The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

“Do you know who I am? I’m no equal of yours, I had my own serfs, and I’ve whipped a great many fine fellows like you in the stable just because I felt like it, and if I’ve lost everything, it’s because there was some special divine will for it, and there’s a seal of wrath upon me, which is why nobody dares to touch me.”

They didn’t believe him and laughed at him, but he told them how he used to live, and rode around in carriages, and drove all the civilians out of the public garden, and once came naked to the governor’s wife, “and now,” he says, “I’ve been cursed for my willfulness, and my whole nature has turned to stone, and I have to wet it constantly, so give me vodka! I’ve got no money to pay for it, but instead I’ll eat the glass.”

One of the customers ordered vodka for him, so as to watch how he would eat the glass. He tossed off the vodka at once, and, as promised, honestly began to crunch the glass with his teeth and ate it right in front of us, and everybody was amazed at it and laughed heartily. But I felt sorry for him, because here was a nobleman who, from his zeal for drink, would even sacrifice his insides. I thought he should be given something to rinse the glass out of his guts, and I ordered him another shot at my expense, but I didn’t make him eat the glass. I said: never mind, don’t eat it. He was touched by that and gave me his hand.

“I suppose,” he says, “you come from a gentleman’s household?”

“Yes, I do,” I say.

“One can see at once,” he says, “that you’re not like these swine. Gramercy to you for that.”

I say:

“It’s nothing, go with God.”

“No,” he replies, “I’m very glad to converse with you. Move over a bit, I’ll sit down beside you.”

“Please do,” I say.

He sat down beside me and began to tell me about his noble origins and grand upbringing, and again he says:

“What’s this … you’re drinking tea?”

“Yes, tea. Want to have some with me?”

“Thanks,” he replies, “but I can’t drink tea.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he says, “my head’s not for tea, my head’s for a spree: better order me another shot of vodka! …” And once, and twice, and three times he asked me for vodka like that, and it was beginning to make me very annoyed. But I found it still more repugnant that he said very little that was true, but kept showing off all the time and making up God knows what about himself, and then would suddenly turn humble and weep, and all over vanities.

“Just think,” he says, “what sort of man am I? I was created by God Himself in the same year as the emperor. I’m his coeval.”

“Well, what of it?”

“And, despite all that, what sort of position am I in? Despite all that,” he says, “I’m not distinguished in the least and live in insignificance, and, as you just saw, I’m despised by everybody.” And with those words, he again asked for vodka, but this time for a whole decanter, and started telling me an enormous story about merchants in taverns making fun of him, and in the end he says:

“They’re uneducated people. Do they think it’s easy to bear such responsibility, to be eternally drinking vodka and nibbling the glass? It’s a very difficult calling, brother, and for many even completely impossible; but I’ve accustomed my nature to it, because I see that one must do one’s part, and I bear with it.”

“Why be so zealous about this habit?” I argue. “Just drop it.”

“Drop it?” he replies. “Ah, no, brother, it’s impossible for me to drop it.”

“Why can’t you?” I ask.

“I can’t,” he says, “for two reasons. First, because, unless I’m drunk, I’m quite unable to go to bed, and I’ll keep wandering about; and the second, the main reason, is that my Christian feelings won’t allow it.”

“What on earth does that mean? That you don’t go to bed is understandable, because you keep looking for drink; but that your Christian feelings won’t allow you to drop such harmful vileness—that I refuse to believe.”

“So,” he replies, “you refuse to believe it … That’s what everybody says … But suppose I drop this habit of drunkenness and someone else picks it up and takes it: will he be glad of it or not?”

“God save us! No, I don’t think he’ll be glad of it.”

“Aha!” he says. “There we have it, and if it must be that I suffer, you should at least respect me for that and order me another decanter of vodka!”

I rapped for another little decanter, and sat, and listened, because I was beginning to find it entertaining, and he went on in these words: