The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

“No, leave off about faith: it seems it’s you who have doubts and keep thinking about nature, as if Katya had her own reasons here, but I firmly believe that Ivan Yakovlevich alone is the cause of it all; and you’ll see my feelings when you send Katya to my studio with champagne.”

V

My aunt thought and thought, and did send the wine to the painter with Katechka herself. She came in with the tray, all in tears, but he jumped up, seized her by the arms, and wept himself.

“My little dove,” he said, “I grieve at what’s happened to you, but there’s no time for nodding over it—quickly let me in on all your secrets.”

The girl confided her mischief to him, and he locked her in his studio with a key.

My aunt met her son-in-law with teary eyes and said nothing. But he embraced her and kissed her and said:

“Now, don’t be afraid, don’t weep. Maybe God will help.”

“Tell me,” my aunt whispered, “who’s to blame for it all?”

But the painter tenderly shook his finger at her and said:

“That’s not nice: you yourself constantly reproach me with having no faith, and now, when your faith is being tested, I see you haven’t any faith at all. Isn’t it clear to you that there’s no one to blame, and the wonderworker simply made a little mistake?”

“But where is my poor Katechka?”

“I charmed her with a fearsome painter’s charm and—poof!—she disappeared.”

And he showed his mother-in-law the key.

My aunt realized that he had hidden the girl from her father’s first wrath, and she embraced him.

She whispered:

“Forgive me—there are tender feelings in you.”

VI

My uncle came, had his tea as usual, and said:

“Well, shall we read the fifty-two-page prayer book?”

They sat down. And the family closed all the doors around them and went about on tiptoe. My aunt now moved away from the door, then went up to it again—listening and crossing herself.

Finally, something clanked in there … She ran off and hid.

“He’s revealed it,” she says, “he’s revealed the secret! Now there’ll be a hellish performance.”

And just so: all at once the door opened, and my uncle cried out:

“My overcoat and my big stick!”

The painter holds him back by the arm and says:

“What is it? Where are you going?”

My uncle says:

“I’m going to the madhouse to give the wonderworker a thrashing!”

My aunt moaned behind the other door.

“Quick,” she says, “run to the madhouse, have them hide our dear Ivan Yakovlevich!”

And indeed my uncle would have thrashed him for certain, but his painter son-in-law kept him from it by frightening him with his own faith.

VII

The son-in-law started reminding his father-in-law that he had one more daughter.

“Never mind,” my uncle says, “she’ll have her portion, but I want to thrash Koreisha. Let them take me to court afterwards.”

“But I’m not frightening you with court,” says the painter. “Look at what harm Ivan Yakovlevich can do Olga. No, it’s terrible, what you’re risking!”

My uncle stopped and pondered:

“Well,” he says, “what harm can he do?”

“Exactly the same harm he’s done to Katechka.”

My uncle glanced up and replied:

“Stop pouring out drivel! As if he could do that!”

The painter replies:

“Well, if, as I see, you’re an unbeliever, do as you know best, only don’t grieve afterwards and blame the poor girls.”

My uncle stopped at that. And his son-in-law dragged him back into the room and began persuading him.

“In my opinion,” he says, “it’s better to leave the wonderworker out of it and try to set this matter straight by domestic means.”

The old man agreed, only he did not know how to set it straight himself, but his son-in-law helped him here as well. He says:

“Good thoughts must be sought not in wrath, but in joy.”

“What joy can there be, brother, in a case like this?”

“Here’s what,” says the painter. “I’ve got two bottles of fizzy, and until you drink them with me, I won’t say a single word to you. Agree to it. You know my character.”

The old man looked at him and said:

“Go on, go on. What next?”

But all the same he agreed.

VIII

The painter marched off briskly and came back, followed by his assistant, a young artist, with a tray bearing two bottles and glasses.

As soon as they came in, the son-in-law locked the door behind him and put the key in his pocket. My uncle looked and understood everything, and the son-in-law nodded towards the assistant—the lad stood there in humble petition.

“I’m to blame—forgive me and give us your blessing.”

My uncle asks his son-in-law:

“Can I thrash him?”

The son-in-law says:

“You can, but you needn’t.”

“Well, then at least let him kneel before me.”

The son-in-law whispered:

“Well, kneel before the father for the sake of the girl you love.”

The lad knelt.

The old man began to weep.

“Do you love her very much?” he asked.

“I do.”

“Well, kiss me.”

So Ivan Yakovlevich’s little mistake was covered up. And it all remained safely hidden, and suitors began to pursue the youngest sister, because they saw that the girls were trustworthy.

The Pearl Necklace

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