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 cl
early 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.”
The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories Page 34