The story goes that this little town was settled by Poles taken into captivity during the reign of Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich. This little town is remembered for the erotic inclinations of its residents, and most especially its unmarried women.
Who has not been to Valdai, who is not familiar with the pretzels of Valdai and Valdai’s rouged-up wenches? The brazen wenches of Valdai, their shame cast aside, impede every voyager and attempt to inflame the traveler’s concupiscence in order to profit from his generosity at the expense of their chastity. Comparing the morals of the inhabitants of this village, raised to the status of a city, with the morals of other Russian cities, you would take the former to be the most ancient, its corrupt morals are the sole vestige of its ancient founding. But as it is only a little more than a hundred years since it was settled, one can conclude how debauched even its first residents must have been.
The baths were, and still are, a place for amorous festivities. Once the terms of his visit with an accommodating old lady or a lad have been agreed, the traveler takes up temporary residence where he intends to make his sacrifice to Lada,62 the universally worshipped. Night has fallen. The bath is already prepared for him. The traveler undresses, enters the bath where the hostess, if she is young, greets him—or her daughter, or relations, or neighbors. They rub down his tired limbs, they wash off his dirt. They do this having shed their clothing, they ignite in him an erotic fire, and he spends the night here, losing money, health, and precious travel time. The story goes that in the past, in order to appropriate his property, these lascivious monsters would consign to death the incautious traveler, subdued by his erotic conquests and wine. I do not know whether this is true, but it is true that the brazenness of these Valdai wenches has diminished. And while they do not even now refuse to satisfy the desires of a traveler, their previous brazenness is no longer apparent.
Lake Valdai, on which this city is built, will still be remembered in tales about the monk who sacrificed his life for the sake of his lover. One and a half versts* from the city, on an island in the middle of the lake, is situated the Iversk Monastery, built by the famous Patriarch Nikon. One of the monks of this monastery, when visiting Valdai, fell in love with the daughter of a resident of Valdai. The love soon became mutual, soon they hurtled towards its consummation. Once they had tasted its delight, they no longer had the strength to resist its compulsion. But the position of each created a barrier to this. The lover could not often be absent from his monastery; his mistress could not visit the cell of her lover. But their passion overcame all: out of the besotted monk it made a fearless man and endowed him with practically supernatural strength. Scarcely had the night covered everything visible in its black mantle, when this new Leander,63 in order to take his pleasure daily in the arms of his mistress, quietly emerged from his cell, and, taking off his cassock, swam across the lake to the opposite bank where he was welcomed into his beloved’s embraces. A bath and its amorous delights were already prepared for him and he would forget the danger and difficulty of the crossing, as well as fear that his absence could be discovered. He returned to his cell several hours before sunrise. He thus spent a long time in these dangerous traversals, compensating with nocturnal pleasure for the boredom of his daily confinement. But fate put an end to his amorous triumphs. On one of the nights when the intrepid lover set off across the waves to behold his dear one, a biting headwind suddenly rose up halfway through his trip. All his efforts to overcome the furious waters were futile. In vain did he exhaust himself by straining every muscle; in vain did he raise his voice to be heard in the moment of danger. When he saw the impossibility of reaching the shore, he conceived the idea to return to his monastery. With the wind behind him, it would be easier to reach that bank. But no sooner had he reversed his course when the waves, overpowering his tired muscles, plunged him into their yawning depths. On the morn, his body was found on a distant shore. If I had been writing an epic poem about this, I would have represented to my reader his mistress in anguish. But that would be excessive here. Everyone knows that at least for an initial moment a mistress despairs to learn the death of her dear one. But I do not even know whether our new Hero64 threw herself into the lake or perhaps on the next night yet again prepared a bath for a traveler. The chronicle of love relates that the beauties of Valdai did not die of love … except perhaps only in the hospital.
The mores of Valdai have also encroached upon the closest postal station, Zimnogorye. Here the same sort of reception is readied for the traveler that he has in Valdai. The first thing to meet their gaze will be rouged-up girls and their pretzels. But since my youthful years had already passed, I hastily parted company with the painted sirens of Valdai and Zimnogorye.
