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 wil
l 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.”
The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories Page 32