The Enchanted Wanderer E-Book

Nikolaï Leskov

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 260

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The Enchanted Wanderer by Nikolai Leskov is a compelling collection that showcases the author's mastery of storytelling, rich characterization, and deep engagement with Russian folklore and history. The title story, The Enchanted Wanderer, follows the life of Ivan Fyodorovich, a man shaped by fate and mystical experiences, whose journey embodies themes of destiny, faith, and resilience. Through a blend of realism and the supernatural, Leskov presents a vivid portrait of Russian society, capturing the moral struggles and spiritual endurance of his characters. Since its publication, the collection has been praised for its unique narrative style, combining oral storytelling traditions with a sophisticated literary approach. Leskov's ability to depict the lives of ordinary people with profound depth and authenticity has cemented his status as one of Russia's great literary figures. His stories explore themes of redemption, sacrifice, and the tension between human will and divine intervention, making them timeless reflections on the human condition. The enduring appeal of The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories lies in its intricate fusion of history, folklore, and moral inquiry. By weaving together humor, irony, and philosophical depth, Leskov offers a compelling exploration of the Russian spirit, inviting readers to reflect on the complexities of fate, virtue, and the unpredictable course of life.  

Leseprobe

Nikolai Leskov

THE ENCHANTED WANDERER

Original Title:

“Очарованный странник”

Contents

INTRODUCTION

THE ENCHANTED WANDERER

INTRODUCTION

Nikolai Leskov

1831-1895

Nikolai Leskov was a Russian writer and journalist, known for his vivid storytelling and deep exploration of Russian society. His works, often infused with humor and moral reflection, provide a unique portrayal of Russian life, folklore, and the complexities of human nature. Though he was not as internationally renowned as some of his contemporaries, Leskov’s literary innovations and distinctive narrative style secured his place among the great Russian authors.

Early Life and Education

Nikolai Leskov was born in the Oryol Governorate of the Russian Empire into a family with strong Orthodox Christian values. After his father’s death, he left formal education to work in a variety of administrative roles, gaining firsthand experience of Russian provincial life. His travels across Russia exposed him to diverse characters and regional dialects, which later became defining elements of his literary works.

Career and Contributions

Leskov’s literary career began in the 1860s, when he started writing essays and short stories that captured the essence of Russian culture. His works often focused on ordinary people, craftsmen, and religious figures, showcasing their virtues and struggles. Unlike other Russian novelists of his time, Leskov was less interested in political ideology and more engaged with moral and spiritual questions.

Among his most famous works is "Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk" (1865), a novella that tells the story of a passionate and ruthless woman who defies societal norms, leading to tragic consequences. The tale was later adapted into an opera by Dmitri Shostakovich, further cementing Leskov’s influence on Russian arts. His other notable works include "The Enchanted Wanderer" (1873), an episodic novel that reflects the wandering spirit of Russia, and "The Tale of Cross-eyed Lefty from Tula and the Steel Flea" (1881), a satirical and whimsical story that highlights Russian ingenuity and bureaucratic absurdity.

Impact and Legacy

Leskov’s narrative style, characterized by intricate storytelling, colloquial language, and oral tradition elements, set him apart from his contemporaries. He was an innovator in Russian literature, bridging the gap between folk traditions and modern literary forms. His portrayal of provincial Russia, with its rich tapestry of characters and dialects, was unparalleled.

Although Leskov was sometimes at odds with literary circles of his time due to his independent views, later critics and writers, including Maxim Gorky, recognized his genius. His works influenced modern Russian literature, and his use of language and humor inspired later authors such as Mikhail Bulgakov and Isaac Babel.

Nikolai Leskov died in 1895, largely unrecognized outside Russia during his lifetime. However, his legacy endured, and his works gained broader appreciation in the 20th century. Today, he is celebrated as one of the most original voices in Russian literature, with his stories continuing to captivate readers and scholars alike.

Leskov’s ability to blend realism with folklore, humor with tragedy, and social critique with moral reflection ensures his enduring significance. His contributions to Russian literature remain invaluable, offering timeless insights into the human condition and the spirit of Russia.

About the work

The Enchanted Wanderer by Nikolai Leskov is a compelling collection that showcases the author's mastery of storytelling, rich characterization, and deep engagement with Russian folklore and history. The title story, The Enchanted Wanderer, follows the life of Ivan Fyodorovich, a man shaped by fate and mystical experiences, whose journey embodies themes of destiny, faith, and resilience. Through a blend of realism and the supernatural, Leskov presents a vivid portrait of Russian society, capturing the moral struggles and spiritual endurance of his characters.

Since its publication, the collection has been praised for its unique narrative style, combining oral storytelling traditions with a sophisticated literary approach. Leskov's ability to depict the lives of ordinary people with profound depth and authenticity has cemented his status as one of Russia’s great literary figures. His stories explore themes of redemption, sacrifice, and the tension between human will and divine intervention, making them timeless reflections on the human condition.

The enduring appeal of The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories lies in its intricate fusion of history, folklore, and moral inquiry. By weaving together humor, irony, and philosophical depth, Leskov offers a compelling exploration of the Russian spirit, inviting readers to reflect on the complexities of fate, virtue, and the unpredictable course of life

THE ENCHANTED WANDERER

I

We were sailing over Lake Ladoga from the island of Konevets to Valaam and stopped for a shipyard necessity at the wharf in Korela. Here many of us were curious to go ashore and ride on frisky Finnish horses to the deserted little town. Then the captain made ready to continue on our way, and we sailed off again.

After the visit to Korela, it was quite natural that our conversation should turn to that poor, though extremely old, Russian settlement, than which it would be hard to imagine anything sadder. Everyone on the boat shared that opinion, and one of the passengers, a man inclined to philosophical generalizations and political jesting, observed that he could in no way understand why it was customary that people objectionable in Petersburg should be sent to some more or less remote place or other, which, of course, incurred losses to the treasury for transportation, when right here, near the capital, on the shore of Ladoga, there is such an excellent place as Korela, where no freethinking or liberal-mindedness would be able to withstand the apathy of the populace and the terrible boredom of the oppressive, meager natural life.

“I’m sure,” this traveler said, “that in the present case the fault must lie with the routine, or in any case, perhaps, with a lack of pertinent information.”

Someone who often traveled here replied to this, that some exiles had apparently lived here, too, at various times, but none of them had been able to stand it for long.

“One fine fellow, a seminarian, was sent here as a clerk on account of rudeness (that kind of exile I cannot even understand). So, having come here, he played it brave for a long time and kept hoping to start some sort of litigation; but then he took to drinking, and drank so much that he went completely out of his mind and sent in a petition saying it would be best, as soon as possible, to order him ‘shot or sent for a soldier, or, failing that, to hang him.’ ”

“And what decision followed from it?”

“Hm … I … I really don’t know; only he didn’t wait for the decision in any case: he hanged himself without leave.”

“And he did very well,” the philosopher responded.

“Very well?” repeated the storyteller, evidently a merchant, a solid and religious man.

“Why not? At least he died and put a lid on it.”

“How do you mean, a lid, sir? And how will it be for him in the other world? Suicides will be tormented for all eternity. No one can even pray for them.”

The philosopher smiled venomously, but made no reply, but instead a new opponent stepped forward against him and against the merchant, unexpectedly defending the clerk who had carried out the death sentence on himself without official permission.

This was a new passenger, who had come on board at Konevets without any of us noticing him. He had been silent until then, and no one had paid any attention to him, but now everyone turned to look at him, and everyone probably wondered how he could have gone unnoticed until then. He was a man of enormous stature, with an open and swarthy face and thick, wavy hair of a leaden color: so strangely was it streaked with gray. He was wearing a novice’s cassock, with a wide monastic leather belt and a tall, black broadcloth cap. Whether he was a novice or a tonsured monk it was impossible to tell, because the monks of the Ladoga islands do not always wear monastic headgear, not only when traveling, but even on their own islands, and in country simplicity limit themselves to caps. This new companion of ours, who later turned out to be an extremely interesting man, looked as if he might be a little over fifty; but he was a mighty man in the fullest sense of the word, and a typical, artless, kind Russian mighty man at that, reminiscent of old Ilya Muromets in the beautiful painting by Vereshchagin and in the poem by Count A. K. Tolstoy. It seemed that he should not be going around in a cassock, but riding through the forest in huge bast shoes, mounted on his “dapple gray,” and lazily scenting “how the dark thicket smells of resin and wild strawberry.”

But for all this kindly artlessness, it did not take much keenness of observation to see in him a man who had seen much and, as they say, “had been around.” He behaved boldly, self-assuredly, though without unpleasant casualness, and he began speaking with accustomed ease in a pleasant bass voice.

“That all means nothing,” he began, lazily and softly letting out word after word from under his thick gray mustaches, twirled upwards Hussar fashion. “What you say concerning the other world for suicides, that they will supposedly never be forgiven, I don’t accept. And that there’s supposedly no one to pray for them — that, too, is nonsense, because there is a man who can quite simply mend the situation for them all in the easiest way.”

He was asked who this man was who can deal with and amend things for suicides after their death.

“Here’s who, sir,” replied the black-cassocked mighty man. “There is in the Moscow diocese a certain little village priest — a most hardened drunkard, who had been all but defrocked — it’s he who handles them.”

“How do you know that?”

“Good heavens, sir, I’m not the only one who knows, everybody in the Moscow region knows it, because it went through his grace the metropolitan Filaret himself.”3

There was a brief pause, then someone said it was all rather dubious.

The black-cassocked man was not offended in the least by this observation and replied:

“Yes, sir, at first glance it looks that way — dubious, sir. And what’s surprising about it seeming dubious to us, when even his grace himself didn’t believe it for a long time, but then, receiving sure proofs of it, saw that it was impossible not to believe it, and finally believed it?”

The passengers badgered the monk with requests that he tell them this wondrous story, and he did not refuse them and began as follows:

The story goes that a certain archpriest supposedly wrote once to his grace the bishop that, thus and so, there’s this little priest, a terrible drunkard — he drinks vodka and is no good in his parish. And it, this report, was essentially correct. The bishop ordered the priest to be sent to him in Moscow. He looked him over and saw that the priest was indeed a boozy fellow, and decided to remove him from his post. The priest was upset and even stopped drinking, and kept grieving and weeping: “What have I brought myself to,” he thinks, “and what else can I do but lay hands on myself? That’s all that’s left to me,” he says. “Then at least the bishop will take pity on my unfortunate family and give my daughter a husband, so that he can replace me and feed my family.”So far so good. He firmly resolved to do away with himself and set a day for it, but since he had a good soul, he thought: “Very well, suppose I die, but I’m not a brute, I’m not without a soul — where will my soul go after that?” And from then on he began to grieve still more. Well, so he grieves and grieves, but the bishop decided to remove him from his post on account of his drunkenness, and he lay down with a book once to rest after a meal and fell asleep. Well, so he fell asleep or else just dozed off, when suddenly he seemed to see the door of his cell opening. He called out “Who’s there?” because he thought the attendant had come to announce someone; but no — instead of the attendant, he saw a most kindly old man come in, and the bishop recognized him at once — it was St. Sergius.

The bishop says:

“Is that you, most holy Father Sergius?”

And the holy man replies:

“It is I, servant of God Filaret.”

The bishop asks:

“What does your purity want of my unworthiness?”

And St. Sergius replies:

“I want mercy.”

“Upon whom do you want it shown?”

The holy man named that little priest deprived of his post on account of drunkenness, and then withdrew; and the bishop woke up and thought: “What shall I count that as: a simple dream or fancy, or an inspiring vision?” And he began to reflect and, as a man known to the whole world for his intelligence, figured that it was a simple dream, because how on earth could it be that St. Sergius, an ascetic and observer of the good, strict life, would intercede for a weak priest who lived a life of negligence? Well, sir, so his grace decided that way, and left this whole matter to take its natural course, as it had begun, and passed the time as was suitable to him, and at the proper hour lay down to sleep again. But no sooner had he nodded off than another vision came, and of such a sort that it plunged the bishop’s great spirit into still worse confusion. Imagine, if you can: noise … such a frightful noise that nothing can convey it … They come riding … so many knights, there’s no counting them … racing, all in green attire, breastplates and feathers, their steeds like lions, ravenblack, and at their head a proud stratopedarchos in the same attire, and wherever he waves his dark banner, there they ride, and on the banner — a serpent. The bishop doesn’t know what this procession means, but the proud one commands them: “Tear them apart,” he says, “for now they have no one to pray for them” — and he galloped on; and after this stratopedarchos rode his warriors, and after them, like a flock of scrawny spring geese, drew dreary shades, and they all nodded sadly and pitifully to the bishop and moaned softly through their weeping: “Let him go! He alone prays for us.” As soon as the bishop got up, he sent at once for the drunken priest and questioned him about how and for whom he prays. And the priest, from poverty of spirit, became all confused before the hierarch and said: “Master, I do as is prescribed.” And his grace had a hard time persuading him to confess: “I am guilty,” he says, “of one thing: that I am weak of spirit, and thinking it better to do away with myself out of despair, I always pray when preparing the communion for those who passed away without confession or who laid hands on themselves …” Well, here the bishop understood what those shades were that floated past him like scrawny geese in his vision, and he did not want to please the demons who sped before them to destruction, and he gave the little priest his blessing: “Go,” he said, “and do not sin in that other thing, but pray for those you prayed for” — and sent him back to his post. So you see, such a man as he can always be useful for such people as cannot endure the struggle of life, for he will never retreat from the boldness of his calling and will keep pestering the Creator on their account, and He will have to forgive them.

“Why ‘have to’?”

“Because of the ‘knock’ — you see, He ordered it Himself, so that’s never going to change, sir.”

“And tell us, please, does anybody else pray for suicides besides this Moscow priest?”

“I don’t rightly know how to fill you in on that. They say you supposedly shouldn’t petition God for them, because they followed their own will, though maybe there are some who don’t understand that and do pray for them. On the Trinity, or on the day of the Holy Spirit, though, it seems everybody’s allowed to pray for them. Some special prayers are even read then. Wonderful, moving prayers; I think I could listen to them forever.”

“And they can’t be read on other days?”

“I don’t know, sir. For that you’d have to ask somebody who’s studied up on it; I suppose they should know; since it’s nothing to do with me, I’ve never had occasion to talk about it.”

“And you’ve never noticed these prayers being repeated sometimes during services?”

“No, sir, I haven’t; though you shouldn’t take my word for it, because I rarely attend services.”

“Why is that?”

“My occupation doesn’t allow me to.”

“Are you a hieromonk or a hierodeacon?”9

“No, I just wear a habit.”

“But still, doesn’t that mean you’re a monk?”

“Hm … yes, sir; generally that’s how it’s considered.”

“Indeed it is,” the merchant retorted to that, “only even in a habit they can still call you up as a soldier.”

The black-cassocked mighty man was not offended in the least by this observation, but only reflected a little and replied:

“Yes, they can, and they say there have been such cases; but I’m too old now, I’m in my fifty-third year, and then military service is nothing unusual for me.”

“You mean you’ve already been in military service?”

“That I have, sir.”

“What, as a corporal, was it?” the merchant asked again.

“No, not as a corporal.”

“Then what: a soldier, an orderly, a noodle — the whole caboodle?”

“No, you haven’t guessed it; but I’m a real military man, involved in regimental doings almost since childhood.”

“So you’re a cantonist?” the merchant persisted, getting angry.

“No again.”

“Then what the deuce are you?”

“I’m a conosoor.”

“A wha-a-at?”

“A conosoor, sir, a conosoor, or, as plain folk put it, a good judge of horseflesh, and I served as an adviser to the remount officers.”

“So that’s it!”

“Yes, sir, I’ve selected and trained a good few thousand steeds. I’ve broken such wild beasts as, for example, the ones that rear up and then throw themselves backwards with all their might, and the rider can have his chest crushed right then against the pommel, but with me not one of them could do that.”

“How did you tame that kind?”

“I — it was very simple, because I received a special gift for it from nature. When I jump into the saddle, straightaway, without giving the horse time to collect its wits, I pull its ear to the side as hard as I can with my left hand, and with my right fist I bash it between the ears, and I grind my teeth at it something terrible, so that sometimes you even see brains come out its nostrils along with blood — and it quiets down.”

“And then?”

“Then you dismount, stroke it, let it look you in the eye and admire you, so that a good picture stays in its memory, and then you mount up again and ride.”

“And the horse goes quietly after that?”

“It goes quietly, because a horse is smart, it feels what sort of man is handling it and what he’s thinking about it. Me, for instance, by that same reasoning, every horse loved me and felt me. In Moscow, in the manège, there was one horse that got completely out of hand, and he learned this heathenish trick of biting off a rider’s knee. The devil simply caught the kneecap in his big teeth and tore it off whole. Many men were done in by him. At that time the Englishman Rarey visited Moscow— the ‘furious breaker,’ as he was called — and the lowdown horse nearly ate him, too, and put him to shame in any case; they say the only thing that saved him was that he wore a steel knee guard, so, though the horse did bite his leg, he couldn’t bite through, and so he bucked him off; otherwise it would have been the death of him; but I straightened him out good and proper.”

“Tell us, please, how did you do that?”

“With God’s help, sir, because, I repeat, I have a gift for it. This Mister Rarey, known as the ‘furious tamer,’ and the others who took on this steed, used all their art against his wickedness to keep him bridled, so that he couldn’t swing his head to this side or that. But I invented a completely opposite means to theirs. As soon as this Englishman Rarey renounced the horse, I said: ‘Never mind, it’s all futile, because this steed is nothing if not possessed by a devil. The Englishman can’t fathom that, but I can, and I’ll help you.’ The superiors agreed. Then I say: ‘Take him out the Drogomilovsky Gate!’ They took him out. Right, sir. We led him by the bridle down to a hollow near Fili, where rich people live in their summer houses. I saw the place was spacious and suitable, and went into action. I got up on him, on that cannibal, without a shirt, barefoot, in nothing but balloon trousers and a visored cap, and I had a braided belt around my naked body, brought from the brave prince St. Vsevolod-Gavriil of Novgorod, whom I believed in and greatly respected for his daring; and embroidered on the belt was ‘My honor I yield to none.’ I had no special instruments in my hands, except that in one I had a stout Tartar whip topped with a lead head of no more than two pounds, and in the other a simple glazed pot of liquid batter. Well, sir, I sat him, and there were four men pulling the horse’s bridle in different directions so that he wouldn’t hurl himself at anybody with his teeth. And he, the demon, seeing that we’re all up in arms against him, whinnies, and shrieks, and sweats, and trembles all over with wickedness, wanting to devour me. I see that and tell the stablemen: ‘Quick, tear the bridle off the scoundrel.’ They don’t believe their ears, that I’m giving them such an order, and they gape at me. I say: ‘What are you standing there for! Don’t you hear? What I order you to do, you should do at once!’ And they answer: ‘But, Ivan Severyanych’ (my name in the world was Ivan Severyanych, Mr. Flyagin), ‘how can you tell us to take the bridle off?’ I began to get angry at them, because I could see and feel in my legs that the horse was raging with fury, and I pressed him hard with my knees, and shouted to them: ‘Take it off!’ They were about to say something, but by then I was in a complete frenzy and gnashed my teeth so hard that they pulled the bridle off at once, in an instant, and made a dash for it wherever their feet would take them, while in that same moment I first off did something he wasn’t expecting and smashed the pot on his head; the pot broke and the batter ran down over his eyes and nose. And he got frightened, thinking: ‘What’s that?’ And I quickly snatched the cap from my head and with my left hand began to rub the batter into the horse’s eyes still more, and I gave him a whack on the side with my whip … He surged forward, and I kept rubbing him on the eyes with my cap, to blear his eyesight completely, and gave him a whack on the other side … And I keep laying it on hotter and hotter. I don’t let him catch his breath or open his eyes, and keep smearing the batter over his muzzle with my cap, blinding him, gnashing my teeth to make him tremble, scaring him, and flogging him on both sides with the whip, so he’ll understand this is no joke … He understood it and didn’t stay stubbornly in one place, but raced off with me. He carried me, the dear heart, carried me, and I thrashed and thrashed him, and the more zealously he carried me, the more ardently I plied the whip, and at last we both began to get tired of this work. My shoulder ached and I couldn’t raise my arm, and he, I could see, also stopped looking sideways and stuck his tongue out of his mouth. Well, here I saw he was begging for mercy. I quickly dismounted, wiped his eyes, took him by the forelock, and said: ‘Don’t move, dog meat, bitch’s grub!’ and pulled him down — he fell to his knees before me, and after that he became so meek, you couldn’t ask for anything better: he let people mount him and ride around, only he dropped dead soon after.”

“So he dropped dead?”

“Dropped dead, sir. He was a very proud creature, behaved humbly, but clearly couldn’t subdue his character. But Mr. Rarey, when he heard about it, invited me to work for him.”

“So, then, did you work for him?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“How can I put it to you! First, because I was a conosoor and was more used to that line — to selecting, and not to breaking, and he only needed furious taming — and second, because on his side, as I suppose, it was just a crafty ploy.”

“Of what sort?”

“He wanted to get my secret.”

“Would you have sold it to him?”

“Yes, I would have.”

“So what was the matter?”

“Must be he just got frightened of me.”

“Will you be so kind as to tell us that story as well?”

“There was no special story, only he said: ‘Reveal your secret to me, brother — I’ll pay you a lot and take you to be my conosoor.’ But since I was never able to deceive anybody, I answered: ‘What secret? It’s just foolishness.’ But he looked at everything from his English, learned point of view, and didn’t believe me. He says: ‘Well, if you don’t want to reveal it, have it your way, let’s go and drink rum together.’ After that we drank a lot of rum together, so much that he turned all red and said, as well as he was able: ‘Well, go on and tell me now, what did you do to the horse?’ And I answered: ‘Here’s what …’ — and I threw him as scary a look as I could and gnashed my teeth, and since I had no pot of batter around just then, I took a glass, as an example, and swung it, but seeing that, he suddenly ducked his head, got under the table, and then made a dash for the door, and that was it, and there was no going looking for him. We haven’t set eyes on each other since.”

“That’s why you didn’t go to work for him?”

“That’s why, sir. How could I work for him, when from then on he was even afraid to meet me? And I was quite willing to go to him then, because, while we were competing over that rum, I got to like him very much, but, right enough, there’s no sidestepping your path, and I had to follow a different calling.”

“And what do you consider your calling?”

“I really don’t know how to tell you … I’ve done all kinds of things, had occasion to be on horses, and under horses, and was taken prisoner, and made war, and beat people myself, and was made a cripple, such that maybe not everybody could have stood it.”

“And when did you go to the monastery?”

“That wasn’t long ago, sir, just a few years after all my past life.”

“And you also felt a calling for that?”

“Mm … I … I don’t know how to explain it, sir … though it must be assumed I did.”

“How is it that you speak of it as … as if you’re not certain?”

“Because how can I say for certain, when I can’t even embrace all my extensive past living?”

“Why is that?”

“Because much that I did wasn’t even by my own will.”

“And by whose, then?”

“By a parental promise.”

“And what happened to you by this parental promise?”

“I kept dying all my life, and could never die.”

“Really?”

“Precisely so, sir.”

“Then please tell us your life.”

“What I remember, I can tell you if you like, only I can’t do it otherwise than from the very beginning.”

“Do us the favor. That will be all the more interesting.”

“Well, I don’t know if it will be of any interest at all, but listen if you like.”

II

The former connoisseur Ivan Severyanych, Mr. Flyagin, began his story thus: