The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

He was thought to be some sort of schismatic, but that was not so important, because in Orel at that time there were many different beliefs: there were (and probably still are now) simple Old Believers, as well as not so simple ones—Fedoseevans, “Pilipons,” and the rebaptizers, there were even Flagellants and “people of God,” all of whom human justice sent far away.²⁰ But all these people firmly held to their own flock and firmly disapproved of any other faith—they set themselves apart in prayer and eating and considered themselves the only ones on “the right path.” Whereas Golovan behaved himself as if he even knew nothing at all for sure about the best path, but shared his hunk of bread indiscriminately with anyone who asked, and himself sat down at any table you like when he was invited. He even gave the Jew Yushka from the garrison milk for his children. But people’s love for Golovan found an excuse for the non-Christian aspect of this last act: they perceived that, by cajoling Yushka, Golovan wanted to get from him the “lips of Judas,” carefully preserved by the Jews, with which one could lie one’s way out of court, or the “hairy vegetable” that the Jews quench their thirst with, so that they can go without drinking vodka. But the most incomprehensible thing about Golovan was that he kept company with the coppersmith Anton, who, in terms of all real qualities, enjoyed the worst of reputations. This man did not agree with anybody on the most sacred questions, but deduced something mysterious from the signs of the zodiac and even did some writing. Anton lived on the outskirts, in an empty little garret room, for which he paid fifty kopecks a month, but kept such frightful things there that nobody visited him except Golovan. It was known that Anton had a chart there called “the zodiac,” and a glass that “drew down the sun’s fire”; and besides that he had access to the roof, where he went at night, sat by the chimney like a tomcat, and “set up an aggrandizing tube,” and, during the sleepiest time, gazed at the sky. Anton’s devotion to this instrument knew no bounds, especially on starry nights, when he could see the whole zodiac. He came running from his boss’s shop, where he did his copper work, crept at once into his upstairs room, and immediately slipped through the dormer window to the roof, and if there were stars in the sky, he sat all night and gazed. This might have been forgiven him, if he had been a scientist or at least a German, but since he was a simple Russian man—they spent a long time breaking him of it, poked him with poles, threw dung at him and a dead cat, but he paid no attention to any of it and didn’t even notice they had poked him. They all laughingly called him “Astronomer,” and in fact he was an astronomer.

^* He was a quiet and very honest man, but a freethinker; he insisted that the earth turns and that we are sometimes upside down on it. For this last obvious absurdity, Anton was beaten and recognized as a fool, but then, as a fool, he began to enjoy the freedom of thought that is the privilege of this advantageous title among us, and reached the limits of the unbelievable. He did not acknowledge the seventy-times-seven years of the prophet Daniel²¹

as applicable to the Russian tsardom, said that the “ten-horned beast” was only an allegory, and the bear was an astronomical figure, which was found on his charts. Just as unorthodox was his reasoning about the “eagle’s wings,” about the cups, and about the seal of the Antichrist.²² But, because he was feebleminded, this was all forgiven him. He wasn’t married, because he had no time to get married and would have been unable to feed a wife—and anyway what fool would want to marry an astronomer? Yet Golovan, being of sound mind, not only kept company with the astronomer, but also never made fun of him. They could even be seen together at night, on the astronomer’s roof, taking turns looking at the zodiac through the aggrandizing tube. It’s understandable what sort of thoughts these two figures standing at the tube by night might inspire, with fanciful superstition, medical poetry, religious raving, and sheer bewilderment milling around them … And, finally, circumstances themselves put Golovan in a somewhat strange position: it was not known what parish he belonged to … His cold hovel stood out so much on its own that no spiritual strategist could add it to his jurisdiction, and Golovan himself was unconcerned about it and, if pestered too much about his parish, would reply:

“I’m of the parish of the Almighty Creator”—but there was no such church in all Orel.

Gilliatt, in answer to the question about where his parish was, only raised his finger and, pointing to the sky, said: “Up there”—but the essence of both answers was the same.

Golovan liked hearing about any faith, but didn’t seem to have his own opinions on the subject, and in cases of persistent questioning about what he believed, recited: