I did not go anywhere else, but came straight to him and didn’t argue with that rascal who got the medal. In short, no one has suffered, and everything has been done with such tact that there’s nothing to fear in the future. But there’s one small omission on our part. We should also tactfully follow Kokoshkin’s example and finish the matter on our side, so as to protect ourselves in any case later on. There is one more person whose position has not been regularized. I’m speaking of Private Postnikov. He’s still in the punishment cell under arrest, and he’s no doubt tormented, waiting for what will happen to him. We must put an end to his racking torment.”

  “Yes, it’s high time!” Miller put in happily.

  “Well, of course, you are in the best position to do that: please go to the barracks at once, gather your company, release Private Postnikov from arrest, and punish him before the ranks with two hundred strokes of the birch.”

  XIV

  Miller was dumbfounded and made an attempt to persuade Svinyin, for the joy of all, to spare and pardon Private Postnikov altogether, since he had already suffered much without that, waiting in the punishment cell for the decision on what was to be done with him; but Svinyin flared up and did not even let Miller continue.

  “No,” he interrupted, “drop that: I’ve just been talking about tact, and right away you start your tactlessness! Drop it!”

  Svinyin changed his tone to a more dry and official one and added firmly:

  “And since you yourself are also not entirely in the right in this affair, and are even very much to blame, because there’s a softness in you unbecoming to a military man, and this defect in your character is reflected in the subordination of the men under you, I order you to be personally present during the execution of the sentence and to insist that the flogging be performed in earnest … as severely as possible. To that end, kindly see to it that the birching is done by young soldiers newly arrived from the army, because in this respect our old-timers have all been infected by the guardsmen’s liberalism: they don’t whip a comrade as they should, but just scare the fleas off his back. I’ll stop by and see for myself how the culprit’s been done.”

  Deviation from any official orders given by superiors could not, of course, take place, and the softhearted N. I. Miller had to carry out with precision the order he had received from his battalion commander.

  The company was lined up in the courtyard of the Izmailovsky barracks, the birch rods were brought from the reserve in sufficient quantity, and Private Postnikov, led out from the punishment cell, was “done” with the zealous assistance of his young comrades newly arrived from the army. These men, uncorrupted by the guardsmen’s liberalism, made a perfect job of putting all the points sur les i on him, in the full measure prescribed by the battalion commander. Then the punished Postnikov was picked up and immediately carried, on the same greatcoat on which he had been flogged, from there to the regimental infirmary.

  XV

  Battalion commander Svinyin, on receiving notice of the carried-out punishment, at once paid Postnikov a fatherly visit in the infirmary, and was convinced to his satisfaction that his order had been carried out to perfection. The tenderhearted and nervous Postnikov had been “done properly.” Svinyin remained pleased and ordered that the punished Postnikov be given on his behalf a pound of sugar and a quarter pound of tea, to sweeten his recovery. Postnikov, lying on his cot, heard this order about the tea and replied:

  “Very pleased, sir, thanks for your fatherly kindness.”

  And indeed he was “pleased,” because, while sitting for three days in the punishment cell, he had been expecting something much worse. Two hundred strokes, in those harsh times, amounted to very little compared with the punishments people endured under sentencing from the courts-martial; and that was precisely the sort of punishment Postnikov would also have received, if, luckily for him, all those bold and tactical evolutions recounted above had not taken place.

  But the number of all who were pleased by the incident we have recounted was not limited to these.

  XVI

  On the quiet, Private Postnikov’s exploit spread through various circles of the capital, which at that time of voiceless print lived in an atmosphere of endless gossip. In oral transmissions, the name of the real hero—Private Postnikov—was lost, but to make up for it the épopée itself was blown up and acquired a very interesting, romantic character.

  It was said that some extraordinary swimmer came swimming towards the palace from the direction of the Peter-and-Paul Fortress,8 that one of the sentries standing watch by the palace shot at the swimmer and wounded him, and that a passing invalid officer threw himself into the water and saved him, for which they received, the one his due reward, the other his deserved punishment. This absurd rumor even reached patriarchal quarters, where at that time a certain bishop was living, a cautious man and not indifferent to “secular events,” who was benevolently disposed towards the pious Moscow family of the Svinyins.9

  To the perspicacious bishop the story of the shot seemed unclear. What was this night swimmer? If he was an escaped prisoner, why had they punished the sentry, who had only done his duty by shooting at him as he swam across the Neva from the fortress? If, however, he was not a prisoner, but some other mysterious person who had had to be saved from the waves of the Neva, then why should the sentry have known about him? And then again, it cannot be that it was the way the idle talk of the world had it. In the world there is a great deal of light-mindedness and “idle talk,” but those who live in cloisters and in church precincts treat everything much more seriously and know the very truth about secular matters.

  XVII

  Once, when Svinyin happened to be at the bishop’s to receive his blessing, his reverend host began talking with him “incidentally about that shot.” Svinyin told him the whole truth, in which, as we know, there was nothing resembling the story made up “incidentally about that shot.”

  The bishop heard out the true story in silence, slightly moving his white prayer beads and not taking his eyes off the storyteller. When Svinyin finished, the bishop uttered in softly burbling speech:

  “Wherefore it is incumbent upon us to conclude that not always and everywhere has this affair been set forth in accordance with the full truth?”

  Svinyin faltered and then answered evasively that the report was made not by him, but by General Kokoshkin.

  The bishop ran his beads through his waxen fingers several times in silence, and then said:

  “A distinction must be made between what is a lie and what is an incomplete truth.”

  Again the beads, again the silence, and, finally, the softly flowing speech:

  “An incomplete truth is not a lie. But the less said …”

  “That is indeed so,” began the encouraged Svinyin. “For me, of co
urse, the most disturbing thing is that I had to subject that soldier to punishment, for, though he violated his duty …”

  The beads and then a softly flowing interruption:

  “The duties of the service must never be violated.”

  “Yes, but he did it out of magnanimity, out of compassion, and with such a struggle and such danger besides: he realized that, by saving another man’s life, he was destroying himself … This was a lofty, a holy feeling!”

  “The holy is known to God, while punishment of the flesh is never injurious for the simple man and contradicts neither national custom nor the spirit of the Scriptures. The rod is far easier for the coarse body to bear than refined suffering is for the soul. In this justice has not suffered from you in the least.”

  “But he was also deprived of the reward for saving a life.”

  “Saving a life is not a merit, but rather a duty. He who could save a life and does not is punishable by law, and he who does has performed his duty.”

  A pause, the beads, and the soft flow:

  “For a soldier to suffer humiliation and wounds for his exploit may be far more salutary than to be exalted by some mark. But the major thing here is—to observe caution about this whole affair and by no means mention anywhere those to whom by some chance or other it has been recounted.”

  Evidently the bishop was also pleased.

  XVIII

  If I had the daring of those lucky ones chosen by heaven, to whom, for the greatness of their faith, it is given to penetrate the mysteries of divine providence, I might be so bold as to allow myself to suppose that God himself was probably pleased with the behavior of Postnikov’s humble soul, which He created. But I have little faith; it does not give my mind the power to contemplate such loftiness: I am of the earth, earthy.10 I am thinking of those mortals who love the good simply for the sake of the good itself and expect no reward for it anywhere. These straightforward and reliable people, it seems to me, should also be perfectly pleased by the holy impulse of love and the no less holy patience of the humble hero of my faithful and artless story.

  * The dots on the i’s. Trans.

  A Robbery

  I

  The conversation got onto the embezzlement in the Orel bank, the case of which was tried in the fall of 1887. It was said that this one was a good man, and that one seemed like a good man, but, nevertheless, they all turned out to be thieves.

  An old Orel merchant, who happened to be in the company, said:

  “Ah, gentlemen, when the thieves’ time comes, even honest people turn robber.”

  “Well, there you’re joking.”

  “Not in the least. Otherwise why is it said: ‘With the pure thou wilt show thyself pure; and with the froward thou wilt show thyself froward’?1 I know of an occasion when an honest man robbed another man in the street.”

  “That can’t be.”

  “On my word of honor—he robbed him, and if you like, I can tell you about it.”

  “Please be so kind.”

  Then the merchant told us the following story, which had taken place some fifty years ago in that same Orel, not long before the famous fires that devastated the town. It happened under the late governor of Orel, Prince Pyotr Ivanovich Trubetskoy.2

  Here is how he told it.

  II

  I’m an Orel old-timer. Our whole family—we weren’t among the least of people. We had our own house on Nizhnaya Street, by the Plautin Well, and our own granaries, and our own barges; we kept a fulling works, traded in hemp, and handled the grain collection. Our fortune wasn’t desperately big, but we never pinched pennies, and we passed for being honest people.

  My father died when I was going on sixteen. The business was managed by my mother, Arina Leontyevna, and an old clerk, and at the time I only looked on. In everything, by paternal will, I was totally obedient to my mother. I never got up to any mischief or naughtiness, and I was zealous and fearful towards the Church of the Lord. Mama’s sister, my aunt, the venerable widow Katerina Leontyevna, also lived with us. She was a most pious, saintly woman. We were of churchly faith, as father had been, and belonged to the parish of the Protection, served by the reverend Father Efim, but Aunt Katerina Leontyevna adhered to the old ways: she drank from her own special glass and went to the Old Believers in the fish market to pray.3 My mama and aunt were from Elets, and there, in Elets and in Livny, they had very good kin, but they rarely saw them, because the Elets merchants like to boast before the Orel merchants and often get belligerent in company.

  Our house by the Plautin Well wasn’t big, but it was very well appointed, merchant-style, and our way of life was the strictest. Having lived in the world for nineteen years, I knew my way only to the granaries or the barges on the riverbank, when they were being loaded, and on Sundays to the early service in the Protection—and from the service straight back home, so as to give proof to my mama by telling her what the Gospel reading was about and whether Father Efim gave any sermon; and Father Efim had a degree in divinity, and when he applied himself to a sermon, there was no understanding it. After Kamensky, our theater was kept by Turchaninov and then by Molotkovsky,4 but not for anything would mama allow me to go to the theater, or even to the Vienna tavern to drink tea. “You’ll hear nothing good there in the Vienna,” she’d say. “You’d better sit at home and eat pickled apples.” Only once or twice a winter was a full pleasure allowed me: to go out and see how Constable Bogdanov and the archdeacon turned their fighting geese loose or how the townsfolk and seminarians got into fistfights.

  At that time many people in our town kept fighting geese and turned them loose on Kromskaya Square; but the foremost goose was Constable Bogdanov’s: he’d tear the wing off another fighter alive; and so that nobody would feed his goose soaked peas or harm him in some other way, the constable used to carry him on his back in a basket—he loved him so much. The archdeacon’s goose was clay-colored and gabbled and hissed terribly when he fought. A numerous public would gather. And for fistfights the townsfolk and the seminarians gathered on the ice, on the Oka, near the monastery, or at the Navugorskaya Gate; they got together there and went, wall against wall, across the whole street. It was often quite desperate. There was only this one rule, to hit in the belly and not in the face, and not to put big copper coins in your mittens. But, anyhow, this rule wasn’t obeyed. It often happened that they’d drag a man home in their arms and he’d pass away before he had time to confess. A lot of them were left alive, but then wasted away. Mama gave me permission only to watch, but not to stand in the wall myself. I sinned, though, by disobeying my late parent in that: my strength and daring urged me on, and if the townsfolk’s wall wavered, and the seminary wall really piled onto it and drove it back—then I sometimes couldn’t help myself and joined in. From early on my strength was such that, as soon as I jumped onto the driven-back wall and cried: “God bless us, boys! Beat the clericals!” and lit into the seminarians facing me, they’d all just scatter. But I wasn’t seeking glory for myself, and I used to ask for just one thing: “Please, brothers, be so kind, don’t mention my name!”—because I was afraid my mama would find out.

  I lived like that until I was nineteen, and was so terribly healthy that I began to have fainting fits and nosebleeds. Then mama began thinking of getting me married, so that I wouldn’t start visiting the Sekerens’ brewery or playing around with rebaptized girls.5

  III

  On account of that, matchmakers in sack coats started coming to us from Nizhnaya, Kromskaya, and Karachevskaya Streets, offering my mother various brides for me. All this was carried out in secret from me, so that everybody knew more than I did. Even our fullers in the shed used to say:

  “Your mama’s going to get you married, Mikhailo Mikhailych. How agreeable are you to that? Watch out—you know, your wife’s going to tickle you after the wedding, but don’t be timid—tickle her sides all you can, or else she’ll out-tickle you.”

  I’d only blush. I figured out, naturally, that it so
mehow had to do with me, but I never heard what brides mama and the matchmakers were talking about. One matchmaker or another would come—mama would shut herself up with her in the icon room, they’d sit under the crosses, have the samovar served, and talk all by themselves, and then the matchmaker would come out, pat me on the head, and encourage me:

  “Don’t worry, Mishenka, my boy: soon now you won’t sit bored and alone, soon we’ll gladden you up.”

  And mama even used to get angry at that and say:

  “He needn’t know anything about it; whatever I decide over his head, that’s how it must be for him. It’s like in the scriptures.”

  I didn’t worry about it. It was all the same to me: if I’m to marry, I’ll marry, and when it comes to tickling, we’ll see who out-tickles who.

  But Aunt Katerina Leontyevna went against mama’s wish and instructed me against her.

  “Don’t marry an Orel girl, Misha,” she said, “not for anything. Just you look: the local Orel girls are all haywire—not merchants, not gentry. They marry officers. Ask your mother to take you a wife from Elets, where she and I come from. Among the merchants there, the men are carousers, but the marriageable girls are real maidens: pious, modest—don’t look at officers, but wear kerchiefs when they go to pray and cross themselves in the old Russian way. If you marry one like that, you’ll bring blessings on your house, and start praying with your wife in the old way, and then I’ll leave you all my property, and to her I’ll give my God’s blessing, and my round pearls, and silver, and beads, and brocade jerkins, and warm jackets, and all my Bolkhovo lace.”