The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

“For one thing, the memorizing and rehearsals all take place during Holy Week or just before Lent, when ‘Open to me the doors of repentance’ is sung in church—and, for another, my role was very difficult.”

“What was it?”

“I played the devil.”

“Why was that especially difficult?”

“I’ll tell you, sir: in both acts I had to dance and turn somersaults, and turning somersaults was awfully uncomfortable, because I was sewn into the shaggy skin of a hoary billy goat, fur side out, and I had a long tail strung on a wire, which was constantly getting tangled between my legs, and the horns on my head kept catching on everything, and I was no longer as young as before and had no lightness; and then it was specified that I was to be beaten all through the performance. That was terribly annoying. Granted, the sticks were hollow, made of canvas, and with flakes inside, but even so it was terribly boring to endure it, because they keep slapping you and slapping you, and some of them, whether because of the cold or just for the fun of it, manage to hit you quite painfully. Especially the Senate scribes, who have experience at it and act together: they stand up for each other, and when a military man comes along, they annoy him terribly, and it all goes on for a long time, because they start beating before the whole public at noontime, when the police flag is raised, and go on beating till night falls, and each of them, to please the public, tries to produce a louder slap. Nothing pleasant about it. And on top of it all, I was involved in an unpleasantness there as a consequence, after which I had to give up my role.”

“What happened to you?”

“I dragged a certain prince by the forelock.”

“A prince?”

“Not a real prince, but a theatrical one: he was a collegiate secretary from the Senate, but he played a prince.”

“Why did you give him a beating?”

“He deserved more than that, sir. He was a wicked jeerer and contriver, and kept contriving all sorts of pranks against everybody.”

“And against you?”

“Against me, sir, he played many pranks: he ruined my costume; he would sneak up to me in the warming room, where we warmed ourselves by a coal fire and drank tea, and fasten my tail to my horns, or do some other stupid thing for the fun of it, and I wouldn’t notice and would run out to the public like that, and the owner would get angry. For my own part I let it all go, but he suddenly started to offend one of the fairies. She was a young girl, from poor nobility; she played the goddess Fortuna for us and had to save that prince from my clutches. And her role was such that she had to go around in nothing but sparkling tulle with wings, and it was very cold, the poor girl’s hands were completely blue and numb, and he badgered her, thrust himself at her, and in the apapheosis, when the three of us fell through the trapdoor, he kept pinching her. I felt very sorry for her, so I thrashed him.”

“And how did it end?”

“With nothing. In the cellarage there were no witnesses, except for that same fairy, but our Senate boys rose up and refused to have me in the company; and since they were the foremost performers there, the owner threw me out to please them.”

“What happened to you then?”

“I would have been left with no roof or food at all, but that noble fairy fed me, only I felt ashamed, because the poor girl had a hard enough time providing for herself, and I kept thinking how to resolve this situation. I didn’t want to go back to the θ, and, besides, another poor man was already sitting and suffering on it, so I up and went to the monastery.”

“Only for that?”

“Why, what was I to do, sir? I had nowhere to go. And it’s nice there.”

“Have you come to like monastery life?”

“Very much, sir; I like it very much—it’s peaceful there, just like in the regiment; there’s a lot of similarity, everything’s prepared for you: you’re dressed, and shod, and fed, and the superiors keep an eye out and demand obedience.”

“And isn’t that obedience sometimes a burden to you?”

“Why should it be? The more obedient a man is, the more peacefully he lives, and in my particular obedience there’s nothing offensive: I don’t go to church services except when I want to, and I perform my duties as I’m accustomed to: if they say ‘Hitch up, Father Ishmael’ (I’m now called Ishmael)—I hitch up; and if they say: ‘Father Ishmael, unhitch’—I undo the harness.”

“Excuse us,” we say, “so it turns out that in the monastery you’re still … with the horses?”

“I’m a permanent coachman. In the monastery they don’t worry about my officer’s rank, because, though I’ve only taken the initial vows, I’m already a monk and equal to them all.”

“Will you take your solemn vows soon?”

“I won’t be taking that on, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I just … don’t consider myself worthy.”

“Is that still because of old sins or errors?”

“Y-y-yes, sir. And generally, why should I? I’m very pleased with my obedience, and I live in peace.”

“And have you told anyone your whole story before, as you’ve now told it to us?”