"He was beautiful, but it was not the perfect beauty
of the ancient marbles of Antinous or Apollo Belvedere;
he was beautiful having all the perfect features and spiritual nuances
of creations made by our contemporary artists."
(Countess Eudocia Rostopchina (1811-1858). Duel)
Enough to awaken fears, but not for me, despite any omens or predicements in the world. Not a slightest presentiment of evil; it's not the letter that made me take the road; sooner, it was a mere occasion for revisiting my homeland.
My small voyage by the steamer from the island of Shardana to the Italian coast was the only time on my way to my cousins when I was between the wind and waters, relatively a short time, that's why I was not in need in my yacht Raja mooring at Napoli. Next, on the Continent, on the way to the estate in the remote land in the Russia Empire, I decided to go by the Semmering railway, Austria, which was to remind me about my boy Julian once again, about our travelling, cruising and wandering, after Julian left his home in Casa Verde against his elderly guardians wish, in other words, after I abducted him, though it was not against the boy's will, far from it.
We lived together travelling till recently, when Julian's grandfather died and the boy had to return home in order to console his grandmother; however, by the time of the boy's recent bereavement, we had experienced much together, trusting to each other, with both of us believing that nothing, neither time nor distance could threaten to our relationship. Meeting his grandfather's dying wish and his grandmother's wish, Julian had to agree to go to Britain for getting prepared for coming up Oxford; then, I came after him, and we were together again; but soon it became clear that he hardly could study properly seeing me by him, and we decided to part for a while –that's why I found myself in Europe and lonely. Needless to say that we wrote to each other, and I sent a telegram to him, before my next taking the road. In the latest message I outlined the extremity as a reason why he should not expect my visit in the near future. Needless to say that I promised to send telegrams, on my way.
Telegraph Service seems more human to me than Telephone Communication. As for a detailed letter relating my cousins' affair, no use to write it to Julian. Firstly, my studying boy should not be disturbed by any news of some people unknown and distant to him; secondly, I little knew of the affair, for the time being. The distress-gun in the form of the message from my cousin was all about it.
Called to the outlandish place, I left the series of the puzzling adventures behind. The series was coherent by the blurred image of an autocar, if anything --no matter: the box with the expensive ring gave out the familiar transcendental warmth to my pocket. A fortune by all standards, it seemed to have cured my melancholy and banished the ominous visions. Onwards, onwards, to the Continent, to the lands known as the Ostsee area, to Nyomanland, the Baltic shore!
Starting at Gloggnitz, the mountain railway leads over the Semmering to Murzzuschlag. 14 tunnels, 16 viaducts with several two-story, and over a hundred curved stone bridges as well as eleven small iron bridges. Having a supply of post-cards, I took out one of them au hasard --it was a French Gala-Peter advertising postcard featuring two brave-looking travellers with alpenstocks having a rest among mountainous landscape. The advertisement stated that the milk chocolate was "irresistibly delicious" and "high as the Alps in quality". I began writing a message to Julian, which could be sent at the next station --
"Don't let the melody die away.
Let the dawn of life come in.
Let your daemon forever stay
with you, in your heart and within.
I wish you'd never feel pain of loss and sorrow in your heart,
I wish you'd forever stay with me, in my life, but...
now you're looking upwards to the blue skies
now your starry blue eyes are in darkness.
And I love you, love you beyond measure,
you, my Diamond Daemon of Pleasure."
In the meantime, my relationship with the ring, the most beautiful and valuable windfall ever, went on, experiencing further development.
The beauty of the ring seemed magic. It enforced meditations and not admiration alone, like some books caused brooding and not dreaming alone. The more I contemplated the glitter of the three superb brilliants, the more I got attracted to the ring, being subjected to beauty of precious stones --like most of humans --and yet I never put the ring on my finger. My suspiciousness again. Or it's my vivid imagination of a writer? Not sure. Either my fancy or something like clairvoyance.
On the day of my arrival to Vienna, I brought the beautiful Three Brilliant Finger-Ring to St Yorgen Street, where there was a filial agency of the firm Witberg & Graf. The firm Witberg & Graf, for mining, exporting and processing of the natural Baltic amber and spirit of amber, was a part of my parents' legacy. My grandsire's partner Witberg was no more, and the firm had the only owner for the last fifty years, or so, but the name never had been changed because of the fame and excellent reputation. The Amber Coast, the short coastline of Nyomanland as well as other places was the area for mining, and the whole world was for exporting the natural Baltic amber. At present, the owner of the business was me, and on my arrival in Vienna, my visit to my firm filial agency was quite natural. My intention was valuing the Three Brilliants finger-ring and finding out anything of its origin. But first, I took cab and told to take me to the best barber shop. Call me a dandy and I'll say that a dandy is like a soldier --soldier of civilization.
By the day, I had had time for recovering after the heat of the South. The journey by the mountain railway had been quite enjoyable; before the next train, I had plenty of time. A visit to the Turkish Baths was on my agenda. Next, refreshment of the other kind, in the Hotel Sacher restaurant, where I was fast having the substantial meal, wishing to find the clerks at work. One hardly ever found businessmen among my friends because I never loved this kind of humans. It seemed to me that having one of them as my companion, any minute I could hear "Failure of crops is in the northern provinces. Excellent. We shall make a heavy crop on it" or something more confusing and repulsive. But sometimes, I could act energetically and quickly like a businessman, especially when I had need, following my grandsires in that. Now, in the local Witberg & Graf agency, Margareten District, where the black cloth set off the jewels nicely, taking a seat at the desk, I showed the won finger-ring and learned what I expected: the Three Brilliant Ring was not too old. Then my advisers, the manager and clerk, gave me an address of the local expert who could tell me more.
At the expert's, in his antique store in Floridsdorf District, I had to wait, for a brief time, because the expert was busy with a client. A quarter passed, and I had a chance to see the client.
The door let out a tall slender gentleman in an advanced age, wearing seasonable a shining black top hat and a black silky cloak with deep-purple lining. Taking his time, he paused to straighten his snow-white cuffs and kid gloves and to check up his black suit pockets, and I had time to recognize him, since his features and silvery moustache were too perfect to be recognizable at once, too easy of being confused with others. Rising from my chair, I touched my hat to him, "Your Majesty?"
Hearing the title from a stranger, the King narrowed his eyelids behind his pince-nez. A moment more, a couple phrases more and he recognized me too. Salutations passed.
The point was that "King" was neither a surname nor a nickname of the tall old man. It was his title. The tall old man was a real king and one of most respectful fine art connoisseurs of our time. My telling about him follows in this manuscript. His silvery straight moustache and his manner of looking at his companion were nice as well as his soft blue eyes and raised eyebrows -- or rather remains of his eyebrows, if any, because no eyebrows could be seen, strictly speaking. His eyelashes were so thin and silvery that he could be called a man with no eyelashes as well. Hearing his recommendation, I left my last doubt about the expert, whose service I was going to use for the first time. Finally, we exchanged bows, he left, and I went to the expert.
Three quarters later, examining my Three Brilliant Ring, the expert said, "Venice. 16th century." Then I heard what I expected, namely, the finger-ring's cost was handsome, even beyond my expectation.
When I entered the antique store, the old man behind the counter appended a charm to a necklace or something of the kind, and he looked displeased first seeing me, his only visitor, as though he was in dismals today or missing anything of the vast furniture from old palazzos and monasteries bought wholesale and piled in his bottomless basement on the waterfront of the Danube Canal --I happened to see antique stores chocked up with the piles of the old dusty chairs, woody church belongings and some armless antics, pale in the light of the twinkling lantern, those decaying cemeteries for the dying life of the numerous generations that looked like a dun backyard of Dante's Hell. But his expression changed as soon as he saw the business card from my firm and learned of the purpose of my visit. Then he evaluated the finger-ring, saying the price which became a pleasant surprise.
The hot sunshine fell as blinks on the white thighs of baroque amours, played over the glass pendants of the Florentine holders and sent moving shadows of the outside foliage onto the ceiling of the antique store. Time pressed, and the treasures of the shop, the works of art, dated from the last five centuries, at least, left me cold. Pleasant surprise. And then I was surprised yet more, hearing from the old man, "Do you know why I know that the ring is not the legendary ring of Mithridates?.. Because the real ring is in my collection."
Returning to the table, the old man showed me a small collection of several male-sized finger-rings instead of one. The four finger-rings were placed on the top of the desk before my eyes, and each of them looked unquestionably ancient.
Removing a motley wedding box of Toscana from a chair vis-à-vis, the old man subsided in the chair and said, "These two rings originate from a burial vault of 1 BCE-1 AD in the necropolis of Tyramb. The setting typical for the time: two thin strips of gold foil, soldered, and filled with the sulphuric stuff."
The old man and I spoke the same language of history-lovers, and everything he told about the history of the rings was quite intelligible for me, his only listener. Both finger-rings had an engraved gem a flat oval gemstone with engraving in the setting of solid gold.
"Carving in the round known as hardstone carvings. The major luxury art form in the ancient world," the old man said. And I knew that a big cameo took a maker as much time as a Cathedral.
One of the finger-rings had an engraving of the kind which made it especially striking for a viewer. A relief carving, with the design projecting out of the background as cameo. The cameo showed two winged naked male figures. One Amour bending forth with a torch in his right hand and with his left hand pointing to another Amour in front of him. This Second Amour was standing his back to a pillar or pole or stand with his hand tied up behind. Besides the visible wing, the First Amour had a flying cloak behind his back. Below the group there was a line marking the ground. The intaglio was almost intact, unless the tied Amour's body had some notches of time origin and the base of the pillar had a small break.
The old man said, "The scene looks like those popular in antiquity where Amour tormented Psyche getting a torch to her body, but the engraved gem from Tyramb obviously shows two youths, Amours, judging by the manner of depicting the wings and the fact that both figures were naked, which was impossible for Psyche who was always dressed in the ancient art. Most probably, no analogy to the engraved gem in ancient glyptic art."
The carving over the perfectly polished surface of the semi-precious stone was perfect. The filigree lines made the folds of the cloak, the torch flame, and the feathers of the wings. The pillar and Amours' bodies were polished partly, creating an impression that the figures were polished completely. Amours' wings and heads and the lower and upper parts of the pillar remained unpolished, which created illusion of a motion, joining a play of light.
The old man said, "Obviously, the cameo is a first class work from an Italic excellent gem-cutter. The work of art dates from 1 BCE-1 AD, which was indicated by the burial vault utensils as well as the way of the ring's setting with the sulphuric filling."
The second finger-ring's gemstone had a picture of an owl. An owl. A relief carving, with the design projecting out of the background as cameo in tones of browns, white and beige. Simple, in a jewellery context. However simple the image looked, it seemed to me that it could be completely understood only in an archaeological context.
About the next two finger-rings the old man said, "These two are from the necropolis in Tyritake, another ancient Greek town about 11 km to the south from Panticapaeum."
Made in the same manner, the finger-rings had engraved gems too. In the solid gold setting, one the two finger-rings had a big garnet cabochon with a carved picture of a harp with four bees in the supposed corners of the picture. The second of the two had a round blue onyx cabochon with a picture of a fist holding three ears of wheat. But neither of the pictures was so perfect as that of Two Amours. Images of ears of wheat as a symbol of welfare was usual for engraved gems from Panticapaeum, the ancient Greek city on the eastern shore of Taurica, in other words, the Crimean peninsula.
The old man said, "Although the carving over the cabochons are close to the engraved gems from Tyramb, but the manner of the carving is more neglectful and schematic in comparison with those of Panticapaeum which let us attribute the engraved gems to glyptics of Bosphorus."
The expert was right, but the schematic pictures could be clearer when viewed as an impression in hardened wax on a letter. Most of carved gems functioned as seals, often mounted in a finger-ring to be used as a distinctive personal signature.
Showing me the four rings, he said, "Now, take a guess which of the rings Mithridates used to wear?"
My choice was the Two Amours Ring, as kingly beautiful, but I thought a little more and I pointed to the Owl ring, as more promising in terms of mystique.
"Wrong," the old man said, and he took in hand the Four Bees Ring.
Getting the ring from his fingers, I said, "Amazing. The ring looks so simple, and the answer to your riddle is so amazing." Contemplating the ancient thing a little more, I said, "I want to have it." The old man replied with a silent smile. Then I said, "Actually, I want to have all the four rings. Bargain?"
In order not to waste my reader's time by details of the bargain, I merely say that when leaving the expert's office, I had three finger-rings from his collection in my pocket, leaving Three Brilliant Ring at his. The rings in my pocket were that of Mithridates, the Two Amours Ring, and the Owl Ring. Thus, the ring, oh so beautiful but not so ancient, had brought me to another ring whose look was so undoubtedly ancient and which well may be real and belonging to the king of antiquity. Either the ring was real or the picture was a copy of that on the real ring of Mithridates. Despite several certificates, which were enclosed to my purchase, and the recommendation from the King, there was always a reason to feel dubious.
After visiting the expert's, all I wanted was coffee break, which I could get at the Hotel Sacher, where I went by cab. Now, leaving myself at table with a helping of the Sacher-Torte, placing myself there as a mere personage of my own Notes and knowing that the hotel was a perfect place in the safest time niche, I turn to my old unpublished notes, at my desk, in order to tell my reader more about the unbelievable fact that the well-dressed tall old man was a real king, who I happened to know and who visited small establishments like the antique store in Floridsdorf District, unattended, with the only manservant awaiting outside.
The Cardinals Hotel on the island of Shardana in the Mediterranean Sea was the place where I first saw the well-dressed tall man, who was a guest like me or anyone in the small hotel, a decade ago, at the wonderful time when saison mort began. It could not be said that his presence made a sensation in the hotel or in the city of Nourago: from one old lady, our mutual friend, I learned that the King was single, lonely and not so rich. With all the irresistible appeal of his title, good manners and dignified appearance, Jacques IV de Lusignan, King of Cyprus, lived at hotels and furnished apartments of moderate means, therefore, it could happen that in Vienna we could not encounter each other, unless at the Hotel Sacher, the favourite place of cultural celebrities and diademed heads, in case if his financial situation permitted. So what? The story of his life always seemed interesting to me, a huge fan of history, and I'll tell it further in the Notes.
As my reader knows, the Sacher-Torte is a dark chocolate cake with apricot jam and a bittersweet chocolate icing on top of it. A portion of whipped cream. A cup of black coffee. While having the helping of the cake, that day, in Vienna, I wished de Lusignan was my table-mate.
The next several stops on my way to the Baltic shore might be mentioned only briefly.
Ordensburg Marienburg in Prussia. The Castle of the Teutonic Order in Malbork is the largest castle in the world by surface area, and the largest brick building in Europe. Built by the German Roman Catholic religious order of crusaders, in a form of an Ordensburg fortress, it was named Marienburg. The town which grew around it was also named Marienburg. The most important stronghold of the Sword Brethren, where knights from all over Europe thronged in, and from where they were consequently allocated at castles -- or the army of the cross-bearing troopers invaded Nyomanland whose people steadfastly defended their gods and every single inch of native shore. Along with Christianization of Nyomanland, the existence of the Order lost any sense, and the inflow of funds and knights came to an end. It must be said that for a long time, the medieval Nyomanland was what the present day scholars call "the last reservation of paganism." Only in late 14th century, one local Prince succeeded in Christianizing his country. The Christianization took place at a river, and the pagan people went to the river gladly, because a white shirt (imported, as it were, and of good quality) was promised to each of them in case if the people got through the ritual. The most gumptious of the men came to the river for Christianization once again in order to get one more shirt, as the recorded evidence said.
I took a cab and told to take me to the best barber shop of the town. The visit refreshed me as usual, and then I went to take care of the other kinds of refreshment to a restaurant.
Königsberg, the capital of Prussia, from the Late Middle Ages until 1701, met me with drizzle. This geographical name meant King's Mountain, and the original settlement developed on hills, and at present the town had several channels. The Königsberg Castle looked like an armoured sentry on the highest place of the town. Remarkable sights of the past and memorials of renowned compatriots everywhere around. Everlasting care about the past. Cleanness and order, at the present. The Castle was built by the Sword Brethren, archenemies of Livonia and Nyomanland. The Battle of Grunwald smashed the power of the Order, and then, beginning from1530, Königsberg was a residence of kings. A bronze figure wearing a bronze cloak guarded the Castle: the first German Emperor. Nearby and beneath the Castle there was the Gothic Cathedral, the magnificent burial-vault of Grand Masters of the Order. Outside the Cathedral's wall, in the umbrage of the stones and iron lattice there was the marble gravestone with the modest inscription:
"Immanuel Kant."
I took a cab and told to take me to the best barber shop of the town.
When sightseeing, I regarded marzipan, moulded in the shape of pigs, fruits and other animals or things, as one of the remarkable sights of the town. Königsberg seemed to be not only marzipan's homeland but the main confectioner, in these matters, for Germany.
The change of the standard railway gauge track marked my entering the land which was an essential part of the borderland between European and Euroasiatic cultures.
Towns of Nyomanland, populated by the sober-minded and pragmatic burghers, en mass, merchants and artisans were friendly to foreign travellers and tolerant to their own Roman Catholic minority as well as to all the rest main stream religions, merely the ikon-lamps as a night-light could not be seen in every window by night in the towns. Unpretentious churches, narrow streets, tidy kerb-stone markets. Castles of Nyomanland are not numerous, not so hoary and looking much friendly than those of all the rest Europe. During the Northern Wars in the 17th century, the territory and economy were devastated by the Swedish army. Before it could fully recover, Nyomanland was ravaged during the Great Northern War (1700–1721). The war, a plague, and a famine caused the deaths of approximately 40% of the country's population. Foreign powers, especially Russia, became dominant in the domestic politics of the Commonwealth. Numerous factions among the nobility used the Golden Liberties to prevent any reforms. Eventually, the Commonwealth was partitioned within the period of1772-1795 by the Russian Empire, Prussia, and Habsburg Austria.
The ruling powers of the land were German nobles and merchants. Despite the Ostsee being part of the Russian Empire, Russian legislation was not in force in these Baltic provinces. The official language in the region was German, and it was quite possible to achieve a full education in German only. For wealthy merchants it was possible to adopt German culture and send their children to German schools. The Russian Orthodox minority was not engaged in any independent social activities. Chiefly small tradesmen and workers, Russians formed a substantial part of the railway workers. There were a fair number of Russian entrepreneurs.
A sense of calm breathed from the landscape on my way to Brumburg, the capital of Governorate. Sound reason and calm. On sides of the railway, I saw the vast and seemingly unvaried green plains spread, with the only remarkable sight, the herds of superb black-legged cows. Far ahead, the Vihmauss River (Vihmauss is for Earthworm) glittered, tributary to Nyoman, marking the suburb. On the top of a hill, between the rivers, as though on a mound, a half ruined tower showed gray. The ruins and the base of the walls was all what remained of the famous castle through the fires and blood of the five centuries. The fortress used to guard the passing over Nyomanland, failing one day. At present, it's but a modest archive, at war with mice alone. From the hill, the splendid view --the green distance and the old Nyoman --spread for twenty miles around.
Two or three stations before Brumburg, I had a chance to buy the city's newspapers. Now, in the compartment, alone, when reading the latest issue of Brumburg Postman, I learned that the city and the land experienced a period of construction boom. New buildings and roads. The City Governor of Brumburg began the new project of replacing the horse-drawn tram with electric power. Sixteen schools and three city hospitals were opened. The City Museum was rather new too, opened in 1905, and the Zoo was opened a year ago. At the same time, a crime wave, increasing.
Among undiscovered crimes, there was a series of murders, committed by an unknown hand, when tramps were found dead, and the dead bodies were burnt. More or less burnt. Scary. The murders of tramps went on, and this week, two corpses instead of one were found in the lanes and alleys of the Old Town. The next series was murders of three rich men and officials when they were found with a lacerated wound in their throat, outside, lying on back, with no bloodshed around and with four black tulips above their chest. The tulips Black Monk. Four tulips. Insanity. Scary. Next, one of the recent much-talked-of cases was called House-Murderer. Several passers-by died stricken by pieces of mascarons and other outside and faced stucco work fallen from the handsome height. Virtually, the building was old and dilapidated and the reason was obvious, but the several deaths… Picture yourself, the heavy pieces of the stucco, and the mascarons, those masks, crying or smiling or grimacing, falling down and killing humans. In good sooth, House-Murderer. Accidents, and yet the case sounded so ill-omened. It was too much. The crime statistics was too much, and the murders were too many for a town like Brumburg.
Next, the Bounty Hunter Story sounded especially interesting. According to newspapers, two weeks ago, an unknown man, who remained unidentified, was found dead and beheaded. The head was found later, by chance, at a railway station. The horrid finding was inside a doctor's old sack, where there was a copy of Livlandisches Kochbuch, the local cook book… While reading this article, I was distracted by someone's entering the compartment.
The new comer was a thin young man with a small luggage. His taking a seat opposite let me see him better. At the second glance: the youth had placed a doctor's old sack beside him, and in his hands he had… a round thing in the common brown paper wrapping.
The thing looked like a soccer ball sized. So what? Coincidence like many. But who does look so nervous or frightened having an innocent thing like a soccer ball about? Who does look either excited or guilty when taking his seat in a compartment? What did make the youth pant, after all? Chasing or being chased?
The article, this young man with his seemingly sinister luggage, so consonant with the murky crime information from the newspaper, what an uncanny coincidence it was all together... And yet, it was only subjective impression, my guesswork, and I got immersed in reading again.
In Vienna, I had not time to see their local papers, and now, in the newspaper Weekly Express, the International News Columnist reported that the Austrian police had succeeded in some sentential investigations. The case of two homicides, committed with the aid of an expensive grand piano string. The grand piano was unique, that's why the case could be detected. Next, the case of the murder of the musician, at the concert, made a stir, three weeks ago, especially because it was a remote murder. The murdered man was a member of the orchestra. The murder was committed from another room, with the aid of wire and electricity. When the musician touched his music stand he died. Electricity. Progress. In the Miscellany Section, I saw something interesting, one humorous story about French life, entitled "That Funny Chap Legrand."
Believing in his confessor, Naval Forces and morning newspapers, every French rentier wants a special sort of humour. "Germainnette…" a French rentier says to his wife, while unbuttoning his waistcoat, and having a humorous magazine in hands, "Send our children somewhere. Papa is about to read Satire and Humour." Upset by the world economy and his finances, from humorists the French rentier wants what he wants from a lamb: more lard. His suppliers know his taste. Reading the story, I'd love to share my views with the author. The author's pen-name was "L'Endelel," which sounded strange yet cheerful as… a roundelay on the Doom Day. I loved the author's manner he laughed at the bourgeois life and his… no, not style, rather his care about the time in his narration. Highly entertaining. Besides, I loved the spicy things just like a French rentier… Here, my human literature themed delights were interrupted by one more passenger entering the compartment.
The broad-shouldered, middle-aged man subsided beside me. His energetic and adroit motions and healthy breath told me about a possibility that he might be a nice companion.
The sight of his dark reddish, well-trimmed beard left me cold, but his ability to talk in undertones seemed more than bearable. In reply to my remark about the local constructions, he either grinned or bared teeth in a an energetic manner, harsh yet open, and said that soon, the new motorways would be planted by birches, and it all would be all right with the local roads too. Hearing the name of my destination, he said, "Quiet civil parish unless... Wolves are said to appear there. Again, after centuries. On the other hand, this tells about well-being of the parish, in a way." I agreed with him and began talking of the recent crime news.
Seeing the newspaper in my hands, he said yes, for the last year, plenty of work for the police of Brumburg. It seemed funny to share my suspicion with the stranger who knew much about the police, and I carefully brought the article to his notice and covertly pointed to the oddly nervous young man, who avoided looking at us.
Taking my meaning, my companion glanced at the young man, cast his eyes down, and said to me, without opening his lips, therefore quietly, "Let me introduce myself. Anton Schubert. Police officer. Returning from business trip."
The stranger proved to be a policeman! Accepting my assurance that I was glad to meet him and hearing my name, he rose and took a seat beside the young man.
His keen eyes openly examine the young man's every inch. Next, it was all very simple, it was all very dear: the Officer showed his licence and told the young man to show the luggage for checking up. The young man turned pale and dropped his round pack.
Seeing this, I felt regretful about my beginning the talk and my carelessness which seemed to give some troubles to the young stranger, and which looked like my nasty trick to the young man, a stranger who might be quite innocent in terms of felony. In the meantime, showing his cold-bloodedness, the Officer picked up the strange roundish pack and turned a corner of the brown wrapping.
Something yellowish... We could see something dark yellow, no, greyish yellow.
The Officer unwrapped the roundish thing, and we saw... A cranium! A human skull! A yellowish grey or greyish yellow skull grinned at us.
Officer Schubert said, "Don't you think, young man, that you must be pulled in for questioning?"
"Are you sure, sir?" The young man faked a smile.
"Beyond question." All the rest time, Officer Schubert spent sitting beside the young man, blocking the way to the exit.
To me, the Officer told to take a seat close to the door and watch. I obeyed, out of respect for any professionalism, and being impressed by the Officer's turning into a true beagle, before my eyes. When the train slackened speed running in at the station Brumburg, the detective took the young man's elbow and said, "Excessively neat job. Let's go, sonny."
The young man was pulled in for questioning, and I had to follow him to the police station as an eyewitness, with me having my hold-all and umbrella in hand. Luckily, my own luggage, suitcase and steamer trunk, was sent as heavy luggage separately to the next but one stop of my way.
"When exactly did the incident occur?" I was asked about the arrest, which took place on the move of the train.
I told all I knew about it for the official protocol typewritten with the aid of a new Underwood.
Pale and sweating, the young man nearly wept, being questioned at the police station. Name: Jacob Werner from Weymarn. Occupation: medicine student. He looked realizing all the seriousness of the event. That's what he told about the horrid part of his luggage.
I, the eyewitness, and the crime investigators, had the chance to learn that every medicine student was to have got of a skull as a part of the visual aids. It was one of oldest traditions, which was said to be able to help a student to study, much, a firm belief of every medicine student, and so on. The skull he bought at a cemetery worker's. The part of a human body used to belong to an unknown and forgotten dead body. His nervous state he explained by his poignant sense of confusion in the light of the news about the recent murders, which he learnt from the newspapers, which every citizen of Brumburg could read, and which made him feel guilty with no guilt before eyes of policemen. For me, it all sounded quite intelligible and verisimilar, and the cranium as an object proved to be quite ordinary and innocent in all the rest respects. The Police was about to check up the information.
Thus, thanks to the unlucky seeker of dead heads and my own social activity, I had missed the train, which I counted on taking, and it caused a handsome stoppage on my way
I didn't know that I was fated to hear of the police officer Anton Schubert again, soon and more than once.
To see a town better, get lost in it, they say -- but I knew the city of Brumburg.
The 700th Anniversary of the city was ten years ago. Even today, at the beginning of the 20th century, Brumburg never obtained appearance of an industrial city. The period of construction boom. I knew the city fairly well, and that day, when seeing it, I was under the impression that the notorious construction boom had not made the city more beautiful, thus far. Some of the new apartment houses looked positively ugly. However, some sturdy buildings in the style of Jugendstil in the center of the city could be named its pride.
The Old Town of Brumburg used to be surrounded by walls on all sides in order to keep invaders out, but over the years most of the walls either crumbled or were destroyed by all the numerous pesky invaders. The remains of the fortifications in the form of the Old City Walls and Swedish Gate no longer fortify anything but the Gate is the only gate to the city still standing and separating a quiet part of the Old Town from the busy streets around it. Even the turbulent events of the First Russian Revolution of 1905 could not halt impetuous development of the city.
The Brumburg City Council. The noble pile of the Cathedral. Every time I revisited Brumburg, I was content with a room in the Crown Prince Hotel. Now, I had plenty of time till the next train, and I went to take a room in the hotel. A little bit later, when I was sitting in the chair at the best barber shop of the town, it occurred to me that it would be wise to check up the Lisnyaks' flat in Lamplighters Lane. Whether the flat was empty or I could meet anybody there, after all. What if my aunt was there, today? That's why, coming out of the barber shop, I headed for Lamplighters Lane.
No, the owners were away, as the old woman said, opening the door for me, and the housekeeper said that she had not any news about a visit of anybody of the Lisnyaks for today. Opposite the house there was a red brick Latgalian baroque mansion with the low iron latticed fence and tall untidy hedgerow of acacia. The Lisnyaks' old friend lived in the mansion, as far as I remembered. Why not to see the old man?
Unsure about the old man's name, I merely remembered that he lived alone and his two servants were nearly as old as he himself. At the iron latticed gate, it seemed to me that I heard sounds of piano music from the mansion. Serenade by Shubert. Subdued and from afar. To be certain, I turned my head several times. The sounds definitely came from the mansion. I rang the gate bell. A red bearded man, looking like a yard-keeper, appeared on the porch seen through the gate, and he cried out, "Who's that?"
Silently, I stayed still at the gate to let him see me. He disappeared behind the front door. I rang again. Now, the sounds of the music stopped, and the manservant appeared on the porch again. Coming up to the gate, he examined my look, and then he unbolted and half-opened the gate.
I said, "Is your master in?"
"Come in, sir," he said instead of a reply.
Cheeky devil. Old fox. On the way to the porch, I said, "Well old fellow, what's your name?"
"Gabriel Klest, sir."
"Gabriel Klest, remember me your master's name, all right?"
"Mr Martin Lundstrom, sir."
Martin Lundstrom, good. In the entry, the servant said to another servant, an elderly woman, "Mlle Wilma, show the gentleman the way to our master's study."
Following my guide, I went through four or five rooms. Bookshelves in each of the rooms, but no piano or grand piano about. At last, in the drawing-room with furniture in the empire style including two or three bookcases, I saw a piano. The old musical instrument was closed and still with an ordinary chair beside. At the next door, my guide stood still and looked at me. Her solemn look let me know that we had reached her master's study. Then I got the next meaning of her look, and I knocked at the door.
"Come in!" an old man's voice said.
"Please, come in, sir," Mlle Wilma said, seeing me lingering.
I pushed the door open.
In the middle of the spacious room with furniture aux egyptiens, an old man was sitting in a French chair. He was wearing a brown and green dressing gown, and his small paunchy figure looked quite tidy and rather good, unless a vase-like samovar before his eyes on the small table. He clinked his glass to the polished white metal samovar before drinking. Next, carefully and busy-like, he looked in his glass, frowned to the yellowish liquid and made a sip.
I said, "How do you do, sir?"
Without looking at me, the old man said, "Awaiting unbidden guests."
"Mr Lundstrom, I presume?.." I said, looking round. In a corner of the room I saw one more musical instrument, a lovely old clavichord. The musical instrument was opened.
"Not denying the obvious, I'll say it's me. Pray, be seated… How do you do?"
"In search of the Lisnyaks, you neighbours and good friends, otherwise all right, thank you, sir. My name is Graf. Oscar Maria Graf. Cousin of brothers Lisnyak. I permitted myself this unexpected visit to you, sir, being concerned in some unexpected and weird events in the life of my dear relatives. Visiting their flat, today, I was told their mother was away..."
"In countryside, as far as I know." The old man gave one smooth to his thinning silvery hair, straightened his smoky spectacles, took a blue chequered handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his clean-shaven face from forehead to lower lip, looked at the samovar, narrowly, and frowned. It looked like he could see his reflection in the polished surface.
Listening to my brief and cautious telling about the family's wish to know Mme Lisnyak's whereabouts and current address, he said, "Srsly?.. Anyways, why not to apply to the police?"
"They prefer to ask me to help, first."
"My friend, they made a mistake, and you jolly well know it."
"Of course, sir."
Tick follows tock follows tick follows tock. It could be awkward of me to bother the old man's intercourse with his samovar longer, and I bowed out.
The tidy cobble-stoned courtyard was empty. Going to the gate, I wanted to know if the sound of the piano music seemed to me, a moment before my entering the latticed gate, or it was real. It would be nice to stand beneath one of the windows of the mansion for overhearing, but I realized that it was impossible here, in this place, where every stone seemed living and watchful. The acacias alone looked simple-hearted here. With that, I left the small and seemingly ordinary precinct of the venerable bachelor, who was either dotting or pretending a dotard.
Leaving the side-street, I paused at the cross-road to read some bills on the stand. Jumbo Circus, on tour. No. Never loved circus theatres too much. Next. Mounet-Sully Theater. Their playbill sounded so flashy, to put it mildly, that it attracted my attention, and it must be adduced in my notes. It said the following --
Today ! Today ! Today !
Mounet-Sully Theater. Extra-gala-premier-show !
A place of dating for all the elegant and enjoying in Brumburg !
Five acts in the night !
Rafael Mosca with his monologues !
Ophelia with her loving songs !
Polonius with his jokes !
Come to see:
HAMLET
OR
THAT'S A REAL MOTHER
(grand historical) Historical ! Written by
W. Shakespeare. Translated by Mr J. Schumacher and Mr J. Gretch.
Historical ! Pictures of the royal life !
On the stage, life-sized, you'll have the rarest chance to see
the King, the Queen, the Prince, the ghost, courtiers of the highest rank.
Stunning success in Paris !
Next time, at the World Exhibition !
In Act One, the cannons will fire.
In the scene with actors -- the Grand Divertissement !
The Monologue Contest !
Ophelia will perform the best from Mlle Harriet Barons.
In Act Four, the coffin with a true dead lady will lie in state, on the stage ! First class funeral ! Lots of flowers !
In Act Five, a real foil fencing !
(Mr Mosca took lessons at Mr Rossi's the famous fencing master)
In the interval between Act Three and Act Four, on the stage, a real cat will appear and it will fight with a real dog, for the audience's enjoyment.
In the end of the show, shoes, which were old and with which the Queen followed her late husband body, will be raffled off in the lottery !
Those, who will take the orchestra stall, will get a lottery-ticket gratis and the right to win the shoes.
Those, who will take the box, will have four (4!!!) tickets gratis !
The tragedy – sensation of the season !
Seeing another reader at the stand, I said, "It sounds interesting."
"It is said full house," the gentleman said, taking my meaning, "Single places are needful at every show.
"So, even Shakespeare could play to full houses, sometimes, nowadays," I said.
One of the advertisements announced an event --
"...the next tea party of
Lovers of the Written Word
a branch of
the Fine Arts Appreciation Society of Nyomanland."
"...in honour of the famous writer
Leonides Leonides
who came from Northern Palmyra..."
…from "Northern Palmyra", as St Petersburg is named, thought I don't understand why, for the sands of Syria look like the marshland of Ingermanland as much as the ruins of Palmyra look like the splendid city of St Petersburg. Seeing the name of the place of the event, the Seven Veils Café, I perked up. The allusion to the Dance of the Seven Veils sounded inviting; besides, some names in the advertisement were familiar to me. "Not amiss," I said and went to the mentioned address, though the mentioned date and time said that the event had begun an hour ago. Why not: before the next train, I had two hours.
The Seven Veils Café looked like a new hotspot a la Parisian, but today it was rented for the tea party. In the hall of the Cafe, everyone had a cup in hand, but the assemblage and scene looked quite informal. My coming remained unnoticed, which was exactly what I wanted. It looked like the members and guests of the Society had an interesting talk, since I heard one gentleman saying, "Russian literature is an antique shop where Leo Tolstoy is a toy train and Dostoyevsky is a mirror." I recognized one triskaidekaphile, who dined me handsomely, one day, in Paris.
"One must read his novels," another gentleman said, "The books are a guide for our souls where the cobweb, dust and brickbats. It's stale and dreadful inside, but it's awfully interesting to know if there's anything more dreadful to come."
I had my own views, and I voiced some by saying, "Dostoyevsky is killer. In his novels, Dostoyevsky sounds much like a killer of the readers' ideas and delusions. His word can ably dagger the reader's heart, with him knowing the right direction and angle, choosing the power of impact and a right moment. Dostoyevsky is vampire. His every word digs the snow-white fangs of moral into the intangible flesh of our thought, and the evanescent and tintless blood runs from the avulsive wounds --or it may be our tears." Actually, I believed that Dostoyevsky was an ill man who wrote stories and novels about ill people for ill people, and an author whose detective subplots always sounded interesting for me. Avid for reading, I early understood that a serious percentage of books were not worth reading at all, and I little cared about someone's opinion, but I never stopped reading books, feeling curious about how much my thoughts sounded alike to thoughts of great men.
In the meantime, everyone watched me silently. A tall gentleman with a wavy blond hair and a short well-trimmed beard said, "C'est très intéressant."
Hearing that, I saw it was Leonides Leonides the writer from St Petersburg. As far as I knew, after his first visit Paris, the writer was nicknamed "Monsieur C'est-très-intéressant," for the apparent reason.
A lady in green approached to give me a cup of tea.
A lady wearing spectacles turned to her friend, "Ma chere, come to dine with me, on Wednesday."
"What, someone's name-day?" her friend said.
"No, one Mme Clio Gautier, you know, the authoress, will come."
"Ah! Nice. Glad to see what kind of a writer she is!"
"She writes poetry, as far as I know. And you, Mme Laht, would you like to see her?"
"Not that I would like to see her, but I shall come to take a look at her."
"Have you read anything of hers?" a lady in brown said.
"Not yet. Having not time for reading everything."
A young lady said, "Clio Gautier? What about her writings?"
Her neighbour wearing blue said, "Some trifles, as I think. Stolen from Revue Etrangere, most likely."
Mme Laht said, "Ah, no, my dear Kersti. Her first book is published, recently."
"He-he-he…" an old man said, "The legend is still fresh but hard to believe."
"Mme Zelenagursky! Let me use your kind invitation for Wednesday!" the young man who said this looked like a reporter, a columnist, maybe. "Let me do it for your beauty alone! My profession tells me to see her and talk about her wit and talent, asking some questions, and saying something about her works. Well you know of that…" he stroked gently satin lapels of his blue velvet waistcoat.
The old man said, "I heard that if a poetess gets inspired, wherever she is, at a ball, in a carriage, on a riverside, she begin saying poems in a laud voice."
Mme Zelenagursky said, "Ah if only our poetess got inspired on Wednesday!"
"Do you know that each of her lyrical heroines is she?"
"How so?"
"Because every author writes about himself."
"So, her every heroine is made in the same mould? A village girl or a lady of society. A hot-tempered woman or a cold-blooded one. A Russian or a German. Is that all the same in her eyes?"
"You've forgotten, Mesdames," a poet said, "that she's not a mere lady, but authoress, that is, a special thing, a freak of nature. A female freak of nature, to be more exact. It's like a six-fingered human or a bearded woman. Why not to admit that her soul is like a chameleon, able to pretend. Every time a new model for portraying is needful."
"Well, if so…"
"Fancy that!" an old lady concluded the theme, looking like a simple soul, who grew old and grey-haired, blissfully unaware of anything in the world.
"Well, indeed…" the poet's several fans said.
The next pause threatened everyone's attention to me as a new comer. Nap. I went round the group, moving towards my Parisian acquaintance.
Having the cup in hand and sipping the tea, I approached to my acquaintance and said in undertones, "Hello... I'm leaving. Are you with me?"
"Hello Oscar. No, I'm afraid, I cannot. I have a date."
Big deal. I left the book club meeting, which proved to be so ordinary and boring.
I realized that I should hurry --to the next train, to the railway station, onwards, onwards, to my young relative in trouble --but the eventful day seemed so taxing that I felt unfit for a way by train and I knew that after having a substantial meal, I would be unfit for a way by train yet more. "I must have a rest," I said to myself, and a little while later, a cab took me to a fine restaurant. Rocked in the landau, feeling sleepy, I felt more and more certain about my resolution to have a good sleep in the hotel room today... "The morning train to Est-Toila will be more proper for me, if I want to be fresh and of use to my young relatives."
After the meal at the Arch Street Restaurant, I did all I was about to do, and nothing prevented me from having the good long sleep. Le repos --c'est Dieu. Repose is God.
In my room, without reading for good sleep, abed, I gave myself to "arms of Neptune," as one of my friends would say, being learned yet bad at mythology. Good long sleep with the only dream that talked in riddles to me.
In my sleep, I saw myself walking along the grape path. Seeing Mr Lundstrom's house in the vista, I quickly ran to the gate. Without opening the gate, the old fox Gabriel stood, and he said, without looking at me, "My master is away."
"Where's he?" I said.
"Abroad."
"Abroad?"
"Just so. Australia, as I was told. Where there is that Australia, who knows." He looked skywards.
I was about to name his master and him "two sad liars," but I heard someone's singing a song, popular in the 19th century:
"A nightingale sings to the rose
Both day and night without repose…" It was the old lady who looked like a simple soul. "Clio Gautier. Fancy that!" she said, and she turned to me, "Tell me please, does she write, just like it's written in books?.. Meaning, if she writes anything, then they print her writings in books? Word for word? Anything she writes?"
"Yes, Mme," I said automatically.
Accepting the positive reply, the old lady was about to express her wish to see the woman who could write like it's written in printed books, but I woke.
Perhaps, a reason of the complicated dream was my stomach full of oysters and the fatty fish.
Next day, no traces of my weakness. Awakening early in the morning, I was as fresh as a human could be early in the morning. On the way to the railway station, it seemed to me that the rosy and pearl wings of the morning took me there and not the ordinary cab.
In the compartment, I had three mates. A well-dressed woman and a moustached man were sitting next to the window, vis-a-vis. Spouses, as I had a chance presently to know. Next to the man, a well-dressed young man put in order his luggage in the form of an elegant travel bag and umbrella. I took a seat beside the woman, opposite the young man, and a little while later my eye alighted on his uncommon beauty.
He was nice-looking, handsome, beautiful, all together and strikingly even in the shady compartment. What colours of his physique! Golden hair, bright green eyes, honeyed skin, soft-rosy lips. His tweed and every detail of his dress said that he dressed at a best English tailor's. Clean-shaven, like me; in his early twenties. His image was worth being featured in the next issue of Art et Décoration, promoting fashion as a fine art by the use of photography, but not every magazine was worth his image. Nice, if it were not for my recent resolution: no more blond beaux in my life. Without looking at anybody in the compartment, my vis-à-vis took out a bunch of newspapers and got absorbed in reading.
I sighed and tried to read one of three newspapers from my supply. In the end of the yesterday issue of Evening Brumburg, there was the next opus from Mr L'Endelel. For some reason, I was sure that the author was male. Nice. I began reading "The Lucky Day of Mr Chigwell."
A British bourgeois usually reads a magazine of humour and satire on Sundays, between the Bible and a good helping of juicy pork, therefore the delivered humour should have some scriptural innocence, and the extent of the humour's utility should not be less than that of the pork baked in breadcrumbs.
No, not one more opus. Below, there was the second "The Earnings of the Old Perkins."
From anything by Mark Twain, in the modern day American humour, it remains as little as from mignonettes after the rest-time of two oxen on a flowerbed. If we begin talking of humour in the modern day literature, the warmest historical and literary reminiscence begin: "Do you remember of Cervantes… Dickens… Rabelais… Molière… Heine?.." Yes, we do. Our European humorous literature has the brilliant ancestors, but the posterity seems to have turned Darwin's Theory off its head, since little monkeys came from the great men, contrary to the Theory.
The stories signed "L'Endelel," the bagatelles sounded like brilliant parodies. Parodies. Paradise. Parodyse. The train moved, taking me to the small town, which was next to last stop on my long way. Thinking of the unlucky seeker of dead heads, who was at the "dungeon" of the police station, I realized that it was scarcely possible to check up his information quickly and the imperial police officers never cared about a physical and mental state of their temporary prisoners too much. Then I sighed about the fact that I never let know of the date and hour of my arrival.
My young vis-à-vis and I never said a word to each other, the way long.
At the station, it turned out that I was expected, and nobody expected me there, at the same time. Light up your cigarette: the small story-telling starts.
A little while before the train stopped, some of us, passengers rose, as it was usual. Some began getting ready for getting out, and those who had light luggage were the first to move towards the exit. In the corridor, I happened to move behind my beautiful silent mate, which was my intention, of course, for I could not permit myself to miss the chance to see his rear. Now, we slowly, one after another, walked towards the exit, and then we carefully alighted, and there... Some special fuss was evident at the platform.
Seeing us from afar, at the moment when the young man and I stepped on the platform, a passerby paused at our carriage and shouted out to someone behind his back, "Here! He's here!"
In response, a group of men with cameras and cine-cameras in hands rushed to us, camped quickly in front of us, which made us pause -- in another instant, the flash powder explosions and the cine-cameras chirping, which shocked someone's eye and ear so much that I heard an exclamation in English, "What the hell..?!" and a hand clutched my arm.
Turning my head, I saw it was my young mate from the compartment. He froze on the spot, with his green eyes staring at the people; his grip on my arm let know of his fright and made forget of my own shock. I gently placed my gloved hand on his.
Before I had time to look round the group of the fussing men, who filmed us and to understand anything of what's going on, my mate and I were surrounded or rather attacked by some ladies with bunches of flowers in hands as well as on their hats, who handed flowers to us, saying some greetings excitedly. Two guys with spiral notebooks elbowed their way through the group, and began asking me some questions, smiling and touching their hats, all together. Pressmen. The crowd made one of them to put his face near mine, and I had to learn that Abricotine had tainted his breath. When questioning, they called me "Mr Yurgenson," and then, I was about to say them that they were mistaken, but some man shouted out from afar something like, "Wrong carriage! He's over there!!"
All the filming and flashing stopped, the bunches of flowers were rapidly taken from our hands, and all the camp took wing, almost instantly, and rushed away, down the platform, to chase their prey, leaving only some white smokes and sweet flower and perfume fragrances behind.
Thus, the filming and photographing proved to be erroneous to me as well as to my mate, the young beau. Frankly speaking, it took me two or three minutes to come to myself. Along with the fussy groups of men and women, the hand of my nameless mate disappeared from my arm. My young mate, who proved to be an Englishman, was nowhere about. All the idle public around as well as some of the busy ones hastened to join the group of the excited fans and reporters, which grew at a distance, where the loud greetings mixed with the chirping sounds and flash powder explosions. Could the green-eyed young men be so quick or fascinated to be in the group?
Shrugging off, I called a porter to take care about my luggage sent separately. On the way, I asked the porter if he knew anything about all the fuss on the platform, which could not be called usual here. The porter said that every kid in Est-Toila knew of the event. The town expected their famous compatriot, a film-star from Hollywood. The event was called the "film-star revisiting his home town." My compartment mate and I, both of us had clean-shaven faces, like actors, which was not usual at present, when facial hair in vogue, so I, a middle aged clean-shaven gentleman, was taken for a film-star who went by the same train. It happens like this, sometimes --I shrugged, realizing that I should shrug off everything about the event.
Est-Toila was a clean, quiet old town, but the inhabitants never were driven to "ringing their own doorbells lest they rust from lack of use." Looking round the accurate building of the railway station, I said to myself once again that it was my mistake that I never let know of the date and hour of my arrival. I went to find a messenger for my note to Lesyinesmagi Manor. I needed a carriage, and my relatives should be warned about my arrival. However, my mistake was for better, for I had time to visit the town's best barber shop before my young relatives could see me. The town was small, and yet I took a cab, since I could not be sure about anything best in the town which could come to the world for the time of my absence.
The construction boom in this town too. The familiar public garden got prettier. Coming out of the barber shop, I knew I had an hour or two till getting the reply and carriage from the countryside, and I went to cinema.
My eyes didn't search the young Englishman among passers-by: I was jolly late, and another boy was awaiting me, in need of me much more than all the rest ones. Now, a stand with bills, on my way. Several bills shouted out the name of the famous compatriot. From the bills, I learned that the film-star was the main donator to the construction of the new cinematograph Silver Screen Palace. It explained much about the fuss. Next, about the Théâtre de l'Ambigu-Dramatique. It was something new. The Theater was in the countryside building, as the playbill said. Apropos, their playbills sounded much more decent, unlike those of Mounet-Sully Theater --
HERNANI -- pantomime, tragicomedy in three acts
LE PAVILLON D'ARMIDE -- pantomime, a one-act romantic drama
RUY BLAS -- tragedy
OMPHALUS -- tragedy
No super stars; no special effects; nothing special, unless their choice of the plays, which sounded most interesting. Truly ambiguous. And yet I continued my way to the cinema.
The building of Silver Screen Palace cinematograph was new, in the modern and rococo ornamentation, all over, outside as well as inside, and my description could take much time and place on the pages. Suffice to say that the impressive oriel-like porch was guarded by two sculptural groups on sides. Each of the groups showed a half-naked man lifting a naked woman into the air while the woman energetically twisting in his manly arms. The woman in arms on the left side had a torch in her lifted hand, and the woman in arms on the right side played an ancient long trumpet apparently making signal of distress. The famous motif of the Rape of the Sabine Women, two variants of The Rape of the Sabine Women by Giambologna, which sculpture we can see in the Loggia dei Lanzi in Florence. Expressive, highly, even too much for the town with the merry tintinnabulation of church bells. On sides of the palmette-shaped acroterion of the porch, two cupids reclining on the ornamentation, as a part of the ornamentation, as though watching the public from above. Inside, the stage had sculptured palm-trees on sides. The trees were artificial, sculptured, gracefully curving in the manner of lianas, for some reason, and with a big pineapple on top. THE LAND BEYOND THE SUNSET.