The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

Singlemind

I

During the reign of Catherine II,¹ to a certain couple of the clerkly sort by the name of Ryzhov, a son was born named Alexashka. This family lived in Soligalich, one of the chief towns of Kostroma province, located on the rivers Kostroma and Svetitsa. Prince Gagarin’s dictionary² mentions it as having seven stone churches, two religious schools and one secular, seven factories and mills, thirty-seven shops, three taverns, two pot-houses, and 3,665 inhabitants of both sexes. The town had two annual fairs and weekly markets; besides that, there is mention of “a rather brisk trade in lime and tar.” In our hero’s lifetime there was also a saltworks.

All this must be known in order to form an idea of how the smalltime hero of our story, Alexashka, or, later, Alexander Afanasyevich Ryzhov, known around town as “Singlemind,” could and actually did live.

Alexashka’s parents owned their own house—one of those little houses which in that forest area were worth nothing, but, anyhow, provided a roof. Apart from Alexashka, the clerk Ryzhov had no other children, or at least I was told nothing about them.

The clerk died soon after the birth of this son and left his wife and son with nothing except that little house, which, as we said, was “worth nothing.” But the clerk’s widow herself was worth a lot: she was one of those Russian women who “in trouble helps and does not fear, stops a horse that gallops off, boldly enters a hut on fire”³—a simple, sensible, sober-minded Russian woman, strong of body, valiant of soul, and with a tender capacity for ardent and faithful love.

When she was widowed, there were still pleasing qualities in her, suitable for an unpretentious everyday life, and people sent matchmakers to her, but she declined any new matrimony and busied herself with the baking of savory pies. On non-fast days her pies were stuffed with cottage cheese or liver, on fast days with kasha or peas; the widow carried them on trays to the town square and sold them for five copper kopecks apiece. On the earnings from her pie production she fed herself and her son, whom she sent to a “tutoress” for lessons; the tutoress taught Alexashka what she knew herself. Further, more serious lessons were taught him by a scribe with a braid and a leather pouch in which he kept snuff for a known use without any snuffbox.

The scribe, having “taught up” Alexashka, took a pot of kasha for his labors, and with that the widow’s son went among people to earn his keep and all the worldly blessings allotted to him.

Alexashka was then fourteen, and at that age he can be introduced to the reader.

The young Ryzhov took after his mother’s kind: he was tall, broad-shouldered—almost an athlete, of boundless strength and indestructible health. In his adolescent years he was already among the foremost strongmen, and so successfully took the lead in the “wall” during fistfights that whichever side Alexashka Ryzhov was on was considered invincible. He was capable and hardworking. The scribe’s schooling had given him an excellent, rounded, clear, beautiful handwriting, in which he wrote a multitude of memorial notices for old women⁴ and with that commenced his self-subsistence. But more important were the qualities given him by his mother, whose living example imparted a strict and sober disposition to his healthy soul, dwelling in a strong and healthy body. He was moderate in everything, like his mother, and never resorted to any outside help.

At the age of fourteen he already considered it a sin to eat his mother’s bread; memorial notices brought in little, and besides, this income, dependent on chance, was not steady; Ryzhov had an inborn aversion to trade, and he did not want to leave Soligalich, so as not to part from his mother, whom he loved very much. And therefore he had to provide himself with an occupation here, and provide it he did.

At that time permanent postal communication was only beginning to take shape in Russia: weekly runners were established between neighboring towns, who carried a bag of mail. This was known as the foot mail. The pay fixed for this job was not big: around a rouble and a half a month, “on your own grub and with your own boots.” But those for whom even such maintenance was attractive hesitated to take up carrying mail, because for the sensitive Christian conscience of Russian piety it seemed dubious: did such a futile undertaking as carrying paper not contain something heretical and contrary to true Christianity?

Anyone who happened to hear of it pondered to himself whether he might destroy his soul that way and for an earthly recompense lose eternal life. And it was here that common compassion arranged things for Alexashka Ryzhov.

“He’s an orphan,” they said. “The Lord will forgive him more—especially on account of his young years. If while he’s carrying he gets mauled to death on the road by a bear or a wolf, and he appears at the Judgment, he’ll answer just one thing: ‘Lord, I didn’t understand,’ and that’s all. At his age no more could be asked of him. And if he stays whole and in time grows up, he can perfectly well go to a monastery and most excellently pray it away, with no expenses for candles or incense. What better can be expected for his orphanhood?”

Alexashka himself, whom this concerned most of all, was on good terms with the world and had no bone to pick with it: with a bold hand he hoisted the mail bag, slung it over his shoulder, and began carrying it from Soligalich to Chukhloma and back. Working in the foot mail was perfectly suited to his taste and to his nature: he walked alone through forests, fields, and swamps, and thought to himself his orphan’s thoughts, as they composed themselves in him under the vivid impression of everything he met, saw, and heard. In such circumstances a poet the likes of Burns or Koltsov⁵ might have come of him, but Alexashka Ryzhov was of a different stamp—not poetical but philosophical—and all that came of him was a remarkably odd “Singlemind.” Neither the length of the tiring way, nor the heat, nor the cold, nor wind or rain frightened him;⁶ the mail bag was so negligible for his powerful back that, besides that bag, he always carried another gray canvas bag with him, in which lay a thick book of his, which had an irresistible influence on him.

This book was the Bible.

II

It is not known to me how many years he performed his job in the foot mail, constantly toting his bag and Bible, but it seems it was a long time and ended when the foot mail was replaced by horse mail, and Ryzhov was “upped in rank.” After these two important events in our hero’s life, a great change took place in his destiny: an eager walker with the mail, he had no wish to ride with it and started looking for another job—again nowhere else but there in Soligalich, so as not to part from his mother, who by then had become old and, with dimming eyesight, now baked worse pies than before.

Judging by the fact that promotions for low-ranking postal work did not come along very often—for instance, once in twelve years—it must be thought that Ryzhov was by then about twenty-six or even a little more, and in all that time he had only walked back and forth between Soligalich and Chukhloma, and, while walking or resting, had read nothing but his Bible in its well-worn binding. He read it to his heart’s content and acquired a great and firm knowledge of it, which laid the foundation for all his subsequent original life, when he started to philosophize and to apply his biblical views in practice.

Of course, there was considerable originality in all this. For instance, Ryzhov knew by heart whole writings by many of the prophets and especially loved Isaiah, whose vast knowledge of God answered to his own state of soul and made up all his catechesis and all his theology.

An elderly man, who in the time of his youth had known the eighty-five-year-old Ryzhov, when he was already famous and had earned the name of “Singlemind,” told me how the old man recalled some “oak tree in the swamp,” where he had especially liked to rest and “cry out to the wind.”

“I’d stand,” he said, “and howl into the air:

“ ‘The ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master’s crib, but my people doth not consider. A seed of evildoers, children that are corruptors! Why should ye be stricken any more? ye will revolt more and more: the whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint. To what purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices unto me? I delight not in the blood of bullocks, or of lambs, or of he goats. When ye come to appear before me, bring no vain oblations; incense is an abomination unto me; the new moons and sabbaths, the calling of assemblies, I cannot away with; it is iniquity, even the solemn meeting. Your new moons and your appointed feasts my soul hateth. And when ye spread forth your hands, I will hide mine eyes from you: yea, when ye make many prayers, I will not hear. Wash you; put away the evil of your doings; learn to do well. Come now, and let us reason together: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow. Thy princes are rebellious, and companions unto thieves: every one loveth gifts, and followeth after rewards. Therefore saith the Lord, the Lord of hosts: woe to the mighty—mine enemies will not stand against my fury.’ ”⁷

And the orphan boy cried out this “woe, woe to the mighty” over the deserted swamp, and he imagined to himself that the wind would take Isaiah’s words and carry them to where the “dry bones” of Ezekiel’s vision lie without stirring;⁸ living flesh does not grow on them, and the decayed heart does not come to life in their breast.

The oak and the reptiles of the swamp listened to him, while he himself became half mystic, half agitator in a biblical spirit—in his own words, “breathed out love and daring.”

All this had ripened in him long ago, but it revealed itself in him when he obtained rank and started looking for another job, not over the swamp. Ryzhov’s development was now completely finished, and the time for action was coming, in which he could apply the rules he had created for himself on a biblical ground.

Under the same oak, over the same swamp where Ryzhov had cried out in the words of Isaiah, “Woe to the mighty,” he finally received the spirit which gave him the thought of becoming mighty himself, in order to shame the mightiest. And he accepted this consecration and carried it along all of his nearly hundred-year path till the grave, never once stumbling, never going lame either in the right knee, or in the left.

Enough examples await us further on of his astonishing strength, stifled in narrowness, and at the end of the story an unexpected act of daring fearlessness, which crowned him, like a knight, with a knightly reward.

III

In that far-off time which the story I am passing on about Ryzhov goes back to, the most important person in every small Russian town was the mayor. It has been said more than once and disputed by no one that, in the understanding of many Russian people, every mayor was “the third person of the state.” From its primary source—the monarch—state power in the popular notion ramifies like this: the first person in the state is the sovereign, who rules over the whole state; second after him is the governor, who rules over a province; and then, right after the governor, immediately follows the third—the mayor, who “sits over a town.” There were no district police chiefs then, and therefore no opinion was offered about them in this division of powers. However, it remained that way later on as well: the police chief was a traveling man, and he whipped only country people, who then still had no independent notion of hierarchy, and no matter who whipped them, twitched their legs in the same way.

The introduction of new legal institutions, limiting the former theocratic omnipotence of local administrators, has spoiled all that, especially in the towns, where it has contributed significantly to the decline not only of the mayor’s, but even of the governor’s prestige, which can no longer be raised to its former heights—at least for the mayor, whose high authority has been replaced by innovation.

But back then, when “Singlemind” pondered and decided his fate, all this was still in its well-established order. Governors sat in their centers like little kings: access to them was difficult, and appearing before them was “attended by fear”; they aimed at being rude to everybody, everybody bowed down before them, and some, in their zeal, even bowed very low; archpriests “came forth to meet” them with crosses and holy water at the entrances to churches, and the second-rate nobility honored them with expressions of base fawning and barely dared, in the persons of a few of their chosen representatives, to ask them to “stand godfather at the font.” And even when they agreed to condescend to such a favor, they behaved in kingly fashion: they did not come to the baptism themselves, but in their place sent special envoys or adjutants, who drove up with the “trappings” and accepted the honor “in the person of the sender.” Back then everything was majestic, dignified, and earnest, as befitted that good and earnest time, often contrasted with our present time, which is neither good nor earnest.

Ryzhov came upon an excellent line of approach to the source of local power and, without leaving his native Soligalich, of stepping onto the fourth rung in the state: the old police constable died in Soligalich, and Ryzhov thought of asking for his post.

IV

The post of police constable, though not a very high one, despite the fact that it constituted the first rung below the mayor, was nevertheless rather advantageous, if only the man who filled it was good at filching a piece of firewood, a couple of turnips, or a head of cabbage from every cart; but if he wasn’t, things were bad for him, because the official salary for this fourth officer of the state amounted to ten roubles a month in banknotes, which is about two roubles and eighty-five kopecks by today’s rates. On this the fourth person of the state was supposed to maintain himself and his family decently, but since that was impossible, every constable “tacked on” from those who turned to him for some “matter of concern.” Without this “tacking on” it was impossible to get by, and even the Voltaireans themselves did not rise up against it.⁹ No one ever thought of a “non-taking” constable, and therefore, since all constables took, Ryzhov also had to take. The authorities themselves could not wish for or tolerate his spoiling of the official line. Of that there could be no doubt, and there could be no talk of it.

The mayor, to whom Ryzhov had applied for the post of constable, naturally did not ask himself any questions about his ability to take bribes. He probably thought that Ryzhov would be like all the others, and therefore there were no special agreements between them on that score. The mayor took into consideration only his immense height, imposing figure, and the great fame he enjoyed for his strength and tirelessness in walking, which Ryzhov had demonstrated by his carrying the mail on foot. These were all qualities very suitable for the police work Ryzhov was seeking—and he was made the Soligalich constable, while his mother went on baking and selling her pies at that same market where her son was supposed to establish and maintain good order: to watch over the correct weight and the full, shaken-down measure.

The mayor made him only one admonition:

“Beat without crippling and don’t poke your fingers into matters of my concern.”

Ryzhov promised to fulfill that and went into action, but soon began to awaken strange doubts about himself, which started to worry the third person of the state, and put the former Alexashka himself, now Alexander Afanasyevich, through some quite painful ordeals.

From his first day on the job, Ryzhov proved zealous and correct in his duties: coming to the market, he positioned the carts and seated the women with their pies differently, not putting his mother in the best place. Some drunken muzhiks he brought to reason, and some he taught with his powerful hand, but with pleasantness, as nicely as if he were doing them a great favor, and he took nothing for the lesson. On that same day he also turned down an offering from the cabbage women, who came begging to him on a matter of concern, and declared further that on matters of concern there was nothing owing to him from anybody, because for all his matters of concern “the tsar pays him a salary, and God forbids the taking of bribes.”

Ryzhov spent the day well, and the night better still: he patrolled the whole town, and whoever he caught out walking at a late hour, he questioned: where from, where to, and on what necessity? He had a talk with a nice man, even accompanied him and gave him advice, but he boxed the ears of one or two drunkards, and locked up a sentry’s wife who went around putting spells on cows, and in the morning he appeared before the mayor to report that in the sentries he saw nothing but a hindrance to his work.

“They spend their time in idleness,” he said, “and needlessly go about half asleep, pestering people on matters of concern and corrupting themselves. Better remove them from lazy emptiness and send them to Your Excellency to weed the kitchen-garden beds, and I’ll manage everything alone.”

The mayor had no objections to that, and it was quite to the liking of his thrifty wife; only the sentries might not like it, and it was not in accordance with the law; but who thought of asking the sentries, and as for the law … the mayor judged that in a Russian way: “The law is like a horse: wherever you want to go, you turn its head so.” But Alexander Afanasyevich placed highest of all the law:

“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,”¹⁰ and from that law it followed that any superfluous “hangers-on” were an unnecessary burden, which had to be unhung and rehung to some other real, “sweaty” work.

And the matter was arranged as Ryzhov indicated, and it was pleasing in the eyes of the ruler and the people, and it turned the hearts of the grateful populace towards Ryzhov. And Ryzhov himself went about town during the day, went about alone at night, and little by little his good managerial supervision began to be felt everywhere, and again this was pleasing in the eyes of all. In short, everything went well and promised imperturbable peace, but that was just the trouble: if folks don’t heat up, generals don’t eat up—there was nothing of concern from anywhere, and apart from weeding the kitchen garden, there was no profit for the ruler, neither big, nor medium, nor small.

The mayor became roused in spirit. He looked into the matter, saw that it was impossible like that, and raised up a bitter persecution against Ryzhov.

He asked the archpriest to find out whether there was not in the “concernless” Ryzhov some sort of unorthodoxy, but the archpriest replied that he did not perceive any obvious unorthodoxy in Ryzhov, but noticed only a certain pride, proceeding, of course, from the fact that his mother baked pies and gave some to him.

“I advise putting a stop to this trade, improper for her now on account of her son, and his boundless pride will then be done away with, and he will become concerned.”

“I’ll put a stop to it,” replied the mayor, and he told Ryzhov: “It’s not fitting for your mother to sit in the market.”

“Very well,” Ryzhov replied, and he took his mother with her trays from the market, but kept up the same reprehensible behavior as before—he did not become concerned.

Then the archpriest pointed out that Ryzhov had not provided himself with a dress uniform, and on Easter Sunday, having stingily congratulated only his near and dear ones, had not appeared with his congratulations before any of the distinguished citizens, for which, however, they bore him no grudge.

The two things turned out to be dependent on each other. Ryzhov had not taken up a holiday collection, and therefore had no money for a uniform, but the uniform was necessary and the previous constable had had one. Everyone had seen him in a tunic with a collar, breeches, and boots with tassels, but this one remained the same as when he had gone around with the mail, in a beshmet of striped ticking with hooks,¹¹ yellow nankeen trousers, and a simple peasant hat, and for winter he had a raw sheepskin coat, and he had acquired nothing else, and could not acquire anything on a monthly salary of two roubles and eighty-seven kopecks, which he lived on, serving faithfully and truly.

Besides that, an incident occurred that required money: Ryzhov’s mother died, having been left with nothing to do on earth once she could no longer sell pies on it.

Alexander Afanasyevich gave her, in the general opinion, a “niggardly” funeral, and thereby showed his lack of love. He paid the clergy a little for it, but the pie baker had no pies baked at her funeral, and the forty-day prayers were not ordered.

A heretic! And it was the more plausible in that, though the mayor did not trust him and the archpriest had doubts about him, both the mayor’s wife and the priest’s wife stood like a rock for him—the first for driving the sentries to her kitchen garden, and the second for some mysterious reason that lay in her “resistant character.”

In these persons Alexander Afanasyevich had his protectors. The mayor’s wife herself sent him two measures of potatoes from the earth’s yield, but he, without untying the sacks, brought the potatoes back on his shoulders and said briefly:

“I thank you for the intention, but I don’t accept gifts.”

Then the priest’s wife, a nervous woman, offered him two calico shirtfronts of her own making from ancient times, when the archpriest was still a layman, but the odd fellow did not take them either.

“It’s forbidden to take gifts,” he said, “and besides, since I dress simply, I find no use for such finery.”

And here the priest’s wife spoke a maliciously provocative word to her husband:

“He’s the one who ought to stand at the altar,” she said, “and not you clerical finaglers.”

The archpriest was angry. He told his wife to be quiet, but he himself went on lying there and thinking:

“This is some Masonic novelty, and if I track it down and uncover it, I may get some big distinction and may even be transferred to Petersburg.”

So he raved about it and in his raving made up a plan of how to lay bare Ryzhov’s conscience even to the point of separating soul from body.

V

The Great Lent was approaching,¹² and the archpriest saw as in the palm of his hand how he was going to lay bare Ryzhov’s soul to the point of separation, and would then know how to deal with him for his wicked deviation from the truths of Orthodoxy.

With that aim he openly advised the mayor to send the striped constable to him for confession in the very first week. He promised to examine his soul well and, frightening him with the wrath of God, to worm out of him all that he kept secret and hidden and why he shunned all matters of concern and did not accept gifts. And then he said: “By the sight of his conscience laid open by fear, we’ll see what’s to be done with him, and we’ll put him through it, that the spirit may be saved.”¹³

Having mentioned the words of St. Paul, the archpriest calmly began to wait, knowing that each seeks out his own in them.

The mayor also did his share.

“You and I, Alexander Afanasyevich, as prominent persons in town,” he said, “must set folk a religious example and show respect for the Church.”

Ryzhov replied that he agreed.

“Be so good, brother, as to prepare and go to confession.”

“Agreed,” said Ryzhov.

“And since we’re both people in everybody’s sight, we should also do that in everybody’s sight, and not somehow in hiding. I go to our archpriest for confession—he’s the most experienced of our clergy—you go to him, too.”

“I’ll go to the archpriest.”

“Right. You go in the first week, and I’ll go in the last—that’s how we’ll divide it up.”

“I agree to that, too.”

The archpriest thoroughly confessed Ryzhov and even boasted that he raked him over the coals, but he did not find any mortal sins in him.

“He confessed,” he said, “to this and that and the other—he’s not quite a saint—but his sins are all simple, human, and he has no especially ill thoughts against the authorities and isn’t thinking of denouncing either you or me for ‘matters of concern.’ And that he ‘doesn’t accept gifts’ comes from harmful fantasy alone.”

“All the same, that means there’s harmful fantasy in him. What does it consist in?”

“He’s read up the Bible.”

“What a fool thing to do!”

“Yes, he read it out of boredom and can’t forget it.”

“A real fool! Now what are we to do with him?”

“There’s nothing we can do: he’s already very far into it.”

“Can it be he’s got to Christ himself?”

“All of it, he’s read all of it.”

“So it’s the kibosh!”

They felt sorry for Ryzhov and started being more charitable to him. All Orthodox people in Russia know that, if someone has read through the Bible and “gone as far as Christ,” he cannot very well be expected to act reasonably; such people are rather like holy fools—they behave oddly, but harm nobody, and are not to be feared. However, so as to be more secure with regard to the strange correcting of Ryzhov on “matters of concern,” the father archpriest offered the mayor a wise but cruel piece of advice: to get Alexander Afanasyevich married.

“For a married man,” the archpriest expounded, “even if he has ‘read as far as Christ,’ it’s hard to preserve his honesty: his wife will light a fire under him, and in one way or another will drive him until he yields to her and lets the whole Bible leave his head, and becomes amenable to gifts and devoted to the authorities.”

This advice accorded with the mayor’s thinking, and he gave orders to Alexander Afanasyevich that in one way or another he must marry without fail, because bachelors are unreliable in political positions.

“Say what you like, brother,” he said, “but I find you good from all points of view except one, and from that one point of view you’re unfit.”

“Why so?”

“You’re a bachelor.”

“Where’s the reproach in that?”

“The reproach is that you may do something treacherous and flee to another province. What is it to you now? Just grab your Bibbel and that’s it.”

“That’s it.”

“There’s just what’s untrustworthy.”

“And is a married man more trustworthy?”

“No comparison. A married man,” he says, “I can twist like a rope, and he’ll suffer it all, because he’s got his nestlings to tend to, and his woman to feel sorry for, but a bachelor’s like a bird himself—it’s impossible to trust him. So either you walk off, or you get married.”

The enigmatic fellow, having heard this argument, was not put out in the least and replied:

“Well, marriage is a good thing, too, it’s indicated by God: if need be, I’ll get married.”

“Only cut down a tree that suits you.”

“Yes, one that suits me.”

“And choose quickly.”

“I’ve already chosen: I only have to go and see if anybody else has taken her.”

The mayor laughed at him:

“Look at you,” he said, “you little sinner—makes out like there’s never been any sin on him, yet he’s already spied out a wife for himself.”

“Who hasn’t got sin on him!” replied Alexander Afanasyevich. “The vessel’s brimming with abomination, only I haven’t asked her to be my bride yet, but I do indeed have my eye on her and ask permission to go and see what’s what.”

“Not a local girl, probably—is she from far away?”

“Not local and not from far away—she lives by the stream near the swamp.”

The mayor laughed again, dismissed Ryzhov, and, intrigued, began to wait, wondering when the odd fellow would come back to him and what he would say.

VI

Ryzhov indeed cut down a tree that suited him: a week later he brought a wife to town—a big woman, white-skinned, ruddy-cheeked, with kindly brown eyes and submissiveness in every step and movement. She was dressed in peasant clothes, and the two spouses walked one behind the other, carrying a yoke on their shoulders from which a decorated bast box containing a dowry hung on a canvas strap.

Veterans of the marketplace recognized this person at once as the daughter of old Kozlikha, who lived in a solitary hut by the stream beyond the swamp and passed for a wicked witch. Everyone thought that Ryzhov had taken the witch’s wench to keep house for him.

That was partly true, only before bringing her home, Ryzhov had married her in church. Conjugal life cost him no more than bachelorhood; on the contrary, now it became even more profitable for him, because, having brought home a wife, he immediately dismissed the hired woman he had paid no less than a copper rouble a month. From then on the copper rouble remained in his pocket, and the house was better kept; his wife’s strong hands were never idle: she spun and wove, and also turned out to be good at knitting stockings and growing vegetables. In short, his wife was a simple, capable peasant woman, faithful and submissive, with whom the biblical eccentric could live in a biblical way, and apart from what has been said, there is nothing to say about her.

Alexander Afanasyevich’s treatment of his wife was most simple, but original: he addressed her informally, and she addressed him formally; he called her “woman,” and she called him Alexander Afanasyevich; she served him, and he was her master; when he spoke to her, she replied—when he was silent, she did not dare ask. At the table, he sat and she served, but they shared a common bed, and that was probably the reason why their marriage bore fruit. There was just one fruit—an only son, whom the “woman” reared, and in whose education she did not interfere.

Whether the “woman” loved her biblical husband or not is not clear from anything in their relations, but that she was faithful to her husband was unquestionable. Besides that, she feared him as a person placed above her by divine law and having a divine right over her. That did not disturb her peaceful life. She was illiterate, and Alexander Afanasyevich did not wish to fill this gap in her education. They lived, naturally, a Spartan life, of the strictest moderation, but they did not consider it a misfortune; in that, perhaps, they were much helped by the fact that many others around them lived in no greater prosperity. They did not drink tea and kept none at home, and they ate meat only on days of major feasts—the rest of the time they lived on bread and vegetables, preserved or fresh from their kitchen garden, and most of all on mushrooms, which grew abundantly in their forested area. In summertime the “woman” picked these mushrooms in the forest herself and prepared them for keeping, but, to her regret, the only way of preparing them was by drying. There was nothing to salt them with. The expense for salt in the necessary amount for such a supply was not included in Ryzhov’s calculations, and when the “woman” once prepared a small barrel of mushrooms with a little sack of salt given to her by a tax farmer, Alexander Afanasyevich, on learning of it, gave the “woman” a patriarchal beating and took her to the archpriest to have a penance laid on her for disobeying her husband’s precepts; and he rolled the whole barrel of mushrooms to the tax farmer’s yard with his own hands and told them to “take it wherever they liked,” and he gave the tax farmer a reprimand.

Such was this odd fellow, of whom for all the length of his days there is also not much to say; he sat in his place, did his little job, which did not enjoy anyone’s special sympathy, nor did he ever seek any special sympathy; the Soligalich ringleaders considered him “deranged by the Bible,” and simple people judged that he was simply “this-that-and-the-other.”

Which rather unclear definition had for them a clear and plain meaning.

Ryzhov did not care in the least what people thought of him: he served everyone honestly and did not play up to anyone in particular; in his thoughts he gave his accounting to the one he believed in immutably and firmly, calling him the author and master of all that exists. Ryzhov’s pleasure consisted in fulfilling his duty, and his highest spiritual comfort in philosophizing about the highest questions of the spiritual world and about the reflection of the laws of that world in phenomena and in the destinies of particular persons and of entire kingdoms and peoples. Whether Ryzhov shared the common weakness of many self-taught men in considering himself more intelligent than anyone else is not known, but he was not proud, and he never thrust his beliefs and views on anyone or even shared them, but only wrote them into big blue-paged notebooks, which he filed under one cover with the significant inscription: Singlemind.

What was written in this whole enormous manuscript by the policeman-philosopher remained hidden, because at Alexander Afanasyevich’s death his Singlemind perished, and no one can say much about it from memory. Only a bare two or three passages from the whole of Singlemind were shown by Ryzhov to an important person on an extraordinary occasion in his life, which we are now approaching. The rest of Singlemind’s pages, the existence of which almost all Soligalich knew about, were used to paper walls, or perhaps were even burned to avoid unpleasantness, because these writings contained much incoherent raving and religious fantasy, for which, in those times, both the author and his readers might have been sent to pray in the Solovetsky Monastery.¹⁴

The spirit of this manuscript became known with the following incident, so memorable in the annals of Soligalich.

VII

I cannot recall for certain and do not know where to find out in precisely what year Sergei Stepanovich Lanskoy, later a count and a well-known minister of the interior, was named governor of Kostroma.¹⁵ This dignitary, according to the apt observation of a contemporary, “was of strong mind and haughty bearing,” and this brief characterization is correct and perfectly sufficient for the notion our reader needs to have of him.

One may, it seems, add only that Lanskoy respected honesty and fairness in people and was kind himself, and he also loved Russia and the Russian man, but understood him in a lordly way, as an aristocrat, having a foreign view and a Western measure for everything.

The appointment of Lanskoy as governor of Kostroma occurred at the time of Alexander Afanasyevich Ryzhov’s eccentric service as Soligalich’s constable, and under certain peculiar circumstances besides.

On entering into his duties as governor, Sergei Stepanovich, following the example of many functionaries, first of all made a “clean sweep of the province,” that is, threw out of office a great many negligent civil servants who abused their positions, among them the mayor of Soligalich, under whom Ryzhov was constable.

In throwing unsuitable persons out of office, the new governor did not rush to replace them with others, so as not to fall upon the same sort, and maybe on still worse. To select worthy people, he wanted to have a look around, or, as we now say in Russian, to “orient himself.”

With that aim, the duties of the removed persons were entrusted temporarily to substitutes from among the junior officials, and the governor soon undertook a tour of the whole province, which trembled with a strange trembling at the mere rumors of his “haughty bearing.”

Alexander Afanasyevich assumed the duties of mayor. What he did in this substitution that differed from the former “standing” order, I don’t know; but, naturally, he did not take bribes as mayor, just as he had not taken bribes as constable. Ryzhov also did not change his manner of living or his relations with people—he did not even sit in the mayor’s chair before the zertsalo,¹⁶ but signed “for the mayor” seated at his ink-stained little desk by the front door. For this last obstinacy Ryzhov had an explanation, which was connected with the apotheosis of his life. After many years of service, just as in the first days of his constableship, Alexander Afanasyevich had no uniform, and he governed “for the mayor” wearing the same greasy and much-mended beshmet. And therefore, to all the appeals of the chief clerk that he take the mayor’s seat, he replied:

“I can’t: my garment betrays me as unfit for the wedding feast.”¹⁷

This was all duly written down in his own hand in his Singlemind, with the addition that the chief clerk suggested that he “take the seat in his beshmet, but remove the eagle from the zertsalo.” However, Alexander Afanasyevich “ignored this indecency” and went on sitting in the former place in his beshmet.

This non-uniformity did not interfere with the business of policing the town, but the question became completely different when news arrived of the coming of the “haughty bearing.” In his quality as the town’s mayor, Alexander Afanasyevich was supposed to meet the governor, receive him, and report to him on the welfare of Soligalich, and also to answer all the questions Lanskoy was going to ask him and introduce him to all the town’s points of interest, from the cathedral to the prison, the vacant lots, the ravines, which nobody knew what to do with.

Ryzhov indeed had a problem: how was he to perform all that in his beshmet? But he did not worry about that in the least; instead all the others worried about it, because Ryzhov, by his unsightliness, might anger the “haughty bearing” from the first step. It did not occur to anyone that it was precisely Alexander Afanasyevich who was going to astonish and even delight the all-terrifying “haughty bearing” and even prophesy his promotion.

The generally conscientious Alexander Afanasyevich was not embarrassed in the least by how he looked, and did not share the general bureaucratic fear at all, on account of which he was subject to disapproval and even hatred and fell in the opinion of his compatriots, but he fell in order to rise afterwards higher than all and leave behind him a heroic and almost legendary memory.

VIII

It is not superfluous to recall once again that, in those recent but deeply vanished times to which the story of Ryzhov dates, governors were not at all as in our evil days, when the grandeur of these dignitaries has fallen significantly, or, in the expression of a certain ecclesiastical chronicler, has “cruelly deteriorated.” Back then governors traveled “fearsomely,” and were received “tremblingly.” Their progress was accomplished in a grandiose bustle, to which not only all the lesser principalities and powers,¹⁸ but even the rabble and the four-footed brutes contributed. By the time of the governor’s arrival, towns would have received an anointing with chalk, soot, and ochre; the tollgates would be newly adorned with the national motley of official tricolors; the sentries in their booths and the invalids would be admonished to “wax their heads and mustaches,” the hospitals would set about intensifying the discharge of the “healthified.” Everything to the ends of the earth took part in the general animation; peasant men and women were driven from their villages to the roadways, shifting about for months repairing swamped roads, log roads, and bridges; at the posting stations even special couriers and various lieutenants hurrying on countless official errands were detained. During such periods stationmasters revenged themselves on these restless people for their insufferable offenses and with steadfast inner firmness made them drag along on any old nags, because the good horses were “kept resting” for the governor. In short, no one could walk or drive anywhere without feeling with some one of his senses that in the nature of all things something extraordinary was going on. Thanks to that, back then, without any empty babble from the garrulous press, each person, old or young, knew that the one than whom there was none greater in the province was passing through, and on that occasion, each as he was able, they all expressed to their intimates their manifold feelings. But the most exalted activity went on in the central nests of the district lordship—in the court offices, where things began with the tedious and boring checking of lists, and ended with the merry operation of dusting the walls and scrubbing the floors. The floor scrubbing was something like the classical orgies in the days of the grape harvest, when everything was intensely exultant, having only one concern: to live, before the hour of death comes. Following a small convoy of crooked invalids, female prisoners, bored with a deadly boredom, were delivered from jail to the offices, where, snatching at a brief moment of happiness, they enjoyed the captivating rights of their sex—to delight the lot of mortals. The décolletés and manches courtes^* with which they set about their work had such an arousing effect on the young clerks busy with their papers that the consequence in the jails, as is known, was not infrequently the coming into the world of so-called “floor-scrubbing children”—of unacknowledged but undoubtedly noble origin.

At home during those same days dress boots were blackened, breeches were whitened, and long-folded-away, moth-eaten tunics were spruced up. This, too, enlivened the town. The tunics were first hung out on a hot day in the sun, on lines stretched across the yard, which attracted multitudes of the curious to every gate; then the tunics were laid on pillows or felt and beaten out with rods; after that they were shaken out, then darned, ironed, and, finally, spread out on an armchair in a drawing room or some other reception room, and at the conclusion of it all—in the final end, they were surreptitiously sprinkled with Theophany water from holy bottles, which, if kept near an icon in a wax-sealed vessel, does not go bad from one year to the next, and does not lose a bit of the wonderworking power imparted to it at the moment when the cross is immersed in it, to the singing of “O, Lord, save Thy people and bless Thine inheritance.”¹⁹

Stepping forth to meet the personages, the officials vested themselves in their besprinkled uniforms and, in their quality as the Lord’s inheritance, would be saved. Many reliable stories are told about this, but given the present-day universal lack of faith and the particularly Offenbachian mood²⁰ that reigns in the bureaucratic world, all this has by now been discredited in the general opinion, and, among many other things sanctified by time, is light-mindedly called into question; but to our forefathers, who had genuine, firm faith, it was given according to their faith.

Waiting for the governor in those times was long and agonizing. There were as yet no railroads, with trains coming on schedule at an appointed hour, delivering the governor along with all other mortals, but a high road was specially prepared, and after that no one knew with certainty either the day or the hour when the dignitary would be pleased to appear. Therefore the weary waiting was prolonged and filled with a special, solemn anxiety, at the very zenith of which stood the guard on duty, who had to watch the high road from the tallest belfry in town. He was not supposed to doze off, protecting the town from an unexpected arrival, but of course it happened that he would doze and even sleep, and on such unfortunate occasions there would be various unpleasantnesses. Sometimes the negligent watchman rang the little bell when the governor was already at too close a distance, so that the officials did not all have time to uniform themselves and rush out, nor the archpriest to vest himself and come out with the cross, and sometimes the mayor even had no time to ride out to the town gates standing on a cart. To avoid this, the sentry was obliged to walk around the belfry and on each side make a bow in the corresponding direction.

This served the sentry as a diversion and the general public as a guarantee that the one keeping vigil over them was not sleeping or dozing. But this precaution did not always help; it would happen that the sentry mastered the ability of the albatross: he would sleep while walking and bowing, and, half-awake, would ring a false alarm, having taken a landowner’s carriage for the governor’s, and then a useless commotion would arise in town, ending with the officials un-uniforming themselves again and the mayor’s troika being unharnessed, while the imprudent watchman would get a light or not so light whipping.

Suchlike difficulties occurred frequently and were not easy to overcome, and, besides, their whole weight lay chiefly on the mayor, who had to go galloping off to the meeting ahead of them all, was the first to take upon himself the superior’s glares and growls, and then again, standing up, galloped ahead of the governor’s carriage to the cathedral, where the fully vested archpriest, with the cross and a sprinkler in a bowl of holy water, was waiting by the porch. Here the mayor, unfailingly with his own hand, flipped down the governor’s footboard and in that way, so to speak, with his own hand let the arriving exalted personage out of his traveling ark onto our native soil. Nowadays this is all no longer so, it has all been spoiled, and that not without the participation of the governors themselves, among whom there were those eager to “sell themselves short.” Now they may even repent of it, but what’s slipped away can’t be brought back: no one flips down footboards for them except lackeys and policemen.

But the mayor of old fulfilled his duty unabashedly and served as a first touchstone for everyone; he was the first to find out whether the arriving governor was ferocious or benign. And, truth to tell, much depended on the mayor: he could spoil things straight off, because one awkwardness of any sort on his part could anger the governor and throw him into a rage; but with one nimble leap, turn, or other fitting caper he could also bring his excellency to a benign disposition.

Now every reader, even one ignorant of these patriarchal customs, can judge how natural was the anxiety of the Soligalich officialdom, who came to have as their representative such an original, awkward, and stubborn mayor as Ryzhov, who, besides all his inconvenient personal qualities, had a wardrobe consisting of nothing but a beshmet of striped ticking and a shaggy peasant hat.

These would be the first things to strike the eye of the “haughty bearing,” of whom idle tongues had already brought the most terrible news to Soligalich … What good could come of it?

IX

Alexander Afanasyevich could indeed drive anyone you like to despair; he did not worry about anything, and, in waiting for the governor, behaved as if the impending terrible event did not concern him at all. He did not demolish a single fence of a single citizen, did not paint anything either with chalk or with ochre, and generally took no measures not only towards beautifying the town, but also towards changing his incongruous costume, and continued to go about in his beshmet. To all projects proposed to him, he replied:

“Folk mustn’t be put to any loss: is the governor to lay waste the land? Let him pass through, and let the fence remain.” The requests concerning his uniform Ryzhov parried by saying that he had no means, and, he said, “I appear in what I have: before God I’ll stand completely naked. The point isn’t in clothes, it’s in reason and conscience—in clothes they find you, in thought they mind you.”

Nobody hoped to out-stubborn Ryzhov, and yet it was very important, not so much for the stubborn Ryzhov, for whom it might have been nothing, from his biblical point of view, if the second person in the state drove him from his sight in his beshmet; but it was important for all the others, because the governor, of course, would become incensed, seeing such a spectacle as a mayor in a beshmet.

Worried about the expected visitor’s first impression, the Soligalich officials strove for only two things: (1) that the tollgate at which Alexander Afanasyevich was to meet the governor be repainted, and (2) that on that occasion Alexander Afanasyevich wear, not his striped beshmet, but a uniform suited to his rank. But how achieve it?

Opinions differed, but everyone was more inclined to pitch together for the painting of the tollgate and the dressing of the mayor. With regard to the tollgate that was, of course, convenient, but with regard to Ryzhov’s outfitting it was no good at all.

He said, “That is a gift, and I don’t accept gifts.” Then the suggestion offered by the father archpriest of mature judgment triumphed over all. He saw no need for any pitching in either for painting the tollgate or for the mayor’s uniform, and said that it should all lie upon the one who was guiltiest of all, and the guiltiest of all, in his opinion, was the tax farmer. It should all fall on him. He alone was obliged, at his own expense, not through any force, but out of zeal, to paint the tollgate, for which the archpriest promised to recall it in a brief oration at the greeting of the governor, and, besides that, to include the donor in a secretly uttered prayer before the altar. Besides that, the father archpriest decided that the tax farmer had to give the assessor, on top of the usual offering, a triple portion of rum, French vodka, and home brew, of which the assessor was a great fancier. And for that let the assessor report himself sick and drink this additional offering at home alone and not go outside, but lend his uniform, which was the same as a policeman’s, to Ryzhov, which the latter would probably find no reason to refuse, and then the sheep would be safe and the wolves sated.

This plan was the more fortunate in that the permanent assessor somewhat resembled Ryzhov in height and bulk, and besides, having recently married a merchant’s daughter, he had a two-piece uniform in perfect order. Consequently, it only remained to prevail upon him, for the general good, to take to his bed at the time of the superior’s arrival, under the pretext of a grave illness, and surrender his ammunition on this occasion to Ryzhov, whom the father archpriest, relying on his spiritual authority, also undertook to persuade—and did persuade. Seeing neither a gift nor a bribe in it, the righteous Alexander Afanasyevich agreed, for the general happiness, to don the uniform. The assessor’s two-piece uniform was tried on and fitted for Ryzhov, and after some letting out of the double seams on all sides of the tunic and breeches, the matter was brought to a satisfactory conclusion. Alexander Afanasyevich, though he felt a highly inconvenient constraint in the uniform, could still move and all the same was now a tolerable representative of authority. It was decided to cover the small white gap between the tunic and the linen breeches with a piece of linen of the same color, which camouflaged the gap quite successfully. In short, Alexander Afanasyevich was now so well fitted out that the governor could turn him in all directions and admire him this way and that. But ill fate was pleased to mock all this and leave Alexander Afanasyevich suitably presentable from one side only, and to spoil the other completely, and that in such an ambiguous way that it could give grounds for the most arbitrary interpretation of his political way of thinking, mysterious as it was even without that.

X

The tollgate was painted in all the bright national colors, consisting of black and white stripes with red in between, and had had no time to get dusty before the news arrived that the governor had left the neighboring town and was making straight for Soligalich. At once signalmen were posted everywhere, and a restive postal troika stood champing at the bit by the fence of Ryzhov’s poor hut, hitched to a cart into which Alexander Afanasyevich was supposed to leap at the first signal and gallop to meet the “haughty bearing.”

In this last stipulation there was an extraordinary amount of inconvenient complexity, which filled everything around with uneasy anxiety—something the self-possessed Ryzhov disliked very much. He decided “to be always in his place”: he moved the troika from his fence to the town gates, and sat right there himself on the painted bar of the tollgate, in full dress—tunic and white breeches—with a report in his breast pocket, installing himself like a saint on a pillar, while the curious gathered around him, whom he did not send away, but, on the contrary, conversed with, and in the midst of this conversation it was granted him to see a cloud of dust billowing up on the road, in which the lead pair and postillion, adorned with brass plates, outlined themselves. It was the governor rolling along.

Ryzhov quickly leaped into the cart and was about to gallop off, when he was suddenly struck by the general moan and gasp of the crowd calling out to him:

“Dear man, take off your trousers!”

“What’s that?” asked Ryzhov.

“Your trousers, take off your trousers,” the people replied. “Look at your white behind, the whole tollgate’s printed on it.”

Ryzhov looked over his shoulder and saw that all the undried stripes of the national colors from the tollgate were indeed printed on his breeches with astonishing distinctness.

He winced, but then sighed at once and said: “No need for superiors to go looking there,” and sent the troika galloping to meet the “haughty personage.”

The people just waved their hands:

“Desperate man! What’s he in for now?”

XI

Runners from that same crowd quickly managed to inform the clergy and superiors in the cathedral of the ambiguous guise in which Ryzhov would be meeting the governor, but by then it was each man for himself.

The archpriest was the most frightened of all, because the officials were lurking in the church, while he stood on the steps with the cross in his hands. He was surrounded by a very small number of clergy, among whom two figures stood out: a squat deacon with big head and a lanky beadle in a vestment, who was holding holy water in an “applicated” bowl, which tossed and trembled in his timorous hands. But now the quaking of fear turned to petrifaction: on the square, drawn by a briskly galloping troika, appeared the post cart, on which Ryzhov’s gigantic figure towered up with remarkable dignity. He was wearing a hat, a tunic with a red collar, and white breeches with linen sewn over the gap, which from a distance decidedly spoiled nothing. On the contrary, he appeared to everyone like something majestic, and indeed that was how he ought to have appeared. Standing firmly on the galloping cart, on the box of which the driver bounced up and down, Alexander Afanasyevich swayed neither right nor left, but sailed on his chariot like a triumphator, his mighty arms folded on his chest, and sending a whole cloud of dust onto the coach-and-six and the light tarantass that followed him. In the tarantass rode the officials. Lanskoy sat alone in the coach and, despite the grave importance he was noted for, was evidently much intrigued by Ryzhov, who flew ahead of him, standing up, in a short, tight tunic, not concealing in the least the pattern of the national colors on his white breeches. It is very likely that a considerable portion of the gubernatorial attention was drawn precisely to that oddity, the meaning of which was not at all easy to understand and determine.

In due course the cart pulled up to one side, and in due course Alexander Afanasyevich jumped off and opened the door of the governor’s carriage.

Lanskoy stepped out, having, as always, his invariable “haughty bearing,” which, however, enclosed a rather kind heart. The archpriest, raising the cross over him, said: “Blessed be he that cometh in the name of the Lord,”²¹ and then sprinkled him slightly with holy water.

The dignitary planted a kiss on the cross, wiped away the drops that had landed on his haughty brow with a cambric handkerchief, and entered the church first. All this went on right in front of Alexander Afanasyevich and displeased him in the extreme—it was all “haughty.” The unfavorable impression was intensified still more when, having entered the church, the governor did not cross himself or bow to anyone—neither the altar, nor the people—but walked straight as a pole right to the front, without bending his head.

This was against all of Ryzhov’s rules regarding reverence for God and the obligation of the superior to set an example for their inferiors—and his pious spirit was stirred and rose to an incredible height.

Ryzhov went on walking behind the governor and, as Lanskoy approached the front, Ryzhov shortened the distance between them more and more and suddenly seized him unexpectedly by the arm and uttered in a loud voice:

“Servant of God Sergius! Enter the church of the Lord not haughtily but humbly, presenting yourself as the greatest of sinners—like this!”

And with that he placed his hand on the governor’s back, slowly bent him into a full bow, released him again, and stood at attention.

XII

The eyewitness who passed on this anecdotal story of the Soligalich eccentric said nothing about how the people and authorities who were in the church then took it. All that is known is that no one had the courage to defend the bent-down governor and stop Ryzhov’s dauntless hand, but of Lanskoy he communicated something more detailed. Sergei Stepanovich did not give the least occasion for prolonging the disorder, but, on the contrary, “exchanged his proud haughtiness for intelligent self-control.” He did not cut Alexander Afanasyevich short, or even say a word to him, but crossed himself and, turning around, bowed to all the people, and after that quickly left and headed for the quarters that had been prepared for him.

There Lanskoy received the officials—both crown and elected—and those of them who seemed deserving of greater trust he questioned about Ryzhov: what sort of man he was and how he was tolerated in society.

“He’s our Constable Ryzhov,” the headman answered him.

“He’s … mad, probably?”

“Not at all: he’s just always like that.”

“But why keep somebody like that in service?”

“He’s good at it.”

“An insolent man.”

“The meekest of the meek: if a superior sits on his neck, he reasons, ‘Then he’s got to be carried,’ and carry him he does, only he’s read up the Bible and it’s deranged him.”

“What you say is absurd: the Bible is a divine book.”

“That’s exactly right, only it’s not suitable reading matter for everybody: monks get into a wild passion over it, and worldly people have their wits addled.”

“What nonsense!” Lanskoy objected and went on questioning:

“And how is he in the matter of bribes: moderate?”

“Good heavens,” said the headman, “he doesn’t take anything at all …”

The governor’s disbelief grew still more.

“That,” he said, “I won’t believe for a moment.”

“No, he really doesn’t take bribes.”

“In that case,” he says, “what does he live on?”

“He lives on his salary.”

“You’re telling me a lot of rubbish: there’s no such man in all Russia.”

“Right,” he replies, “there isn’t; but one has turned up among us.”

“And how much does he get as a salary?”

“Ten roubles a month.”

“Why,” he says, “you couldn’t keep a sheep on that.”

“It really is tricky to live on it,” he says, “but he does.”

“But if it’s impossible for everybody, how does he manage it?”

“He’s read up the Bible.”

“Very well, so ‘he’s read up the Bible,’ but what does he eat?”

“Bread and water.”

And here the headman told about how Ryzhov was in all his doings.

“Then this is quite a remarkable man!” Lanskoy exclaimed and asked that Ryzhov be summoned to him.

Alexander Afanasyevich appeared and stood by the doorpost, in accordance with subordination.

“Where are you from?” Lanskoy asked him.

“I was born here, on Nizhnaya Street,” replied Ryzhov.

“And where were you brought up?”

“I had no upbringing … I grew up with my mother. She baked pies.”

“Did you study anywhere?”

“With the scribe.”

“What is your confession?”

“Christian.”

“You act very strangely.”

“Not that I notice: each of us finds strange what’s not peculiar to him.”

Lanskoy thought that this was a challenging, impudent allusion, and, glancing sternly at Ryzhov, he asked sharply:

“Do you belong to some sort of sect?”

“There are no sects here: I go to the cathedral.”

“Do you confess?”

“I confess to God before the archpriest.”

“Do you have a family?”

“A wife and a son.”

“Do you receive a small salary?”

The never-laughing Ryzhov smiled.

“I get ten roubles a month,” he said, “but I don’t know if that’s big or small.”

“It’s not big.”

“Report to the sovereign that for a wicked servant it’s little.”²²

“And for a faithful one?”

“It’s enough.”

“They say you don’t profit from your position?”

Ryzhov looked at him and said nothing.

“Tell me in all conscience: can that really be so?”

“And why can’t it be?”

“You have very small means.”

“If you have great self-control, you can get by on small means.”

“But why don’t you ask for another post?”

“And who’s going to fill this one?”

“Somebody else.”

“Will he manage better than I do?”

Now it was Lanskoy who smiled: the constable greatly interested his soul, which was no stranger to warmth.

“Listen,” he said, “you’re an odd fellow; I beg you to sit down.”

Ryzhov sat down vis-à-vis the “haughty” one.

“They say you’re an expert on the Bible?”

“I read it as much as time permits, and advise you to do the same.”

“Very well; but … allow me to assure you that you may speak with me quite candidly and in all truth.”

“Lying is forbidden by the commandments—I’m not going to lie.”

“Very well. Do you respect the authorities?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“They’re lazy, greedy, and duplicitous towards the throne,” replied Ryzhov.

“Yes, you are candid. Thank you. Do you also prophesy?”

“No. But I conclude what clearly follows from the Bible.”

“Could you show me at least one of your conclusions?”

Ryzhov replied that he could—and at once fetched a whole sheaf of papers with the inscription Singlemind.

“Is there anything here from the past that was prophetic and has come true?” asked Lanskoy.

The constable leafed through the familiar pages and read: “In her correspondence with Voltaire, the empress called him a second Chrysostom. For this incongruous comparison, our monarch’s life will not have a peaceful end.”

In the margin by this place it was noted: “Fulfilled with the grievous marriage of Pavel Petrovich.”²³

“Show me something else.”

Ryzhov again flipped through the pages and pointed to another place, which consisted only of the following: “An ukase issued on stump duties. Henceforth the cold will intensify in poor cottages. A special punishment is to be expected.” And again a note in the margin: “Fulfilled—see page such-and-such,” and on that page was reported the death of the baby daughter of the emperor Alexander I, with the note: “This followed the imposition of the tax on timber.”²⁴

“Excuse me,” asked Lanskoy, “but doesn’t timber constitute property?”

“Yes, but to heat the air in a dwelling constitutes a necessity.”

“Are you against property?”

“No, I only want people to be warm when it’s cold out. Timber shouldn’t go to those who are warm anyway.”

“And how do you judge about taxes: should taxes be imposed on people?”

“They should, and there should be an additional tax on everything that’s a luxury, so that the rich pay into the treasury for the poor.”

“Hm, hm! Have you drawn that teaching from somewhere?”

“From Holy Scripture and my conscience.”

“You haven’t been led to it by some other source from modern times?”

“All other sources are impure and filled with vain thinking.”

“Now tell me one last thing: how is it that you’re not afraid either of writing what you write, or of doing what you did to me in church?”

“What I write, I write for myself, and what I did in church had to be committed to protect the tsar’s authority.”

“Why the tsar’s?”

“So that everybody could see his servant showing respect for the people’s faith.”

“But I could have dealt with you quite differently than I’m doing.”

Ryzhov looked at him “with pity” and replied:

“And what harm can be done to a man who is able to live with his family on ten roubles a month?”

“I could have you arrested.”

“They eat better in jail.”

“You could be exiled for this insolence.”

“Where could I be exiled where I’d be worse off and where my God would abandon me? He’s with me everywhere, and besides Him I fear no one.”

The haughty neck bent, and Lanskoy’s left hand reached out to Ryzhov.

“Your character is honorable,” he said and told him to leave.

But apparently he still did not quite trust this biblical socialist and personally asked several simple people about him.

Twirling their hands in the air, they all answered in the same way:

“He’s this-that-and-the-other.”

None of them knew anything more definite about him.

On bidding him farewell, Lanskoy said to Ryzhov:

“I won’t forget you, and I’ll take your advice—I’ll read the Bible.”

“Only that’s not enough, you must also learn to live on ten roubles a month,” Ryzhov added.

But that advice Lanskoy did not promise to take, but only laughed, gave him his hand again, and said:

“An odd fellow, an odd fellow!”

Sergei Stepanovich left, and Ryzhov carried his Singlemind home and went on writing in it whatever poured out from his observations and prophetic inspiration.

XIII

Quite some time had gone by since Lanskoy’s visit, and the events that had accompanied his passing through Soligalich were already largely forgotten and rubbed out by the everyday hurly-burly, when suddenly out of the blue, a wonder of wonders not only for Soligalich but for all enlightened Russia, the inspected town received some absolutely incredible news, even impossible in an orderly system of government: Constable Ryzhov had been awarded the St. Vladimir’s Cross, which confers nobility²⁵—the first St. Vladimir’s Cross ever bestowed on a police constable.

The decoration itself arrived along with instructions for putting it on and wearing it according to the rules. Both the cross and the diploma were handed to Alexander Afanasyevich with an announcement that he had been vouchsafed this honor and this bestowal on the recommendation of Sergei Stepanovich Lanskoy.

Ryzhov took the decoration, looked at it, and said aloud:

“An odd fellow, an odd fellow!” and noted in the Singlemind next to Lanskoy’s name: “Will be made a count,” which, as we know, was fulfilled. As for wearing the decoration, Ryzhov had nothing to wear it on.

The chevalier Ryzhov lived to be almost ninety, noting everything down precisely and originally in his Singlemind, which was probably expended on papering the walls in some local restoration. He died, having carried out all the Christian rites according to the prescriptions of the Orthodox Church, though his Orthodoxy, by general observation, was “questionable.” In his faith, too, Ryzhov was a this-that-and-the-other sort of man, but for all that, it seems to me that we can see in him something besides “mere trash”—for which he should be remembered at the very beginning of a search into “three righteous men.”²⁶

* Low necklines and short sleeves. Trans.