The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

The pleasure afforded me by the sight of a healthy man developed in me a like strangeness in my aesthetic taste: I never ran after Taglioni or Bosio and was generally indifferent to both opera and ballet, where everything is so artificial, and liked more to listen to the Gypsies on Krestovsky Island.⁸ That fire and ardor of theirs, that passionate force of movement, I liked most of all. The man isn’t even handsome, he’s all askew, but once he gets going—it’s as if Satan himself is jerking him, his legs dance, his arms wave, his head twists, his body whirls—it’s all a beating and thrashing. And here am I, who know only infirmity, willy-nilly admiring and dreaming. What can such as I taste of the feast of life?

So I said to one of my officials:

“My friend, if you should be asked again what I like most of all, tell them it’s health, that most of all I like cheerful, happy, and merry people.”

“It seems there’s no great imprudence here?” the storyteller asked, pausing.

His listeners thought a little, and several voices replied:

“Of course not.”

“Well, excellent, I also thought not, and now kindly listen further.”

V

They sent a clerk-on-duty from the office to be at my disposal. He announced visitors, noted down this and that, gave me addresses whenever it was necessary to send for someone or go and inquire about something. This official was my match—elderly, dry, and mournful. The impression he produced was not good, but I paid little attention to him. His name, as I recall, was Ornatsky. A beautiful last name, like a hero from an old novel. But suddenly one day they say: Ornatsky has fallen ill, the executor has sent another official in his place.

“Who’s that?” I asked. “Maybe I’d better wait until Ornatsky gets better.”

“No, sir,” the executor says, “Ornatsky won’t be back soon—he went on a drinking binge, and it will last till Ivan Petrovich’s mother nurses him back to health, but kindly do not worry about the new official: it’s Ivan Petrovich himself who has been appointed in Ornatsky’s place.”

I look at him and don’t quite understand: he’s talking to me about some Ivan Petrovich himself and has mentioned him twice in two lines.

“Who is this Ivan Petrovich?” I say.

“Ivan Petrovich! … the one who sits in the registry—an assistant. I thought you had been pleased to notice him: the handsomest one, everybody notices him.”

“No,” I say, “I haven’t noticed him. What’s his name again?”

“Ivan Petrovich.”

“And his last name?”

“His last name …”

The executor became embarrassed, put three fingers to his forehead in an effort to remember, but instead added with a deferential smile:

“Forgive me, Your Excellency, it was as if a sudden stupor came over me and I couldn’t remember. His last name is Aquilalbov, but we all simply call him Ivan Petrovich, or sometimes, jokingly, ‘the White Eagle,’ for his good looks. An excellent man, in good standing with the authorities, earns a salary of fourteen roubles and fifteen kopecks as an assistant, lives with his mother, who does a bit of fortune-telling and caring for the sick. Allow me to introduce him: Ivan Petrovich is waiting.”

“Yes, if it needs must be, please ask this Ivan Petrovich to come in.”

“The White Eagle!” I think to myself. “What a strange thing! I’m due for the Order of the White Eagle, and not for Ivan Petrovich.”

And the executor half opened the door and called:

“Ivan Petrovich, please come in.”

I cannot describe him for you without falling slightly into caricature and making comparisons that you may consider exaggerations, but I warrant you that no matter how I try to describe Ivan Petrovich, my picture cannot convey even half the beauty of the original.

Before me stood a real “White Eagle,” a downright Aquila alba, as portrayed at the formal receptions of Zeus. A big, tall man, but extremely well proportioned, and of such a healthy look as if he had never ever been ill and knew neither boredom nor fatigue. He was the picture of health, not crudely, but somehow harmoniously and attractively. Ivan Petrovich’s complexion was all tender pink, with ruddy cheeks framed in fair, light down, which, however, was on its way to turning into mature growth. He was exactly twenty-five years old; his hair was fair, slightly wavy, blonde, and his little beard was the same, with delicate reddish highlights; his eyes were blue under dark eyebrows and framed with dark lashes. In short, the folktale hero Churilo Aplenkovich could not have been better. But add to that a bold, very intelligent, and merrily open gaze, and you have before you a truly handsome fellow. He was wearing a uniform, which sat very well on him, and a scarf of a dark pomegranate color tied into a splendid bow.

People wore scarves then.

I stood there admiring Ivan Petrovich and, knowing that the impression I make on people seeing me for the first time is not an easy one, said simply:

“Good day to you, Ivan Petrovich.”