† “To his fingertips.” Trans.
The White Eagle
A Fantastic Story
The dog dreams of bread, of fish the fisherman.
THEOCRITUS (Idyll)1
I
There are more things in heaven and earth.”2 That is how we usually begin such stories, so as to shield ourselves with Shakespeare from the sharp-witted arrows of those for whom there is nothing unknown. I, however, still think that “there are things” that are very strange and incomprehensible, which are sometimes called supernatural, and therefore I listen willingly to such stories. For the same reason, when, two or three years ago, reducing ourselves to childishness, we began to play at spiritualism,3 I willingly sat in on one such circle, the rules of which required that at our evening gatherings we not say a word about the authorities or about the principles of the earthly world, but talk only about incorporeal spirits—about their appearances and participation in the destinies of living people. Not even the “preservation and salvation of Russia” was permitted, because on such occasions many “begin with cheers and end with tears.”
For the same reason, all taking in vain of “great names” of whatever sort was strictly forbidden, with the sole exception of the name of God, which, as we know, is most often used for beauty of style. Breaches occurred, of course, but those, too, with great caution. Two impatient politicians might step over to the window or the fireplace and whisper a little, but even then they would warn each other: “Pas si haut!”* And the host already has his eye on them and jokingly threatens to fine them.
Each of us in turn had to tell something fantastic from his own life, and since a knack for storytelling is not given to everyone, the story was not picked on from the artistic side. Nor were proofs required. If the storyteller said that the event he told about had actually happened to him, we believed him, or at least pretended to believe. Such was the etiquette.
I was interested most of all in the subjective side of it. That “there are more things than are dreamt of in your philosophy” I do not doubt, but how such things present themselves to someone—that I found extraordinarily interesting. And in fact, the subjectivity here merited great attention. No matter how the storyteller tried to keep to the higher sphere of the incorporeal world, one could not fail to notice that the visitor from beyond the grave comes to earth in color, like a ray of light when it passes through stained glass. And here there is no sorting out lie from truth, and yet it is an interesting thing to follow, and I want to tell you of one such case.
II
The “martyr on duty,” that is, the next storyteller, was a rather highly placed and with that a very original person, Galaktion Ilyich, who was jokingly called an “ill-born dignitary.” This nickname concealed a pun: he was in fact something of a dignitary, and with that was sickly thin, and moreover was of quite undistinguished parentage. Galaktion Ilyich’s father had been a serf butler in a prominent house, then a tax farmer, and, finally, a benefactor and church builder, for which he received a decoration in this mortal life, and in the future life—a place in the kingdom of heaven. He gave his son a university education and set him up in the world, but the “memory eternal” which was sung over his grave in the Nevsky Lavra4 remained and weighed upon his heir. This son of a servant reached a certain rank and was admitted in society, but the joke of the title “ill-born” still dragged after him.
Of the mind and abilities of Galaktion Ilyich scarcely anyone had a clear idea. What he could and could not do—that, too, probably no one knew. His work record was short and simple: at the start of his service, through his father’s efforts, he went to work under Viktor Nikitich Panin,5 who loved the old man for some merits known to himself, and having taken the son under his wing, rather quickly promoted him beyond that limit at which “entries” begin.
In any case, it must be thought that he had some merits for which Viktor Nikitich could promote him. But in the world, in society, Galaktion Ilyich had no success and generally was not spoiled with regard to the joys of life. He was of very poor, frail health and of fatal appearance. As tall as his late patron, Count Viktor Nikitich, he did not, however, possess the count’s majestic exterior. On the contrary, Galaktion Ilyich inspired horror, mixed with a certain revulsion. He was at one and the same time a typical village lackey and a typical living corpse. His long, skinny frame was barely enclosed in grayish skin, his excessively high brow was dry and yellow, his temples were tinged with a corpselike greenness, his nose was broad and short like a skull’s, there was no trace of eyebrows, his mouth with its long, glittering teeth was eternally half open, and his eyes were dark, dim, totally colorless, set in deep, perfectly black sockets.
To meet him—was to be frightened.
The peculiarity of Galaktion Ilyich’s looks was that in his youth he was much more frightening, and towards old age he was getting better, so that one could bear him without being horrified.
He was of mild character and had a kind, sensitive, and even—as we shall see presently—a sentimental heart. He loved to dream and, like the majority of ugly-looking people, hid his dreams deeply. At heart he was more a poet than an official and had a greedy love of life, which he never enjoyed to his full content.
He endured his misfortune and knew it was eternal and would be with him till the grave. His very rise in the service brought with it a deep cup of bitterness: he suspected that Count Viktor Nikitich had kept him as a receptionist mainly in consideration of the fact that he had an oppressive effect on people. Galaktion Ilyich saw that when people waiting to be received by the count had to inform him of the purpose of their visit—their eyes grew dim and their knees gave way … Galaktion Ilyich’s contribution was that, after seeing him, each of them found a personal conversation with the count easy and even enjoyable.
With the years Galaktion Ilyich went from being an official who announced people to being the one to whom they were announced, and was entrusted with a very serious and ticklish mission in a distant region, where a supernatural event happened to him, his own account of which follows below.
III
About twenty-five years ago (the ill-born dignitary began), rumors started to reach Petersburg about repeated abuses of power by the governor P——v. These abuses were vast and involved almost all parts of the administration. Letters reported that the governor himself supposedly beat and whipped people with his own hands; confiscated, along with the marshal,6 all the local supplies of spirits for his own mills; arbitrarily took loans from the treasury; insisted on personally inspecting all postal correspondence—sent what was suitable, and tore up and burned what was unsuitable, and then took revenge on the authors; locked people up and left them to languish. With all that, he was a lover of art, maintained a big and very good orchestra, loved classical music, and was himself an excellent cellist.
For a long time only rumors came of his outrages, but then a little official appeared there, who dragged himself to Petersburg, wrote up the whole épopée very thoroughly and in detail, and delivered it personally into the proper hands.
The story turned out to be such as merited an immediate senatorial inspection. Indeed, that should have been done, but the governor and the marshal were in good standing with the late sovereign, and therefore it was not so simple to get at them. Viktor Nikitich first wanted to verify everything more precisely through his own man, and his choice fell on me.
He summons me and says:
“Thus and so, such and such sad news has come, and unfortunately it seems there’s some substance to it; but before giving this affair the go-ahead, I’d like to verify it more closely, and I’ve decided to employ you for that.”
I bow and say:
“I will be very happy to do it, if I can.”
“I’m sure you can,” the count replied, “and I’m relying on you. You have this special talent, that people won’t go talking nonsense to you, but will lay out the whole truth.”
That talent (the storyteller explained, smiling g
ently) is my lamentable appearance, which spreads gloom before it; but one must get by with what one is given.
“Your papers are all ready,” the count continued, “and the money as well. But you’re going only for our department alone … Understand? Only!”
“I understand,” I say.
“It’s as if you’re not concerned with any abuses in other departments. But it must only seem not, and in fact you must find out everything. You’ll be accompanied by two capable officials. Go there, get down to business, and make as if you’re most attentively examining the bureaucratic order and forms of legal procedure, but personally look into everything … Summon local officials for clarifications and … look stern. And don’t hurry back. I’ll let you know when to return. What was your last decoration?”
I reply:
“Vladimir, second degree, with coronet.”
The count picked up his famous heavy bronze paperweight, “the slain bird,” in his enormous hand, took an office memorandum book from under it, and with all five fingers of his right hand grasped a fat giant of an ebony pencil, and, not concealing it from me in the least, wrote down my name and beside it “White Eagle.”7
Thus I even knew the decoration that would await me for the fulfillment of the mission entrusted to me, and with that I left Petersburg the next day in complete tranquillity.
With me were my servant Egor and two officials from the senate—both adroit men of the world.
IV
We had a safe trip, naturally; having reached the town, we rented an apartment and all settled into it: myself, my two officials, and my servant.
The lodgings were so comfortable that I could perfectly well turn down the more comfortable ones that the governor obligingly offered me.
I, naturally, did not want to owe him the least service, though he and I, of course, not only exchanged visits, but I even went once or twice to his Haydn quartets. However, I’m not a great lover and connoisseur of music, and in general, understandably, I tried not to get closer with him than was necessary—necessary for me to see, not his gallantry, but his dark deeds.
However, the governor was an intelligent and adroit man, and he did not importune me with his attentions. He seemed to leave me in peace to busy myself with incoming and outgoing records and minutes, but nonetheless I kept feeling that something was going on around me, that people were trying to feel out which side to catch me from, and then, probably, to ensnare me.
To the shame of the human race, I must mention that I do not consider even the fair sex totally uninvolved in it. Ladies began to present themselves to me now with complaints, now with petitions, but also, along with that, always with such schemes as could only make me marvel.
However, I remembered Viktor Nikitich’s advice—“look stern”—and the gracious visions vanished from my horizon, which was unsuitable for them. But my officials had successes in that sense. I knew it and did not interfere either with their philandering or with their giving themselves out as very big men, which everyone willingly took them for. It was even useful for me that they move in certain circles and have success with certain hearts. I required only that there be no scandal and that I be informed as to which points of their sociability provincial politics was most interested in.
They were conscientious lads and revealed everything to me. What everyone wanted to learn from them was my weaknesses and my particular likings.
The truth is they would never have gotten to that, because, thank God, I have no particular weaknesses, and my tastes, ever since I can remember, have always been quite simple. All my life I’ve eaten simple food, drunk one glass of simple sherry, and even in sweets, which I’ve been fond of since I was young, I prefer, to all refined jellies and pineapples, an Astrakhan watermelon, a Kursk pear, or, from childhood habit, a honey cake. I’ve never envied anyone’s wealth, or fame, or beauty, or happiness, and if I’ve ever envied anything, then, I may say, perhaps it was health alone. But even the word “envy” does not go towards defining my feeling. The sight of a man blooming with health never called up in me the vexatious thought: why him and not me? On the contrary, I look at him with sheer rejoicing that such a sea of happiness and blessings is accessible to him, and here I may occasionally dream in various ways about the happiness, impossible for me, of enjoying good health, which I have not been granted.
The pleasure afforded me by the sight of a healthy man developed in me a like strangeness in my aesthetic taste: I never ran after Taglioni or Bosio and was generally indifferent to both opera and ballet, where everything is so artificial, and liked more to listen to the Gypsies on Krestovsky Island.8 That fire and ardor of theirs, that passionate force of movement, I liked most of all. The man isn’t even handsome, he’s all askew, but once he gets going—it’s as if Satan himself is jerking him, his legs dance, his arms wave, his head twists, his body whirls—it’s all a beating and thrashing. And here am I, who know only infirmity, willy-nilly admiring and dreaming. What can such as I taste of the feast of life?
So I said to one of my officials:
“My friend, if you should be asked again what I like most of all, tell them it’s health, that most of all I like cheerful, happy, and merry people.”
“It seems there’s no great imprudence here?” the storyteller asked, pausing.
His listeners thought a little, and several voices replied:
“Of course not.”
“Well, excellent, I also thought not, and now kindly listen further.”
V
They sent a clerk-on-duty from the office to be at my disposal. He announced visitors, noted down this and that, gave me addresses whenever it was necessary to send for someone or go and inquire about something. This official was my match—elderly, dry, and mournful. The impression he produced was not good, but I paid little attention to him. His name, as I recall, was Ornatsky. A beautiful last name, like a hero from an old novel. But suddenly one day they say: Ornatsky has fallen ill, the executor has sent another official in his place.
“Who’s that?” I asked. “Maybe I’d better wait until Ornatsky gets better.”
“No, sir,” the executor says, “Ornatsky won’t be back soon—he went on a drinking binge, and it will last till Ivan Petrovich’s mother nurses him back to health, but kindly do not worry about the new official: it’s Ivan Petrovich himself who has been appointed in Ornatsky’s place.”
I look at him and don’t quite understand: he’s talking to me about some Ivan Petrovich himself and has mentioned him twice in two lines.
“Who is this Ivan Petrovich?” I say.
“Ivan Petrovich! … the one who sits in the registry—an assistant. I thought you had been pleased to notice him: the handsomest one, everybody notices him.”
“No,” I say, “I haven’t noticed him. What’s his name again?”
“Ivan Petrovich.”
“And his last name?”
“His last name …”
The executor became embarrassed, put three fingers to his forehead in an effort to remember, but instead added with a deferential smile:
“Forgive me, Your Excellency, it was as if a sudden stupor came over me and I couldn’t remember. His last name is Aquilalbov, but we all simply call him Ivan Petrovich, or sometimes, jokingly, ‘the White Eagle,’ for his good looks. An excellent man, in good standing with the authorities, earns a salary of fourteen roubles and fifteen kopecks as an assistant, lives with his mother, who does a bit of fortune-telling and caring for the sick. Allow me to introduce him: Ivan Petrovich is waiting.”
“Yes, if it needs must be, please ask this Ivan Petrovich to come in.”
“The White Eagle!” I think to myself. “What a strange thing! I’m due for the Order of the White Eagle, and not for Ivan Petrovich.”
And the executor half opened the door and called:
“Ivan Petrovich, please come in.”
I cannot describe him for you without falling slightly into caricature and making comparisons that you ma
y consider exaggerations, but I warrant you that no matter how I try to describe Ivan Petrovich, my picture cannot convey even half the beauty of the original.
Before me stood a real “White Eagle,” a downright Aquila alba, as portrayed at the formal receptions of Zeus. A big, tall man, but extremely well proportioned, and of such a healthy look as if he had never ever been ill and knew neither boredom nor fatigue. He was the picture of health, not crudely, but somehow harmoniously and attractively. Ivan Petrovich’s complexion was all tender pink, with ruddy cheeks framed in fair, light down, which, however, was on its way to turning into mature growth. He was exactly twenty-five years old; his hair was fair, slightly wavy, blonde, and his little beard was the same, with delicate reddish highlights; his eyes were blue under dark eyebrows and framed with dark lashes. In short, the folktale hero Churilo Aplenkovich could not have been better. But add to that a bold, very intelligent, and merrily open gaze, and you have before you a truly handsome fellow. He was wearing a uniform, which sat very well on him, and a scarf of a dark pomegranate color tied into a splendid bow.
People wore scarves then.
I stood there admiring Ivan Petrovich and, knowing that the impression I make on people seeing me for the first time is not an easy one, said simply:
“Good day to you, Ivan Petrovich.”
“How do you do, Your Excellency,” he replied in a very heartfelt voice, which also sounded extremely sympathetic to me.
Speaking his phrase of response in the military version, he was nevertheless skillful enough to lend his tone a shade of simple and permissible jocularity, and at the same time this response by itself established a character of familial simplicity for the whole conversation.
The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories Page 42