The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

I listen and—like Ivan Petrovich himself from beyond the grave—feel only a desire to stick my tongue out at him or show him a fig.

But Ivan Petrovich, after I was awarded a fig instead of the White Eagle, disappeared and did not show up again for exactly three years, when he paid me his final and most tangible visit.

XI

Again it was Christmas and the New Year and the same expectation of awards. I had already been passed over repeatedly, and did not trouble myself about it. No give, no care. There was a New Year’s party at my cousin’s—very merry—lots of guests. The healthy ones stayed for supper, but I was looking for a chance to slip away before supper, and was edging towards the door, when suddenly, amidst the general talk, I hear these words:

“My wanderings are now over: mama’s with me. Tanyusha has settled down with a good man. I’ll pull my last stunt and zhe mon vay!”^† And then suddenly he sang in a drawl:

Farewell, my own,

Farewell, my native land.

“Aha,” I think, “he’s shown up again, and what’s more he’s speaking French … Well, I’d better wait for somebody, I won’t go downstairs alone.”

And he deigns to walk past me dressed in the same uniform with the splendid pomegranate tie, and he had just passed by when the front door suddenly slammed so that the whole house shook.

The host and servants ran to see whether anyone had gotten to the guests’ fur coats, but everything was in place, and the door was locked … I kept mum, so that no one would say “hallucinations” again and start asking about my health. It slammed, and that’s that—lots of things can slam …

I sat it out so as not to leave alone and returned home safely. My man was no longer the one who had traveled with me and to whom Ivan Petrovich had given lessons in making cut-outs, but another; he met me looking sleepy and lit my way. We passed by the side table and I saw something lying there covered with white paper … I looked: it was my Order of the White Eagle, of which, you remember, my cousin had made me a gift that time … It had always been under lock and key. How could it suddenly appear? Of course, I’ll be told: “He probably took it out himself in a moment of distraction.” I won’t argue about that, but there was something else: on my bedside table there was a small envelope addressed to me, and the hand seemed familiar … It was the same hand that had written: “Life is given us for joy.”

“Who brought it?” I ask.

And my man points straight at the photograph of Ivan Petrovich, which I keep as a memento from Tanyusha, and says: “This gentleman.”

“Surely you’re mistaken.”

“No, sir,” he says, “I recognized him at first glance.”

In the envelope there turned out to be an official stamped copy of the order: I had been awarded the White Eagle. And what was still better, I slept for the rest of the night, though I heard something somewhere singing the stupidest words: “Now’s my chaunce, now’s my chaunce, zhe allay o contradaunce.”^‡

From the experience of the life of spirits taught me by Ivan Petrovich, I realized that this was Ivan Petrovich “rattling away in self-taught French” as he flew off, and that he would never trouble me again. And so it turned out: he took his revenge and then forgave me. That’s clear. But why everything in the world of spirits is so confused and mixed up that human life, which is more valuable than anything, is revenged by frivolous frights and a medal, and flying down from the highest spheres is accompanied by the stupidest singing of “Now’s my chaunce, zhe allay o contradaunce”—that I don’t understand.

* Not so loud! Trans.

† I.e., Je m’en vais, I’m going away. Trans.

‡ I.e., je allais au contredanse, illiterate French for “I’m going to the contradance.” Trans.

A Flaming Patriot

Of foreign government celebrities, I have seen the late Napoleon III at the inauguration of a boulevard in Paris, Prince Bismarck at a health spa, MacMahon on parade, and the present-day Austrian emperor Franz Joseph over a mug of beer.

The most memorable impression was made on me by Franz Joseph, though at the same time he caused a capital quarrel between two of my lady compatriots.

The story is worth telling.

I have been abroad three times, traveling twice by the Russian “high road” directly from Petersburg to Paris, and the third time, owing to circumstances, making a detour and stopping in Vienna. I wanted, at the same time, to visit a certain Russian lady worthy of respect.

It was the end of May or the beginning of June. The train I was traveling by brought me to Vienna at around four o’clock in the afternoon. I did not have to look for quarters: in Kiev I had been furnished with a reference that saved me any trouble. As soon as I arrived, I settled in, and an hour later I had put myself in order and gone to see my compatriot.