The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

“It ought to be so that this torment ends with me, rather than going on to someone else, because,” he says, “I’m from a good family and received a proper upbringing, so that I even prayed to God in French when I was still very little; but I was merciless and tormented people: I gambled my serfs away at cards; I separated mothers and children; I took a rich wife and hounded her to death; and finally, being guilty of it all myself, I also murmured against God: why did He give me such a character? And He punished me: he gave me a different character, so that there’s no trace of pride in me, you can spit in my eye, slap me in the face, if only I’m drunk and oblivious of myself.”

“And now,” I ask, “aren’t you murmuring against that character as well?”

“No, I’m not,” he says, “because even though it’s worse, it’s still better.”

“How can that be? There’s something I don’t understand: how can it be worse, but better?”

“It’s like this,” he answers. “Now I know only one thing, that I’m ruining myself, but then I can’t ruin others, for they’re all repulsed by me. I’m now the same as Job on his dung heap,” he says, “and in that lies all my happiness and salvation”—and again he finished the vodka, and asked for another decanter, and said:

“You know, my kind friend, you should never scorn anyone, because no one can know why someone is tormented by some passion and suffers. We who are possessed suffer, but that makes it easier for others. And if you yourself are afflicted by some sort of passion, do not willfully abandon it, lest another man pick it up and suffer; but seek out such a man as will voluntarily take this weakness from you.”

“Well,” I say, “but where can such a man be found? No one would agree to it.”

“Why not?” he replies. “You don’t even have to go far: such a man is here before you, I myself am such a man.”

I say:

“Are you joking?”

But he suddenly jumps up and says:

“No, I’m not joking, and if you don’t believe it, test me.”

“How can I test you?” I say.

“Very simply: do you wish to know what my gift is? I do have a great gift, brother. You see, I’m drunk now … Yes or no, am I drunk?”

I look at him and see that he has gone quite blue in the face and is all bleary-eyed and swaying on his feet, and I say:

“Yes, of course, you’re drunk.”

And he replies:

“Well, now turn towards the icon for a moment and recite the ‘Our Father’ to yourself.”

I turn and, indeed, I’ve no sooner recited the “Our Father” to myself while looking at the icon, than this drunken gentleman again commands me:

“All right, look at me now: am I drunk or not?”

I turn and see that he’s sober as a judge and standing there smiling.

I say:

“What does this mean? What’s the secret?”

And he replies:

“It’s not a secret, it’s called magnetism.”

“What’s that?” I say. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a special will,” he says, “which resides in man, and can neither be drunk away, nor slept away, because it’s freely given. I demonstrated it to you, so that you would understand that, if I wanted to, I could stop right now and never drink again, but I don’t want to have someone else start drinking for me, while I, having recovered, go and forget about God. But I’m ready and able to remove the drinking passion from another man in a moment.”

“Do me a favor,” I say. “Remove it from me!”

“Can it be,” he says, “that you drink?”

“Yes,” I say, “and at times I even drink very zealously.”

“Well, then, don’t be timid,” he says. “It’s all work for my hands, and I’ll repay you for your treating me: I’ll remove it all from you.”

“Ah, do me the favor, I beg you, remove it!”

“Gladly, my friend, gladly,” he says. “I’ll do it for your treating me; I’ll remove it and take it upon myself”—and with that he called again for vodka and two glasses.

I say:

“What do you want two glasses for?”

“One,” he says, “for me, the other—for you!”

“I’m not going to drink.”

But he suddenly seems to get angry and says:

“Hush! S’il vous plaît! Keep quiet! Who are you now? A patient.”

“Well, all right, have it your way: I’m a patient.”

“And I’m a doctor,” he says, “and you must obey my orders and take your medicine”—and with that he pours a glass for me and for himself and begins waving his hands in the air over my glass like a church choirmaster.

He waves and waves, and then orders:

“Drink!”

I was doubtful, but since, to tell the truth, I myself wanted very much to sample the vodka, and he ordered me to, I thought: “Go on, if for nothing else, then for the sake of curiosity, drink up!”—and I drank up.

“How does it taste,” he asks, “good or bitter?”

“I’m unable to tell you.”

“That means you didn’t have enough,” he says, and he pours a second glass and again moves his hands to and fro over it. He moves them, moves them, then shakes them off, and he makes me drink this second glass and asks: “How was this one?”

I say jokingly:

“This one seemed a bit heavy.”

He nods his head, and at once starts waving over a third, and again commands: “Drink!” I drink it and say: