The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

“Yes, many people suggest that it all took place in the most ordinary way. And not only the educated gentlemen who know of it, but even those of our brothers who have remained in the schism laugh at us, saying the Englishwoman slipped us into the Church on a scrap of paper. But we don’t argue against such reasoning: each man judges as he believes, and for us it’s all the same by which paths the Lord calls a man to Him and from what vessel He gives him to drink, so long as He calls him and quenches his thirst for unanimity with the fatherland. But here come our peasant lads, crawling out from under the snow. Looks like they’ve had a rest, the dear hearts, and will soon be on their way. Perhaps they’ll give me a ride. St. Basil’s night has gone by. I’ve wearied you and led you around to many places with me. But to make up for it I have the honor of wishing you a happy New Year, and forgive me, for Christ’s sake, ignorant as I am!”

The Enchanted Wanderer

I

We were sailing over Lake Ladoga from the island of Konevets to Valaam and stopped for a shipyard necessity at the wharf in Korela.¹ Here many of us were curious to go ashore and ride on frisky Finnish horses to the deserted little town. Then the captain made ready to continue on our way, and we sailed off again.

After the visit to Korela, it was quite natural that our conversation should turn to that poor, though extremely old, Russian settlement, than which it would be hard to imagine anything sadder. Everyone on the boat shared that opinion, and one of the passengers, a man inclined to philosophical generalizations and political jesting, observed that he could in no way understand why it was customary that people objectionable in Petersburg should be sent to some more or less remote place or other, which, of course, incurred losses to the treasury for transportation, when right here, near the capital, on the shore of Ladoga, there is such an excellent place as Korela, where no freethinking or liberal-mindedness would be able to withstand the apathy of the populace and the terrible boredom of the oppressive, meager natural life.

“I’m sure,” this traveler said, “that in the present case the fault must lie with the routine, or in any case, perhaps, with a lack of pertinent information.”

Someone who often traveled here replied to this, that some exiles had apparently lived here, too, at various times, but none of them had been able to stand it for long.

“One fine fellow, a seminarian, was sent here as a clerk on account of rudeness (that kind of exile I cannot even understand). So, having come here, he played it brave for a long time and kept hoping to start some sort of litigation; but then he took to drinking, and drank so much that he went completely out of his mind and sent in a petition saying it would be best, as soon as possible, to order him ‘shot or sent for a soldier, or, failing that, to hang him.’ ”

“And what decision followed from it?”

“Hm … I … I really don’t know; only he didn’t wait for the decision in any case: he hanged himself without leave.”

“And he did very well,” the philosopher responded.

“Very well?” repeated the storyteller, evidently a merchant, a solid and religious man.

“Why not? At least he died and put a lid on it.”

“How do you mean, a lid, sir? And how will it be for him in the other world? Suicides will be tormented for all eternity. No one can even pray for them.”

The philosopher smiled venomously, but made no reply, but instead a new opponent stepped forward against him and against the merchant, unexpectedly defending the clerk who had carried out the death sentence on himself without official permission.