The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

The storyteller fell silent and hung his head. No one disturbed him; they all seemed filled with respect for the sacred sorrow of these last memories; but a moment went by, and Ivan Severyanych himself sighed, as if waving it away; he took his monastery hat from his head and, crossing himself, said:

“But that’s all past, thank God!”

We let him rest awhile and then ventured upon some new questions about how he, our enchanted mighty man, had cured his heels ruined by the chopped-up horsehair, and by what paths he had escaped from his Natashas and Kolkas on the Tartar steppe and ended up in a monastery.

Ivan Severyanych satisfied this curiosity with complete frankness, which he was obviously quite unable to abandon.

VIII

Valuing the sequence of development in Ivan Severyanych’s story, which had caught our interest, we asked him first of all to tell us by what extraordinary means he had rid himself of his bristles and left captivity. He gave the following account of it:

I utterly despaired of ever returning home and seeing my fatherland. The thought of it even seemed impossible to me, and my anguish itself even began to fade. I lived like an insensible statue and nothing more; and sometimes I’d think how, in church at home, that same Father Ilya who asked for newspaper used to pray during services “for travelers by land and by sea, for the suffering and for captives,” and I used to listen and think: “If there’s no war now, why pray for captives?” But now I understood why they prayed like that, but I didn’t understand why all those prayers were no use to me, and, to say the least, though not an unbeliever, I became confused and did not pray myself.

“Why pray,” I think, “if nothing comes of it?”

And meanwhile one day I suddenly hear the Tartars are in a commotion about something.

I say:

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” they say. “Two mullahs have come from your country. They have a safe conduct from the white tsar and are going far and wide to establish their faith.”

I hurriedly said:

“Where are they?”

They pointed to one yurt, and I went where they pointed. I come and see there’s a gathering of many sheikh-zadas, and malo-zadas, and imams, and dervishes, and they’re all sitting cross-legged on rugs, and in the midst of them are two unknown men dressed for traveling, but you can see they’re some sort of clerics. The two are standing in the midst of this Tartar riffraff and teaching them the word of God.

When I caught sight of them, I rejoiced at seeing Russians, and my heart throbbed inside me, and I fell at their feet and wept. They also rejoiced at my bowing and both exclaimed:

“Well, well! So you see how grace works! It has already touched one of yours, and he is turning away from Mohammed!”

The Tartars replied that nothing was working: this is your Ivan, he’s from you Russians, only he’s living here with us as a prisoner.

The missionaries were very displeased at that. They didn’t believe I was Russian, so I butted in myself:

“No,” I say, “I really am Russian! Spiritual fathers, have mercy on me! Rescue me from this place! It’s already the eleventh year I’ve been languishing here in captivity, and see how crippled I am: I can’t walk.”

But they didn’t pay the slightest attention to my words, turned away, and went on with their business of preaching.

I think: “Well, what’s there to grumble about: they’re on official business, and maybe it’s awkward for them to treat me differently in front of the Tartars”—and I left off, and chose a time when they were alone in their separate quarters, and I flung myself at them and told them everything in all frankness, how I was suffering from the cruelest lot, and I begged them:

“My father-benefactors, threaten them with our beloved white tsar: tell them that he does not allow Asiatics to hold his subjects captive by force, or, better still, pay them a ransom for me, and I’ll serve you for it. Living here,” I say, “I’ve learned their Tartar language very well and can be a useful man to you.”

But they reply:

“We have no ransom for you, my son, and we are not permitted to threaten the infidels, because they are devious and disloyal people even without that, and we maintain a courteous policy towards them.”

“So, then,” I say, “it means that on account of that policy I’m to perish with them here for all time?”

“Well,” they say, “it makes no difference where you perish, my son, but you must pray: God’s mercy is great, perhaps He will deliver you.”

“I’ve already prayed,” I say, “but I have no strength left, and I’ve laid aside all hope.”

“Do not despair,” they say, “because that is a great sin!”

“I don’t despair,” I say, “only … how is it that you … it pains me very much that you are Russians and my countrymen, and you don’t want to help me at all.”

“No, child,” they reply, “don’t mix us into this, we are in Christ, and in Christ there is neither Greek nor Jew: whoever listens to us is our countryman. For us all are equal, all are equal.”

“All?” I say.