The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

The chevalier Ryzhov lived to be almost ninety, noting everything down precisely and originally in his Singlemind, which was probably expended on papering the walls in some local restoration. He died, having carried out all the Christian rites according to the prescriptions of the Orthodox Church, though his Orthodoxy, by general observation, was “questionable.” In his faith, too, Ryzhov was a this-that-and-the-other sort of man, but for all that, it seems to me that we can see in him something besides “mere trash”—for which he should be remembered at the very beginning of a search into “three righteous men.”²⁶

* Low necklines and short sleeves. Trans.

The Devil-Chase

I

It is a rite that can be seen only in Moscow, and then not otherwise than with special luck and patronage.

I saw a devil-chase from beginning to end thanks to a lucky concurrence of circumstances, and want to record it for true connoisseurs and lovers of what is serious and majestic in our national taste.

Though I’m a nobleman on one side, on the other I’m close to “the people”: my mother is from the merchant estate. She left a very wealthy house to marry, but left it by eloping, out of love for my father. My late father had a way with the ladies, and what he intended, he achieved. Thus he also succeeded with my mother, but for that adroitness my mother’s parents gave her nothing except, of course, her wardrobe, linens, and God’s mercy, which were obtained along with forgiveness and the parental blessing, forever inviolable. My old folks lived in Orel, lived in want, but proudly, asked nothing of my mother’s rich relations, and had no contacts with them. However, when it came to my going to university, my mother began to say:

“Please, go to Uncle Ilya Fedoseevich and pay him my respects. It’s not humiliating, one should honor one’s older relations—and he’s my brother, and a pious man at that, and carries great weight in Moscow. At all the official greetings, he always brings the bread and salt … always stands in front of the others with the dish or the icon … is received at the governor general’s and the metropolitan’s …¹ He may give you good advice.”

I did not believe in God at that time, having studied Filaret’s catechism,² but I did love my mother, and one day I thought: “Here I’ve been in Moscow for about a year and still haven’t carried out my mother’s will. Why don’t I go right now to Uncle Ilya Fedoseich, convey my mother’s respects to him, and see what he really has to teach me?”

By childhood habit I was respectful of my elders—especially those who were known to both the metropolitan and the governor general.

I rose, brushed myself off, and went to Uncle Ilya Fedoseich.

II

It was somewhere around six in the evening. The weather was warm, mild, and grayish—in short, very nice. My uncle’s house was well-known—one of the foremost houses in Moscow—everybody knew it. Only I had never gone there, and had never seen my uncle, even from afar.

I boldly went, however, reasoning: if he receives me, good, and if he doesn’t, he doesn’t.

I come to the courtyard; by the porch stand horses, fierce, raven black, their manes flying loose, their hide shining like costly satin, and they are hitched to a carriage.

I go up to the porch and say: thus and so, I’m his nephew, a student, I ask to be announced to Ilya Fedoseich. And the servants reply:

“He’ll be coming down presently—to go for a ride.”

A very simple figure appears, a Russian one, but quite majestic—there is a resemblance to my mother in his eyes, but the expression is different—what’s known as a solid man.

I introduced myself; he heard me out silently, quietly gave me his hand, and said:

“Get in, we’ll go for a ride.”

I was about to decline, but somehow faltered and got in.

“To the park,” he ordered.

The fierce horses galloped off at once, with only the rear of the carriage bouncing, and when we left town, they raced even more swiftly.

We sat there not saying a word, only I could see that the edge of my uncle’s top hat was cutting into his forehead, and on his face there was that sort of wry scowl that comes from boredom.

He looked this way and that, and once cast a glance at me and, out of the blue, said:

“No life at all.”

I didn’t know what to reply, and said nothing.

We rode on and on. I think, “Where’s he taking me?” and I begin to suspect that I’ve landed in some sort of adventure.

And my uncle suddenly seems to have made up his mind about something and starts giving orders to the coachman one after another:

“Turn right, turn left. Here at the Yar—stop!”³

I see many waiters pouring out of the restaurant to meet us, and they all bend almost double before my uncle, but he does not stir from the carriage and summons the owner. They run off. A Frenchman appears—also very respectful, but my uncle does not stir: he taps the ivory knob of his cane against his teeth and says:

“How many superfluous ones are there?”