THE LAND BEYOND THE SUNSET. In the film, the poor lonely young boy's bare knees, his shapely bare feet and lovely face moved my heartstrings. His buggy worn pants looked so sexy. Cupid. "And he drifted to the land beyond the sunset." The end. Sorrowful. Distressful. Because a child should not travel unattended, and he should not depart, even if the sun's awaiting him somewhere. Every child should live on, here below, going to a happier life, and not the sunset or rainbow. And yet the film-maker's design was right, for he succeeded in moving spectators to tears, and the boy held a book of tales in hand to the bitter end.
They at the railway station had been warned about the carriage for me, and they let me know of the carriage's coming, when I was sitting at table and having oxtail soup at the restaurant.
By the awaiting carriage, I saw a young man in tweed, with cocked hat and hands in his pockets. It was Clem.
The young man used to be a fatty and his shape promised to get yet fatter, which seemed perfectly natural with his mode of life, but now I could see how the lad had grown thin for the years of our parting. The side parting in his short auburn hair and his pencil moustache was my old advice in reply to his wish to have some facial hair. My own hair was never so short, and my own taste was having my face clean-shaven, from my pre-adolescence, long before my descending into homosexual addiction. After greetings, I peered at his eyes, never letting his hand out, and he, taking my meaning, replied by stuttering excitedly, "Terribly sorry… My message bothered you… so much… My mother…"
"What?! How's she?!"
"She… The point is that we still don't know her current address. But we have not any bad news about her either, so... we hope she's all right wherever she is at present. Today… I feel terribly confused that I bothered you by my distress-gun which might be unfounded."
"That's all right. No bother, at all."
"No, I blame myself, for… We should manage by ourselves. You see… All about my letter is just like I say and I'm terribly confused that I bothered you, but I don't regret. For I discovered there are things worse than my mother's disappearance…much worse."
Still holding his hand, I looked round the buildings, some people and the old carryall, looked at his face again and said, "All right. You are absolutely right calling me. All together, we shall sort out all the problems or whatever."
"That would be nice, though I'm not sure that we'll be able to do it."
"It's toss-up. Come, come… Don't be so sad. A big boy like you!" I was about to turn it into a jest, but seeing Clem's eyes, I stopped short. Something unknown to me might be serious in earnest, and I said, "We shall see. We'll try it, and then we shall see."
The local cemetery bordered upon the railroad bed, sitting on the long area along it. The a minor part of the road to the Lesyinesmagi Estate went through the Cemetery, dividing it into two parts, the Old Cemetery with the church in view, at a distance, and the New Cemetery, which was only a little newer than the old one. Trees railed the Cemetery off from the railroad bed; trees along the unimproved road. The road and the railway station area made the Cemetery rather a busy place, depriving it of any mysterious or fearsome, even by night, and the local residents, landowners or those who scratched out a living from farming, could not remember a time when a superstitious terror disturbed them. If you ask me, Dear Diary, I never felt interested in sepulchral charm of cemeteries too much. Our own fears and fancy cherish the dreadful treasure of the graves
Leaves of trees neither had turned all yellow nor fallen down, but it was time for haymaking and mowing ripe oats; people mushroomed with big baskets, and the gossamer strands were on your way on a forest pathway, in the morning. The nice weather and all signs in nature told about the possibility that we could count on St Martin's Summer this year. Known as Indian Summer in North America, St Martin's Summer as a meteorological phenomenon occurs in September, but not every year. The period of warm, sunny weather is precious in our part of the world.
In front of the manor house, in Lesyinesmagi Estate, we were expected.
My cousin Kasimir-Theodor was wearing a white army-type jacket, informally undone. Holding his hand in mine, I looked round my cousins, old servants, buildings, plants, carriage and my own luggage, which menservants moved to the house, and then I looked at his face again and said, "All right. Everything will be all right. All together, we shall sort out all the problems or whatever."
Chary of words, Kasimir-Theodor muttered, "If only we could find Mother... All the rest is all right at ours, indeed."
An asymmetrical silence fell, with me knowing about it all less than my young companions. "May I?" I picked up a flower of marigold and placed it in my buttonhole.
The old limestone manor house, two wings, L-shaped, and a tower, rested on a tall ancient stone basement. Quaint and livable perchance but not graceful, in my view. The tower was only two-storey higher than the wings; the tower had a terrace belting the top of it, so, Clem could run round the tower merely coming out to the balcony of his room, because they named the terrace "balcony." The manor house with the offices and the big blue Lake Laas were surrounded by woodland; the Lake side was deforested and more or less cultivated expanse with arable fields and some meadows there were behind it.
High above the main entrance in the front wing of the house there was a remarkable adornment in shape of an old bronze round shield, framed as an armorial escutcheon, with thunderbolts on the edge, and the left-facing swastika, or "Thunder Cross," "perkonkrusts," as natives called it, in the centre. The shield was said to be ancient, much more ancient than the house, nearly as ancient as the swastika itself, dating back to Bronze Age. If you looked at it attentively, the shield looked impressive, heavy and tremendous, from a distance, if a question was amulets; besides, it was remarkable, in terms of history and scholarship, so much that some learned men, representatives of some Universities as well as enthusiasts akin to Johann Joachim Winckelmann came to see the main entrance's adornment, in the past, in order to copy it in their drawings, and later, it was photographed for some catalogues. The house owners photographed it too and send the pictures as season greeting cards to their friends, me too, which was quite in the spirit of our times as my reader knows. The verdigris of the shield was matching to the verdigris-green colour of the manor housetops.
As far as I could remember on the day of my arrival, as a solar symbol, the swastika was painted or carved on various parts of houses and castles of Nyomanland and was thought to save households from evil. This old tradition of my homeland and our old Europe made me place a small image of the popular symbol of luck in the centre of my key chain pendant, and it must be said that the amulet never failed thus far. The left-facing form of the swastika, the image of the sun wheel for good luck. For me, it was always a symbol of Circulation of Water or anything in nature as well as Solstice and Time itself, or a year, at least. When seeing the shield again and feeling impressed, like it was in the past, I said to myself, "Damn, under this sign one may be feeling protected one's life long!" The white gold keychain pendant with an amulet of the kind was in my pocket.
The pendant was a green amber disco ball-shaped cabochon, cased in a white gold net. On one side, the net formed a filigree-wrought cross, and on the other side, two sea snakes intertwined, either dancing or mating. In the center of the cross there was a tiny circle holding a tiny left-facing swastika. As for the family's blazonry, the blazon must be mentioned here in detail, for it's interesting.
The coat of arms was a French silver escutcheon with a reddish-purple pillar, with a golden four pointed star on top, with the star lighting the foot of the pillar where three golden fleurs-de-lys formed a triangle, a helmet with five laths, a simple coronet with two black wings coming out of its sides; the mantling was in shape of acanthus leaves, reddish-purple too and lined gold, and the motto: "Patience and Loyalty."
Some had panoplies of their grandsires in their halls, and this house had a big stuffed bear, standing on two legs, with a yellow metal salver in front paws, at the black oak staircase in the hall. Furniture, in the style of Russian Jacob, mainly, was covered with damask of colours different for every room. Pictures on the walls, paintings on furniture, frescos and other adornment remembered the past time, beginning with Peter the Great up to Nikolas I. Despite the opened windows in summer, the air of some rooms was somewhat humid, stagnant and slightly musty, as though feeding on remains of the past days, dust, mould, glue or paste, wood and clay, decaying cloths and something more, something evanescent, like some subtle and uncommon perfume, slightly heady. The new young and noisy life could come in every corner, but it could neither mix with the past nor kill the past, like the wind coming in the big windows from the lawns was unable to stop the breathing of the old walls.
Windows in the dining-room, as before, had heavy blue velvet curtains with white silk flounces of the second lighter curtain seen underneath. Windows of the drawing-room were draperied with close silk, always, beginning from the olden days, in order that the sunrays could not fade the furniture. By day, a lamplight shone in the corner of the spacious room; by night, numerous candles of big chandeliers of dark and light bronze were lit up, if need were. By the candlelight, shadows seemed to leave the corners of the room and began shifting from one object to another. The grandsires' framework lent a special charm to the modern day life. Did I say that Clem's room was in the upper floor of the Tower… Clem enjoyed living in the Tower, saying that from above, he could see what the rest household could not.
His brother Kasimir-Theodor, known as a tireless and purposeful worker for his home estate, was only a year older than he. At 6 a.m., or earlier at harvest time, Kasimir-Theodor could be seen out of bed, ready for the daily round, ahorseback, inspecting his dominion, checking up the proper felling and hewing, stubble-fields and pasture of cattle. The former manager-agronomist was dismissed as thievish, and now, Kasimir-Theodor managed the estate with the aid of two or three assistants taken from the cleverest of peasants. His birthday was on Peter and Paul Day, when summer at the height and when duck hunting began on the lakes which seemed to be his main enjoyment. However, he often had his gun behind his shoulder, and his dog Celadon often accompanied him. Kasimir-Theodor was the elder man of the household but Clem was the elder at home when Kasimir-Theodor was away on business which was too often, especially in autumn, when it's time of harvests, fruitfulness and mists, and in winters, and when Kasimir-Theodor left for a metropolis for distraction. Long ago, it was clear that the Almighty didn't bestowe Clem a gift of agronomist or gardener, or manager useful for agriculture and righteous life of a true landowner. After dinners with coffee and thick cream, the head of the household went to have a rest, as it's a custom at many households in summer, children went to roam the garden, servants went to have a nap, and Clem took a knotty stick and went out to roam the surroundings, having a book about.
Auburn like his brothers, Hippolite seemed somewhat paler. "The teenager looks absolutely healthy," I thought to myself, "Why did Clem call him ill?" Aloud, I said, "I always detested the name Hippolite, therefore, I'll call you Plitey… or Polty."
"Po," Clem said, "Hippolite wants us to call him Po."
"Poe, of course..." I said, "...but there are some variants. Poppy. Poe-Pi," I smiled at Hippolite and deciphered the second of the mentioned names, "Poetry-Picnic."
The boy looked lovely --as lovely as his elder brother at his age. Po? Poe. Maybe. And yet, Polty. He was aged three, ten years ago, when the brothers lost their father, and I first saw him. What interesting or useful or funny one can do to a child of three? What interesting or useful or funny one can do to a child of six? A boy should be much bigger and a little older. As big as possible for his age. A big boy and young at the same time? Big and young. The bigger, the better. The younger, the better. A little more and my imaginative model of a boy will take the shape of the painted white and rosy monster, Caravaggio's Amour, so called Bogenschnitzender Amor. Hips and bum of a tall adult female, broad beefy shoulders of a male, and a head of a pretty infant-cherub. Horrific, because too twisting and unnatural, even for perverts like me. This procreation of the fastidious genius looks like a profanation of the very idea of adolescent male beauty or an unsuccessful experiment. In short, in terms of sex relationship, babies of three or six are mere nothing. But I digress…
Now, Kasimir-Theodor left our family assemblage, for a while, to give orders to his assistants about two cartfuls of baskets with apples and other fruits or vegetables, which arrived. It was shady and cool in the drawing-room. I paused to see a picture on the wall. A printed copy of The Golden Hour. Everyone's favourite Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 1908. The simple frame set off the pretentious picture. "How the artist loves ancient Greece!" someone could say, and I would say, "How the man loves women!" On another wall there was a printed copy of Pythagoreans Hymn the Sunrise, by Fyodor Bronnikov, the brilliant work of art which is so famous nowadays. I glanced at the titles of the printed material on the card-table. "Art et Décoration," "Harper's Magazine," "Vogue" November, 1909, with the gray-tailed peacock, crumpled and torn for some reason, "La Gazette du Bon Ton," of the current year 1912. An issue of "Boys' Life" could look more proper here, no? However, the magazines were in the drawing-room and not in someone's study. Here, one of the windows' close silk draperies moved and I looked there.
A shadow of an animal moved behind the silk, and then a cat's big head appeared from behind it. Looking at me, the cat began moving further, stepping on the back of the sofa, and it looked like half-shadow, half-animal for several seconds, and then the yellow Persian cat could be seen entirely. The cat was big, a male feline brother, most probably.
I approached, subsided on the sofa, and we, the tomcat and I began exploring each other. "What is his name?" I asked, turning to Clem.
"His name is King Richard the Lionheart," Hippolite was quicker to reply.
"Interesting," I said scratching the tomcat's ears, one by one.
Watching us with a friendly interest, Hippolite said, "The name is his own chice."
"?" I expected to hear nothing of the kind.
The boy began explaining, "At first, we called him Fluffy, but he said that he detested the name."
"?" Giving my hand to the tomcat who could rub his cheek or neck to his own taste, I looked at Clem.
Clem said, "Hippolite understands Lionheart's speech."
"Tu rigoles!" I said, believing that both of the brothers were kidding.
"No, it's serious," Hippolite said, and despite the dim lighting, I saw him looking serious. He went on, "I do understand Lionheart's speech. At first, whet he was a kitten, his name was Dickey. He disliked it. When I tried to learn which name he wanted, I learned to understand him, and his desired name proved to be the name of King Richard the Lionheart." The boy smiled at me, and then added, "But he permits to call him simply Lionheart."
"So, dear, you understand cats' language…" I said. By the moment, Lionheart had finished with my hand and settled in the corner of the divan. It went without saying that at present, the tomcat had experienced the season hair-shedding, and yet, he looked ever so much fluffy.
"No, sir, only his," Hippolite answered my question, "His far ancestor happened to be catching mice in the library hall in Clementinum of Charles University in Prague."
"In Clementinum? He said this to you?" The boy scarcely could know of the first university in Central Europe by himsef. I glanced at Clem.
Hippolite said, "Yes, sir, he said. He knows of his ancestry. Lionheart helps me to understand what other animals or plants say."
"Plants?" I said, "But how?!"
"He interprets," Hippolite said simply.
"Aha. Your private interpreter. Nice." I realized that I was tired by my travel, and I should not delve into the fancy of the teenager.
"Yes," Hippolite said, "it's so nice, for animals and plants can talk and they can say much about the present as well as the future and the past."
Hearing that, I had changed my mind to regard the boy as an "object of a perverted lust" some day. To seduce a child who has supernatural abilities like the clairvoyant skill, who sees you through, or reads your thoughts, or he can do anything of the kind whenever he needs it? Child the seer. One should think twice before beginning the affair or even asking "where there is your chariot, Hippolite?" I looked at the boy attentively once again.
At first, the teenager seemed the next golden windfall on my way, but… In my view, a child or anybody else, who has supernatural abilities, is a freak of nature, first of all. A young thing of the sort should look accordingly, or bizarre, at least, but this nice-looking child looked so ordinary, neither ghost-like nor precocious, neither vigorous nor mysterious, neither full of life nor out of the life, with his hair healthy and shining and his eyes lacklustre. "Hippolite…" I said in undertones, peering in his blue eyes, "I'll be calling you Poe, and no different way. All right?" Saying this, I mentally gave myself a word not to touch the boy with my hand unless it's for saving his life. Time to see my room.
The room was in the Tower, underneath Clem's. Ewers with hot and cold waters were on the special table behind the Japan screen, and all the rest necessaries for an occupier were there too. A globe-trotter like me could appreciate this care as nobody else. The flower garden outside the window seemed to be full of asters.
On the wall behind the feet of the bed's footboard there was a faded dun tapestry-espalier with a picture of Cleopatra having an asp on her breast; the other walls showed some grim and faded ancient images. The gilt furniture graced the dun walls of the room. I felt moved, seeing the familiar cuckoo-clock on the wall, but the folding bamboo screen of several frames I saw never before.
The folding screen, broad and tall, partitioned the room, creating a place for a toilet. On each of the seven folders of the screen, a picture was painted on the ochre silk: a fluffy calico cat was sitting by a tree of hollyhocks and watching her four kittens playing. One kitten was tabby, the second was black and white, the third was apricot-coloured, aside, scratching his ear, and the fourth was black, simply sitting beside their mother. While I examined the screen's ornamentation, someone moved behind the screen, and a cat came out of it. Lionheart, it was he, and I as though saw the very apricot-coloured kitten grown into the big and excessively fluffy feline. Little believing in the fibs about the tomcat's supernatural abilities, I proceeded with my settling in the room and dressing, treating the tomcat like any cat, that is, leaving the pet to do whatever he wanted in the room, merely, taking care about my things which could be broken.
From my childhood I loved seeing ornamentation of the things like the screen, and the ewers with water were remarkable too, not only in virtue of their exotic look, but they also could be among the things which I used to see when I was a child. One of the ewers had handles in shape of two dragons drinking at the brim, and another had a handle in shape of a doe drinking at the brim. Strangely, they in the household didn't find a simpler pottery for placing in my washing room. Luckily, the chamber-pot didn't look so remarkable, or else the next description would take me a new superfluous paragraph.
On the top of the desk, there was a tall narrow vase of red glass with a rich and tall branch of a tree with dry reddish leaves and with no water. The family legend held it that the red vase was a product of the Venetian island of Murano, 16th century, at least, but I knew now that it was Rubino Oro or Cranberry glass as it's known in Britain. Not too old, Victorian era. While getting changed for going to the dining-room, I admired the vase, but the bittersweet smell of the dry plant was heady and my throat tickled. Some of the leaves were fallen on the polished surface of the table where the red vase glimmered. The plant branched up, and all the three unequal branches whimsically curved upwards like lifted hands with the intention to throw leaves or fruits about. But the leaves didn't wait for more motions, they fell by themselves. "One should live upon what one decorates with flowers. Beauty of things sets off with the colour of our eyes," I thought to myself, unsure about whose the phrase was, mine or my late friend Eric Stenbock or my late friend Oscar Wilde, and I took out a vial of Après L'Ondée.
After the Heavy Summer Shower. I first bought the perfume in 1906. Fragrance of bitter almonds, with the composition including violet, rose, heliotrope, hawthorn, anise, and citrus notes. The tomcat came up to the door and showed his intention to leave. I opened the door for him and soon I left the room too.
In the dining-room, the table was laid for the three of us. Two crystal glass decanters. Birch sap wine and birch beer. A bottle of Prince Hubert de Polignac. I placed a bottle of Louis XIII on the table. The day was not hot, but at the table, I had a chance to have a helping of the exotic cold soup of raw and pickled vegetables --cucumbers, spring onions, boiled potatoes -- with eggs, and a cooked meat --beef, veal, sausages, or ham --with kvass, topped with sour cream, and I enjoyed the chance, because the food was truly refreshing. The next remove was meat jelly with mustard. The jelly could not be called soft; on the contrary, it was thick and meat-saturated, which was not of obligation for this kind of food. The mustard was well-cooked; the traditional rye-bread was tasty. My bottle of Louis XIII was opened at dessert. Coffee was nice. But for something alarming that I was to hear from Clem, later on the day, the day of my arrival would look perfect.
The pets were around us at table, with Celadon, the frisky brown and white spaniel, under the table, and the tomcat being wherever he wanted but sitting on Hippolite's lap mainly. As though by the way, I asked the youngest of my cousins to show his cat's ability to speak. Looking at his cat's face, Hippolite replied to me, "He agrees to answer some questions, today, for the special event of your arrival."
"Great." I said, "May I ask?"
"Please, do it," Hippolite said, "He seems in the mood."
"Well..." I said, "...Dear Lionheart. Tell me what's you view about Man? What's Man? An angel or demon?"
Hippolite said, "Too many questions. Be more correct, when asking."
"Should I specify? All right. Although I'd like to know his view about Man, but I'll begin anew, asking... Dear Lionheart. Tell me, if Man an angel of demon?"
Something began. It went without saying that something should begin after my asking, but I never caught what it was. Merely, a subtle charge in the air. The boy was simply looking at the cat's face for a while, and then he looked at me to say, "Man is neither an angel nor a demon. Man is what his lover loves."
"Did he say so?" I said, looking round my table-mates whose faces were calm and who friendly watched my amazement.
"Yes, he did," Hippolite gave a simple-hearted smile.
"Impressive," I said.
Indeed, the reply impressed me, unpleasantly. Obviously, the teenager was too young for inventing a profound reply like this. What's conclusion? The story of the tomcat's clairvoyance and the boy's abilities was not but a fib or someone' fancy? Before answering my own question positively, I was about to wait a little more, till more evidence came to light. "Time will not palter with the real state of the case." Aloud I said, "Unquestionable." Then I asked Hippolite, "Does Lionheart live with you, in your room?"
"Actually, he walks wherever he wants and lives wherever he wants, but yes, he sleeps with me, mainly." Hippolite gently stroked the tomcat's head which was visible above the top of the table.
I said, "Among cats there are outstanding philosophers, as Hoffman convincingly proved it."
The boy said, "The famous Booted Cat is a small-minded chap in comparison with my King Richard Lionheart."
I said, "Beyond doubt. I'd love to come and see your room. Some day. May I?"
"Of course." Inspired by the talk about his cat, the boy cheerfully smiled.
Clem and I went upstairs to Clem's.
The windows of Clem's study looked onto the Lake Laas, that is, to the sunset, and his bedroom onto the east. Everything in his study looked nice: the bookshelves on two opposite walls and five tall old girandoles, seven candles each, in every corner of the room and at his desk. In his bedroom, the bed with lion paws was covered with a royal purple coverlet, and the windows were draperied with a sheer cloth alone. Now, after the substantial meal, subsiding in one of his antiquated chairs, brown and beige striped, I felt somewhat heavy, and it seemed to me that the countryside indolence itself embraced me, for long.
The balcony door was opened. Nice. From under the silvery-gray cloth woven with rose garlands and flambeaus, among some books' varicoloured edges, on my left, I noticed a familiar edition of books by Oscar Wilde in English. Yet nicer. The classic low chair held me like a cloud. "I am all attention, dear," I said to Clem who was in front of me, sitting in the other chair.
The young man rubbed his forehead, his gesture new to me. Like me, above, in these notes, he said that he would like to begin speaking in a roundabout way in order to "pave the way" for the story of his mother's disappearance, and today he realized that something supernatural began earlier, perhaps much earlier. His narration on his Quest, which might be named Quest I in my Notes, he began with the story, which he remembered and understood better in the light of what happened afterwards.
It took place last year, in August, at the full moon. Clem was on a visit to his neighbour and childhood friend Mona Borsky. Mona's widowed mother Eulampia Borsky celebrated her birthday on the day.
("Mona? Hope it's not a derivative from Lemon," I remarked, just for fun.
"Mona-Philippa," Clem replied with a wan smile and proceeded with his narration.)
It got dark, when the guests were about to depart. Some of them agreed to spend the night in the house, and some left despite the cordial invitation of the hostess. Clem was among those who took the road.
The way from the Borsky House to Lesyinesmagi Estate could be a nice, refreshing night walk, rather long though. His way home laid along fields, and only on the approach to his home Estate, the path curved, going through the forest. He regretted that he had no a dog that night, but the local roads and forests were safe and nobody heard of wolves, besides, in summers, an encounter with a wolf was not fatal for humans. At any rate, Clem had a revolver in his pocket. Taking into consideration all mentioned above, he rejected Mme Borsky's proposal to get ready a carriage, and he went home on foot.
The night was clear, with the moon mounting higher in the sky. Passing by the outskirts of the Borsky House, Clem entered the semi-light and semi-darkness of a dense fog, silvery in the moonlight. The air was cool; however, after the supper with wine, after the mob in the stuffy rooms with the tobacco saturated air, the coolness was pleasant. He walked, thinking of the subject of the chatter in the drawing-room, where they talked about the spiritualists and spiritualism mainly, about what was obvious for many, namely that the everyday world seemed full of strange and magical things and most of them don't play well with humans.
Nearly every guest told a story or two, more or less on the subject, and some of the stories sounded truly interesting. Now, he walked cheerfully wishing to get home as soon as possible, but he neither hurried or feared anything or foresaw anything wrong, and he soon reached the forest.
It was so foggy there that he should have way on to the touch if the way was not familiar to him. His slow walking and the seemingly endless whiteness of the air had an unusual effect: he got lost in reverie, deeply. When he saw a passerby, he could see the tall figure of a peasant, bowed down by a burden, who seemed to bow to him, but he could not remember whether he replied or not, and he was not sure that he heard the passerby's footsteps. He could not know how long he had walked, but obviously it was long enough to reach the familiar fence posts of his home. When a big owl heavily took wing overhead, the soft sound of the flight made him come to himself.
He looked round: a forest, but the place was not familiar to him. His feet sank in the dewy grass; neither byroad nor pathway around. A marshy dell. A streamlet murmured at a distance. The pine-trees around the dell seemed gigantic in the fog, and Clem felt in the fog about the place and the way which he had come. Judging by some signs, it was nearby the Wolf Creek Ravine, though Clem preferred to be mistaken, because the Wolf Creek Ravine was the ill-reputed place, where Kasimir-Theodor nearly died, a year ago. When chasing a fox, Kasimir-Theodor found himself between two meandering lines of a dell, steep and slippery, which had more than one place, where it was so easy to slide down over the soft clay, like an ice-hill -- but it was not so easy to climb out of the Ravine. Crumbling away, the clay made all attempts vain. The green glades of the Dell were in fact spots of quagmire, and Kasimir-Theodor risked sinking there. Thinking over the situation, Clem saw himself benighted in the forest. Even if he was relatively safe, he risked losing his way in the thicket.
Seeing several vistas, he had not a slightest idea which of the vistas led him there. With hazed eyes, he subsided on a small stump. Silence. Only eagle-owls hooted, which sounded strangely measured, as though the night birds shouted to one another. Presently, he felt an obscure motion. He peered in the whitish depth of the fog and saw a single pulsing dot.
It was the only source of the distant motion that seemed so close. A pulsing energy coming from the dot like rays from a luminary, spectrally and sphere-like. The pulsing sphere seemed about four feet in diameter, and it didn't change the location, unlike it was said about this phenomenon, its centre was steadily fixed. His contemplation of the dot rapidly drove him to a state of sleep, or he got out of senses for a while, till the moment when he heard someone's voice, distant but distinct, calling him by name.
Clem leapt to his feet. "Hey! Anybody's here?" he cried out. The echo rolled over the vistas and dyed away. An eagle-owl hooted and became silent. Silence. Several minutes more and he heard a call, distant and weak, from the east, "Cle-eh-eh-em! Come here, Cle-eh-eh-em!" He thought his household missed him and they organized the search. Gladdened, Clem replied, shouting out, and then he went to the distant voice's call.
He seemed lucky finding a pathway rather quickly. The pathway was narrow and deep, apparently well-trodden by wild boars to the watering place. A big animal rushed away from Clem's way, and the white stripes over the animal's back suggested a badger. Clem proceeded straightforward on his journey without deviating either to the right or left. The distant voice now paused, now called him again, without deviating too. Clem shouted out, but he never was replied. It looked like he was never heard by the people who searched for him. At first, he felt surprised, and then he guessed that he got into an acoustic anomaly. Unusual things were usual for an undulating landscape: a top-down sound was heard easily and a bottom-to-top sound was heard poorly, or vice versa, sometimes. In the meantime, the wild boar pathway ended, the ground was harder, with pebbles rustling underfoot. Presently, he stumbled upon a stony pathway leading uphill, which suggested that he went astray. "Clem!" he heard and he thought he nearly reached the place where the people searched for him.
It took him only two minutes to climb the hill --but there was nobody on the top. Perhaps, his brother never heard his shouting and went to another end of the Dell. However that may be, Kasimir-Theodor could not go too far away. Clem shouted and whistled in the special way, agreed between brothers. And then something unusual happened.
He stood on the verge of humidity and fresh air, on a relatively dry spot. Behind him, the fog curled as though the Dell sent off some fumes. Before his eyes, a dark forest rose spreading over a hill-side with a moonlit broad clearing. From the forest, the pre-dawn breeze was coming upon his face. His next whistle caused the echo, and behind his shoulders, two enormous white clouds came off and flew straightforward to the moonlit clearing. On the move, the clouds of the fog were clearing, getting smaller and smaller and flying lower to the ground… "Clem!" the breeze brought the distant call. Clem hastened to the call.
At a distance, where the moonlit clearing ended, at the wall of foliage, he saw a tall man in white with a gun behind shoulders, and a white setter at the man's feet. "You, Kasimir-Theodor? I'm here. How long are you searching me!.." Clem began approaching but he saw that he talked to a thin silvery birch-tree.
"Until the wolves come…" it was heard from the turn of the narrow pathway, which went deeper in the thicket, where the man in white was standing. The optical illusion of the hour and place showed the man in white at fifty yards closer than the man was, in fact. Clem added speed and almost reached the Hunter in White. One step more and the white figure got out of view, disappearing in the shrubbery.
When the Hunter in White appeared on the pathway again, he was at a far longer distance from Clem than before, and then a thought of something supernatural occurred to Clem. "Kasimir-Theodor! Stop being naughty! Stop!!" he said. Silence. Fear moved Clem's hair. "Kasimir-Theodor!" Clem said again, with his voice quavering, "Kasimir-Theodor! Say it's you! I fear…" Silence. Both of them kept walking within gunshot, or a little closer, and then Clem took out his revolver, on the move. "Stop, Kasimir-Theodor! I implore you… Joking apart… I can't stand it any longer. I'll shoot. I'll shoot at you. For I fear. Please reply!" Silence. Then Clem aimed at the Hunter's white rear.
The Hunter paused and turned round. He looked rather like a white silhouette. A white shade! It seemed to Clem that the man's silhouette shook his head slowly and reproachfully. Clem's hand faltered. A phantom! Clem no longer doubted that he saw a phantom, and yet he began walking again, following it.
The Hunter in White and the dog moved as two white shining spots against the dark forest. The forest got thinner: less brushwood underfoot, the branches lashed Clem's face not so often and violent as before. Now, the two white shining spots faded out and vanished; and Clem found himself coming out of the forest, leaving the last row of the old trees behind.
He stood on the top of the familiar hoary entrenchment, with the bushy edge of the forest descending. The first tender tints of morning glow appeared on the verge of the horizon, and he recognized the familiar landscape with his home manor house showing black against the sky. The phantom was nowhere about.
At home, Kasimir-Theodor was sleeping serenely in his bedroom. "So..." Clem said to himself, "…it's not he showed me the way out of the forest. But who? Who?" The household was quiet; servants looked as usual; unless Lionheart came to sight, which hardly ever was in cases when Clem was late home. But nothing unusual prevented him from falling quickly asleep.
But for his bruises, abrasions and ache in his limbs, he would hardly believe in his night adventure when he woke late in the morning. Kasimir-Theodor came to him, when he was abed.
"Where have you been last night? You made me worry. I saw you in my sleep. Fancy that! And you were not all right in my dream. You could not get out of the Wolf Creek quagmire, and we, Blacky and I rescued you."
"What?.." Clem rose from the pillows, "How..."
"With Blacky. Have you forgotten our dear late dog? What a jolly setter he was! What a supernatural nose!.. Anything's wrong with you?.." Kasimir-Theodor rushed to help Clem who nearly fainted.
Deathly pale, Clem looked at his brother's face meaningfully, and Kasimir-Theodor startled and turned pale too.
"Sometimes we understand each other with no words," Clem said in conclusion.
"Interesting," I said, "Was your late dog Blacky white?"
"Yes, white, with light-brown spots on ears and tail."
"Interesting," I said again, "And you say that some anomaly phenomena is rather usual in the local woodland, by night?"
"Yes, but it happened for the first time to me."
"Besides, it looks like more than an anomaly. I take your meaning. The story sounds highly impressive and you are absolutely right telling it to me. I shall keep it in mind. Thank you, dear."
It was perfectly natural to expect the story about his mother's mysterious disappearance, next, but Clem said that he found it necessary to outline another mysterious story. It's concerning the hoary stone outhouse which the Estate had as a part of the offices, so-called Italian Outhouse.
The Outhouse could be seen from the Lake side. A long edifice with big windows looking onto the manor house, somewhat sidewise. "As you remember," Clem said, "the rooms' disposition in the Italian Outhouse look much like that of cells in a cloister."
The long corridor through the Italian Outhouse with the row of ten doors was familiar to me.
"Now," Clem continued, "two or three months ago, one of servants heard a strange noise from the Outhouse, by night. Some plaintive moans were heard there, from time to time. Some servants said that at times, soon after midnight or a little bit earlier, an abnormally tall phantom with a lantern in hand walked the Outhouse through, from one end to another. The phantom could be seen walking by every window, reached the last of the rooms and went back. Then he reached the first room and went back. Slowly. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth, with no interruption, through all the rooms and walls. Stoned, servants could not take eyes off the vision. One night, they invited me, and I saw this with my own eyes."
Before going from one room of the Outhouse to another, you had to leave any of the rooms, coming out to the corridor, first, and only then you could enter the next room. All the stone walls of the building, outer as well as inner, looked thick and extremely strong. Seeing in the windows someone going through all the rooms was impossible, and I said, "Didn't it occur to you that it was a naughty guy's doing?"
"A human and not a phantom? All right," Clem said, "In that event, I beg you, Oscar, tell me how a human could go the stone building through, passing by every window, without a halt or interruption or hesitation, in short, walking freely, back and forth, like in a gallery and not through the rooms with partitions? Either there is a direct communication between the rooms, or nothing can stop the unknown night walker from going through the thick stone walls and he does it easily like we go through an open door!"
Nothing to say in objection.
Clem said, "As you can check it up at any time, there are no doors between the rooms as before. Therefore, as our mother said, the night visitor was not a naughty guy but an evil spirit or a phantom of a deceased person who never was read the burial service over. A Christian soul that needed our prayers. Our servants believe it's a soul of the Italian late gardener, who was found hung himself in the Outhouse, fifty years back. So, we decided not to disturb the night apparition. Merely, nobody dares spend a night in the Outhouse. And I have to say that I was shocked on the night when I first saw the apparition. And you, Oscar, must agree that I know our servants much more than you. All of them are trustworthy. Besides, they are so simple, god-fearing and superstitious."
"All right, dear, it's truly mysterious."
Then Clem began his main narration.
Some species of swifts flew by the balcony with a soft plaintive cry like offended angels. Doing his telling, Clem could show me the scene of Act One –the old buildings and surroundings -- familiar to me, his listener who could see all this again, going outdoors or on the balcony of his quarter along with him. Now, he said that on the day, which he regarded as the beginning of his main narration…
…his mother Leticia and brother Hippolite were in the dining-room, when Clem came in for supper.
He was late and not hungry –no appetite. Leticia thoughtfully tinkled with her teaspoon in her cup; Hippolite cheerfully supped his hot chocolate and ate some pastry.
Clem nicknamed his mother "Lady in Black." Recalling her this way, sometimes in jest, sometimes in earnest. Recalling her look –her dark silk clothings, her quiet voice, her downcast eye in the shade of her wide-brimmed hat, the knot of her hair, her narrow hand with the fanciful old rings --I knew it was an image of a woman of noble birth, but an experienced eye could see "something more in her look," as friends of the family would say, wishing to flatter. Blessed by the treasure in the form of three good-looking and healthy sons, this woman always looked either melancholic or displeased. She was one of the women who seem to use their widowhood solely for wearing black. Suffice to say that she wrote poems --moreover, dark poetry. "Laetitia!" the ancient Romans greeted each other, which meant "Joy!" and "Gladness!" And my aunt Leticia's look suggested the reply to a question about her life, "Time brought no solace to my widowed heart," however good she looked or regardless of her mood and state.
Clem looked like her with his delicate constitution, narrow hand and milky-white skin. Hippolite was too young when their father died, so the boy could know only his mother as the head of the family. Clem's younger brother was uncommonly sharp-sighted, in terms of everyday life. The boy noticed much of what slipped people's attention; the boy found much interesting in the grass, shrubbery, among pebbles. He loved animals, birds and insects; he detested life in the city; in countryside, he got enlivened and happy by a mere nothing; that's why his announcing his ability to know the speech of animals and his cat's assistance could not sound too alarming for his relatives: the statement sounded so natural from the mouth of the boy who looked all right and fond of nature as usual.
After the supper, it was one of his long sleepless nights when he was at his and reading. The chiming clock played midnight; then, the first hour of the new day rolled, minutes kept running further and further, and soon, the night warmth gave place to the pre-dawn coolness of the fields and meadows. Clem closed the book and thought of having some drink. Going down, in the drawing-room, he saw a shady female figure in the old chair. The figure was motionless as he approached –a moment more and he saw it was Leticia.
His mother was completely dressed and sleeping in the chair. "Why's she in the drawing-room at this unearthly hour? Never went to bed?" But Clem remembered he lately heard that his mother suffered from insomnia, like Clem himself from time to time. Standing on the side of the chair, he looked at Leticia's features attentively. So familiar and so alien, as it seemed to him at the moments; her thin lips and nostrils seemed strained even when she slept. Oddly, the face and hands, white against the dark dress, seemed to come off their sleeping owner, and this vision or his persistent contemplation in his uncomfortable attitude made waving everything in his peripheral vision. The picture began dividing by objects and another objects: Leticia's dress, her shoes, the chair, the sofa, the picture on the wall, the bras on sides of the picture, another chair, all this divided into parts, getting mixed up in a confused mass, and swam aside towards an abyss -- but her face and white hands on the contrary began getting closer and closer... To stop his weird state, Clem closed his eyes with his hand.
When he opened his eyes, the balance of everything around was in order again. Clem glanced at the curtained windows and turned to continue his way to the kitchen, but his mother's voice called him. She woke and called him to talk with her. Clem approached, and then Leticia told him about a reason of her state.
She said that soon after midnight, she looked out the window and saw a strange vision. Some strange figures walking on the pathway one after another.
Alongside the road going by the west end of the house there was a pathway, here, hugging the road, there, going behind the shrubbery and trees into the forest. The pathway branched going round the raspberry canes or alders and it became one again somewhere underneath pine-trees, among fir-needles. The pathway didn't look well-trodden, looking like animals'. The strange figures flashed lightly like whitish shades in the dusk, and Leticia's eyesight got keener, for some reason, letting see the figures in detail. Dozens alike figures coming after the first. She naed them "apollos."