("Did the figures have a butterfly's wings?" I asked, meaning the Parnassius light-winged butterflies.
"No," he said, "They looked like humans, she said.")
A hundred of human figures. Wingless semi-gods in the dozen shades of the dusk. However, the walking figures could not be counted exactly. At dawn, the figures went back. After they passed, coming out of sight, Leticia fell in the chair and dozed off.
Hearing her narration, Clem politely questioned of the vision, but he thought it was only her dream. A night dream or daydream or her nerves. He didn't dare to give a piece of advice concerning a doctor, he merely promised to watch by night.
Deadly and unusually sleepy, he was not sure about his promiss; all he wanted was having some drink and going to bed, which he did, after he saw his mother to her room door.
He had a dream. In his sleep, he saw someone trying to open his bedroom door from outside. While it was going on, he could only watch, unable to do anything or move his hand and leg. Eventually, the door rapidly opened, and a monk came in. Closing the door, the monk stepped forward, towards Clem's bed, but the door opened rapidly again, and another monk came in. Surprised, Clem sat up. Standing still, the monks were in a shade, and Clem could not see their faces. The first monk was the first to break the silence. He went to Clem's bed, saying, "Greetings, Mr Lisnyak. We dared to come, knowing of your custom not to sleep at night." Seeing Clem's amazement, the first monk added, "You happened to see us, when looking out of your window." With that, the first monk subsided on the edge of the bed. The second monk stood still at the pillow. Remembering the fraternity's custom to sleep being completely dressed, Clem felt ill at ease, for he had not a shirt on, sleeping in the nude, that night. He pulled the sheet up on his breast and moved to the wall, away from the monk sitting on his bed. But the monk placed his big hand on Clem's breast, as though nothing had happened, and went on speaking softly, "I feel sorry for you. You are languishing, at nights... Beware of pining away or doing harm to your soul! You ought to say prayers. A mortal may not sleep too much, but a mortal mustn't torment himself with insomnia. If you don't sleep, say prayers."
"Instead of walking like a pendulum," the second monk said.
Offended at heart, Clem shook his head and said, "I know, but I am a poet, and I hardly ever say prayers. Musings all along, you know. Sometimes, all I want is to stop thinking."
"That is, to die?" sitting on his bed, the monk said, "Pray don't take offence at us, Mr Lisnyak..."
Pause.
(Clem could not remember the next bit of his night dream. As I think, he deliberately omitted something, because it was one of his wet dreams.)
The next what he remembered was the first monk standing up, saying, "Thank you," for some reason, and going to the door. The second monk came after. Clem didn't hear the monks going downstairs, though the door was left open.
In the morning, Leticia and brother Hippolite were in the dining-room, when Clem came in for the meal.
("Did I say that both couples of monks were wearing as Russian Christians?" Clem said, interrupting his own narration.
"No, you didn't," I said.
He went on telling.)
Leticia thoughtfully tinkled with her teaspoon in her cup; Hippolite cheerfully supped his coffee and ate great spoonfuls of whipped cream. Hippolite was the first to break the silence, "You know, mom, last night, in my sleep, I saw a lady in black."
Leticia looked at him, "?"
"Yes," Hippolite said, "She went by autocar, passing by our house, and she bowed to us."
Clem said, "They bowed to us? Are you sure? Maybe, the lady bowed to you alone?"
Hippolite stared at him thoughtfully with his mouth open, but Celadon, came in, running, and the night dream remained unexplained, because the dog had the issue of "Vogue" in teeth. The nice cover picture of the gray-tailed peacock was damaged, but this accident didn't make Clem forget of the boy's dream.
Hippolite continued, "The autocar in my dream looked like that I dreamt one day, in the year when Lionheart first talked to me, saying that he detested his name Dick. Then he let me know of the name of his choice."
"I see," Clem said, "The first autocar in your dream was driven, as far as I can remember, by a blue flower. A living blue flower with a human face."
Hippolite said, "I never could see the flower's face, because the long blue hair prevented from seeing."
"I remember you told of that. Ladies love to veil their faces sometimes."
Musing about ladies, Clem took a book of Harper's Magazine in his room and left the house through the backdoor.
The day was sunny, promising to be hot from the morning. The doors and windows of the Italian Outhouse remained open; the building could be seen through, but it seemed epty. Clem remembered of his night dream once again, and then forgot of it.
As it was often, his way went to fields. Clueless about his mother's vision and about all the night dreams, he felt ill at ease in the familiar landscape. Presently, he paused again, because he heard a dog's whine.
The hosehold had a lot of stories about the dog's funny and witty tricks. This morning, the cleverest of dogs showed anxiety, being scarcely concerned about any talks. Most probably, the dog's concern was some interesting scent or scents, new or alien. Indeed, it looked like Celadon smelled some strange scents, finding some traces, now stronger, now less strong, around the manor house. Eventually, the dog could not stand this any longer, looking somewhat hopeless; he sat down on the ground and whined. The stableman in the gates raised his voice at the dog, but the dog simply passed by the human and went out the gates.
On the access road, the dog paused, turning his nose, now to the right, now to the left, and then it trotted away from the Manor, towards the fields.
Trotting on a steep pathway, the dog went up the nearby knoll. The breeze ran over the blades of grass and the young lime-grove, which rose as a thick disorderly clump, by the pathway, where it curved to the left, going along the edge of the knoll. There, between two fields, an abandoned soil in form of a stripe of fallow crossed the knoll. Oblong-shaped, the knoll looked much like an enormous grave. One of legends had it that a group if warriors of Nyomanland on their retreat, getting rid of Knights' chase, carried their hero's dead body to his final resting place which at bore the name of Lesyinesmagi Estate. The dead body was properly burnt, and an enormous mound was made above the grave where the ash was entombed. Today, the mound looked like the Knoll, and the place looked like ploughed up. The stripe went towards the big flat top stone overgrown with dog-roses. The stone was unquestionably ancient; through the moss, something like a meander pattern could be seen; perhaps, the pattern of the furrow, as I think today. As far as I remembered, it was called "Bleeding Stone," either ill-famed or evil, and a legend had it that a sorcerer was beheaded on the stone. Without reaching the Bleeding Stone, the stripe turned and went back. Reaching the pathway, the stripe turned back again. Going round the Stone, the stripe went down, towards the pathway, on the other side of the Knoll. Going along the furrow, Celadon began whining again. Apparently, the trace of the scent passed away, as though vanishing in the air. Looking displeased, the dog went home.
In the meantime, Clem was on the way to his neighbour or rather neighbours, because the owners of the Retusari Estate were two brothers.
(It must be said that I happened to know Count Eustace von Hahn-Hahn and his twin brother Norbert, the owners of Retusari Estate. Blond and blue-eyed, bearing a striking resemblance to each other, they always wore different colours. Apropos, most of people of Nyomanland were blue- or gray- or green-eyed and fair-haired; a dark-haired man like me or a dark-haired woman like my cousins' mother was rather an exception.
The people of the Baltic tribes are mostly tall, sober-minded, having good manners, with their native language having the word "toad" as the foulest. Perhaps it was their common sense what prevented them from having a richer foul language. They were uppish at times and loving to drink alcohol like the most of northerners. Finally, anybody of the upper ten thousand scarcely could be found on my native shore.
The twins' mother was a cousin to their father Wilhelm Adolph Count von Hahn, which gave the doubled name. About twenty years ago, when the twins were teenagers, their father, an outstanding statesman of Russian Empire, General-Adjutant and Member of the State Council, fell victim to an assassination plot, in Saint Petersburg. Their mother died a year or two after. Coming of lawful age, the twins returned from abroad and settled in their Retusari Estate, the Lisnyaks' nearest neighbourhood. I asked Clem if they were single as usual. Clem said yes, they both were single, and nobody ever heard of their intention to get married.)
Now, Clem was on the way to the twins, because he had been invited to one event. If the next séance of sports could be called an event. For the kind of sports was "aesthetic gymnastic."
The new gymnastics program, also called "rhythmic gymnastics" and "grace without dancing," when the young women exercised to music, moving from simple gestures to more strenuous activities, was Mona Borsky's latest hobby. Gatherings of damsels usually took place in her home estate, in manor house, but this time, she asked the twins to give their house for this séance, because her mother prepared her home estate for another event. She came with a group of her friends, with their gatherings permitting youths as well. But the core was several damsels. Their motto: "We express our feelings and emotions through bodily movement." Feeling curious, Clem accepted the invitation.
(If I were him, I would come to the event too. To see youths dancing in women's rhythmic gymnastics. About Clem, I am unsure. At his age, it's perfectly natural to be interested both in males and females -- oh well...)
So, he had the chance to see the rhythmic gymnastics and participate, in the pleasant lazy way. Aimed at female physical fitness, the kind of gymnastics consisted of group exercises with natural and harmonic movements, carried out to music, developing coordination, flexibility, strength and balance. The motions were reciprocal, alternating contraction and relaxation. In lifting, the motion of the arm travelled from the centre of the body to the fingertips. The damsels used balls, hoops, ribbons. The piano player was one of the twins.
The music was Radetzky Marsch, Tritsch-Tratsch, Archibald Joyce's most familiar waltzes Dreaming, Songe d'Automne aka Autumn Dream, as well as one of the most famous ragtime piano melodies Heliotrope Bouquet. Then the piano player asked to change him, and it was a pause, when the next piano player was found. One of the participants volunteered, and the youth began playing. It sounded nice to everyone. After the youth performed A Vision of Salome instrumental from Florenz Ziegfeld Jr's Follies, he began playing some musical play which was beautiful but unknown to all those present. In reply to someone's asking, the youth said that the music was called Train of White Stars. The music was wonderful. The music and the activity chimed well together like no other. Like his friends, Clem heard the music for the first time, and the youth was a stranger to him. The youth's name was Clarence Batwick.
("I didn't know that at the moment when we were introduced to each other, I first heard one of their names," Clem specified for me.
"Whose names?" I asked.
"I don't know," saying this, Clem sounded genuine.
"Do you fear anybody?"
"I don't know."
"Do you feel unsure about anything?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Instead of some rhythmic gymnastics, you'd better do abdominal crunches. " Moving in my chair, I reached and laid my hand on his stomach. "How's it?"
My half-playful gesture he received evenly, without resisting or saying a word. I took it he wished to proceed, and I returned to my previous position, saying.)
He was the first to leave the event.
It was his first time, and he got tired while going in the ring, in single file, and doing the exercises. Besides, his thoughts of his mother prevented him from being careless following his mates. Putting on his coat, he took leave, going away to the sound of piano: the old-fashioned and most popular Serenade by Schubert, played cheerfully, a la march.
It was late afternoon, when he was back home, because he spent some time roaming the native meadows, as it was his custom, and he even took a nap in the shelter of a haystack.
Celadon was lying in the shade, either having a rest or musing, looking somewhat joyless. Clem went to dining-room.
After the meal, when going up the spiral staircase, on a window level, Clem saw the Lake Laas, the sun on the decline, a group of the season farm labourers walking to the smooth sandy Lake side for bathing or swimming as labourers often did in the end of their working day, and a figure of a well-built man wearing as a hunter or sportsman in tones of blue and gray. With his hands in his jacket pockets, the hunter walked along the Lake side, lightly covering the expanse. Clem hastened upstairs to his quarter in the Tower in order to see where the stranger went and what he was about to do.
There was neither shrubbery nor rocks, good for hiding therefore the stranger's quick disappearance seemed unusual. If the walker became a runner, he was an exceptionally good runner, for he crossed a handsome expanse. Clem spent a while in state of hesitation, he went to the roof.
One's young eyesight could see far away and much, from the roof. Between the Knoll, which Celadon roamed today, and other hills, ploughed up too, there were forested dells, darkening, and some curling dark-blue clouds, as though coming from some fissures in the earth, caused a bluish haze creeping towards the fields and the Lake; where this haze was pierced by a crimson sunray, it turned crimson. Clem spent some time contemplating the blue curling haze, and this mesmerizing picture became curative to his eye and mind, while his eye wandered from the dell to a hill, from the woodland to a field, till some shadows, whose origin was obscure, seemed spreading across the field. Straining his eyesight, Clem blinked, rubbed his eyes, then he saw it only seemed to him, or the shadows broke at the Bleeding Stone, their top disappeared going skywards, at the same time, sinking into the ground. "Well it's your bedtime, brother Clem." Clem opened the door, and went downstairs.
By night, the flower fragrances got warmer in the gardens, and the warm humidity came in the open windows, and then, Clem saw them.
In virtue of the late hour, delusive scanty lighting and utter unexpectedness of the advent, they could be called "apollos" as well as "freaks of nature." Perfect, their limbs looked natural and at the same time the limbs and the figures seemed weird.
The creatures' unnatural look, their bizarre disorderly procession and their sudden noiseless coming itself seemed quite inexplicable. Oddly, something ghostly in the picture as well as in Clem's mind suggested that nothing could come of his going outside at the moments of the procession -- though he realized that it could be most natural if he came out to the creatures and ask about a purpose of their going by his house – like nothing came out of his attempt to see the stranger once again earlier that day. Clem decided to watch the procession with his pocket watch in hand.
At dawn, he learned that it took the weird procession about an hour to pass by the manor house. Silent, it moved like belated scraps of clouds gone by a wind over the blue sky after the night rain, and the first sunrays highlighted this comparison. Deadly and unusually sleepy, going to bed, he thought that he should share his night impression with Leticia in the morning.
The knock on his room door woke him in the morning. It was Hippolite, who came to ask, "Do you know when mama left… and why?"
"Did she!" Clem sat up. Someon's departure without letting know of it the day before was something extraordinary in their family however separately or individually the family members lived their lives.
Hippolite said, "I don't know if she left or not, but… she's nowhere about."
Clem hastened to get out of the bed.
To the drawing-room, he went being determined to suppose nothing wrong about Mother's absence, but the household's confused look shook his determination.
Kasimir-Theodor had been out, by the time when their Mother's disappearance was found out. No guests at home. As for all the rest, however long questioned, the servants could not tell about anything suspicious heard last night: no strange noise, no unearthly talks. Vexed by his vain inquiry, Clem sat at coffee, and then he went out to the garden to collect thoughts.
No result as well. When he found himself out of the garden, he thought it's for better, and he walked away from the manor house.
Lost in thought, he quickly reached the nearby farm. The Brownstone Farm, about two and a half miles from the manor house. There, he saw his elder brother's horse, tied to the picket fence, and presently he found Kasimir-Theodor, which came in handy, that day.
Kasimir-Theodor knew nothing about Leticia's intention to leave home. Surprised, like Clem, he promised to go to the railway station for inquery and to be back home earlier than usual.
Leaving the Brownstone Farm, Clem turned to the forest and in a roundabout way he came to the Lake side. Spending some time there, he saw his promenade never helped his brain. No choice but to go home. The way along the road seemed too dusty on the sunny day, and he went along the Lake side.
His walk in the sunshine tired his limbs and quieted mind. He thought that nothing wrong could happen to Leticia. Obviously, she left, for some reason, maybe feeling unhappy, maybe having a business in the city, but she would let know of her whereabouts to her children, soon, without fail. At home, Clem shared his thoughts with Hippolite.
"I believe not," the boy said, "And Lionheart agrees with me."
"As you please…" Clem said, "...both of you."
When Kasimir-Theodor came home, he let know about his vain inquiry and his own view of the happening, "Even if she's all right now, she must be found so that we, her children, could know that she's all right. We must know where there's our mother. That's all. But personally I can't leave the household for search."
They all realized that the indecency of the happening, possible or seeming or obvious, was what really worried them, and it could eclipse any criminal event, which was a matter of Police much more than theirs.
Clem said with pause, "I shall go to search for her, tomorrow. Most likely, we have nothing to worry about. Po, I want your cat."
"What for?"
"A small inquiry." Clem was about to apply to his younger brother, using the boy as a fortune-teller. Clem felt ashamed to confess, but he realized that he should do it in connection with their mother's disappearance. They should ask Lionheart.
Hippolite said, "All right. I'll ask about his view."
"Meaning?"
"Whether he is in the mood to talk or not."
"Oh… Of course. Ask him please." Here, Clem saw the tomcat who he wanted, and who came into view at the moment. He turned to the tomcat, from his seat, "Dear Lionheart! Hello! I beg you, spare me a quarter! After the meal. All right?"
Hippolite didn't took his eyes off his pet while the tomcat approached to his chair and while the tomcat rubbed against the chair, and then Hippolite said, "Lionheart tell us to gather at Princess Écossaise for the talk."
Thus, the séance was fixed, so quickly that Clem was surprised.
And I was surprised hearing the name of a princess. But explanation, which I received, was yet more surprising.
Princess Écossaise was not "who"; it was a potted rose tree, on the windowsill in the drawing-room. Via the Tomcat and Hippolite, the household knew that the Rose named herself "Princess Écossaise." It went without saying that the Rose and the Tomcat could talk, that they talked to each other, and the boy could interpret their speech. That's that... about the supernatural. As for reality, I saw the rose tree in the drawing-room.
A tall shrub with the stems bearing numerous hooked prickles. The flowers not so large but ever so much fragrant, with all the five petals cream with a white base and numerous stamens yellow. "So, the flower can talk and it introduces itself as Princess Écossaise," I said.
Hippolite said, "Yes. And I know that the drawing-room is not enough for her. Beauties know that they are beautiful, the Rose knows this about herself too. Even the daylight lingers when moving around her leaves and branches, and she doesn't hurry the daylight, for they love each other – as she says. But all the rest suitors, Princess Écossaise stops, assuming airs."
It went without saying that this information the boy learnt from the Rose herself via his Tomcat; it went without saying that the incredible source of this information could be known to every interested person from him alone; finally, it went without saying that it was no laughing matter for the household, even for Kasimir-Theodor, who was always kindhearted to his brother if not credulous to the boy's fancy.
And so, on the roof again, when the sun's hot edge touched the water of the Lake Laas, and the quiet water glittered up to the horizon, Clem could see the fog creeping out from the low places as usual, enveloping everything on the way. Only a farmer's cart rattled at a distance, in the rustic quietude.
After the evening meal, all the invited went to drawing-room to gather around the speaking thorny bush.
("So, what did Lionheart say?" I said, seeing Clem pausing, "Could you learn anything from him? All the mystique that happened to you seems to be of the same sort as speaking cats and plants. The same dubious sort of mystique – if not funny, let me speak openly."
"Nothing. We leant nothing from him… from our dear beloved Lionheart… who can hear us now, by the by, not intentionally, far from it --well you know how it is with cats. A cat can simply hear anything at home, however large a house. So, let's speak softly about him."
"Nothing?"
"Almost nothing. All he said sounded… so strange. Even if we take into consideration the fact that Po told instead of him, that is, interpreting, as far as a teenager could do voicing a speech of a wise entity, and yet… it was truly strange. The fact that Po, his interpreter, is but a teenager makes Lionheart's words yet stranger."
"Intriguing. Tell me what the tomcat…" I paused to correct myself, "…what our dear and beloved Lionheart said at the séance."
Then Clem answered my question -- and I was surprised in my turn.)
At first, it looked like nothing was going on at the séance. Lionheart was simply sitting by the "unique talkative" potted plant, motionless and silent like the plant. But Hippolite announced, saying in a whisper, "Our dear Lionheart and Princess Écossaise are holding a conference."
Silent conference, quite intelligible situation. But it lasted rather long; and then everyone thought that the tomcat was not about to talk.
Moreover, his interpreter had nothing more to say to all those present. Eventually, the boy asked his Tomcat, "Don't you want to talk with us, oh Lionheart?" and then he interpreted, "No, he wants, but…" he paused. Then the boy turned to the tomcat once again, then again, more than once. Eventually, Hippolite had something to say, and everyone understood it, because Hippolite's face changed.
Looking shocked, the boy hardly could utter the following, "He said, I am Richard Lionheart and not Don Quixote." The boy looked round all those present, and finished, "Nothing more."
(Hearing that, I felt stunned.
Feeling ill at ease, looking round the nice, disorderly furnished room of my cousin. Surprised, like those who witnessed the ominous interpretation at the séance. Those ominous and profound words which could not be invented by the young boy. No, the boy couldn't, and I was impressed like the brothers.
"I am Richard Lionheart and not Don Quixote." The words gave me the creeps.
Because the phrase sounded like words of fear. An opinion from a scared living thing.
But I was not about to place anybody's fears above all in my investigation, if by change it need be. But it looked like my investigation had begun on the moment when I took out my spiral notebook, at one of breaks in Clem's narration, and unsheathed my Parker gold pen, in order to make some notes. The tiny sharp tip, the golden and black oblong bug-like body, the pen is heavy in hand and light as it glides over paper, leaving the ink traces, precious or senseless.
Even a best fountain-pen cannot make a writer be
a fount of eloquence,
but fountains teach to sob with ecstasy.
It must be said, aside, that I never kept a diary, unless writing some travel notes and my yacht Raja log-book, and no intention to begin a diary, because my first attempt proved to be so shuttering for my tender age that it made me forget of the career of a diarist. Virtually, my first diary was rather a list of what I, a primary school student, had had time to do to those form-masters, who cared about my education most, within two weeks. The List's contents were explicitly written stories and it was highly appreciated when the diary accidently got in hands of our headmaster who read the diary to all teachers of our school whom he called solely for those first and timid excercies in human literature. Apparently, the diary produced a great impression, since all the listeners were one in their wish to give the promising young writer a way to another area, much broader than the drab walls of the school. "You'll have to take your son from our school," saying this to my parents, the headmaster sounded polite but determined, "He does some wrong things… showing makings of a true evil-doer." My parents said, "It looks like the boy is uncommonly purposeful and whole-souled, because he does the same at home." Taking my parents for his soul-mates in that, the headmaster showed the notes and views from my diary to them. Really, despite my feelings of an author and my young age, I never took the notes so seriously as those even-minded adult people. Those were the days...)
The sky was hazed with thin cirrus clouds, on the day of the "unsuccessful" séance, and the weather changed by night. The south-west windflaw bent bushes down, whooshing and turning leaves, which tinted the green shrubbery gray and white. The scraps of grey clouds drizzled, from time to time, that's why the cloak of his romanticism looked like his new waterproof raincoat with hood which he tried on, at his. When it's time for the apollos' coming, Clem put his raincoat on and went out.
He paused behind the shrubbery at the gate. The apollos appeared and passed by, at their usual time. Clem let the light shady procession go at a distance of a hundred yards and came after.
The way was familiar to him; the pathway went to the Factory at a distance of five mile or so from his home Estate.
(Hearing of a factory, I perked up, because the Factory, which Clem mentioned, was mine, or rather it was built on the land, which belonged to my own estate Kernstadt Castle and which land I had leased some time ago. The official name was "Suurkukk Factory." I had not revisited my estate for a long while, I hardly ever came to inspect it and I little knew of the Factory unless the facts, mentioned in the official record, namely, some businessman or businessmen became leaseholders to the property because they were about to build a chocolate factory. For me, it was a matter of an additional income, which came on my bank account, regularly, on the conditioned days, nothing more.)
On Clem's way, there was a big humid meadow, with meliorative trenches, and an oats field, that is, places open, good for chasing, tracking and spying, but the dark night and nasty weather with the changing lighting were little supportive. When the moon began shining, Clem feared to be seen and he fell behind or hid in a dike; when the clouds covered the moon and the rain began to fall again, he hardly could see his prey at a distance of one or two hundred feet. As for the sound of the apollos' footsteps, he could not heard it and he noticed they were not treading down the grass on their way. Covering a half of the first mile, Clem felt unable to reach his prey because the apollos were too fast. Gathering speed as far as he could, when he was at the meadow, he saw the apollos turning to another pathway which crossed the meadow going to a cemetery at a distance of half a mile from the way.
He himself could be a bit of a sight to a viewer: Clem's raincoat was dark-green but it was glittering black in the sinister dusk, which was temporary, and then the moonlight partly returned the true colour to the clothing and the look of an ordinary human to the lonely wanderer's fantastic figure. Reaching the cemetery's old wooden fence, Clem saw that only three dozens of creatures remained at the gates. Despite his laboured breath, Clem jumped over the fence. No use to be careful any longer and he dashed forward, stumbling upon gravestones and making noise on his way.
His only care was keeping in view the apollos who did ghostly flashing between trees. Now, the cemetery ended, and he found himself on a glade at the moments, when the moon began shining, and only a dozen apollos were in sight.
Clem uttered a scream like in a nightmare. The apollos paused, leaving their work, which they did, namely, they picked off raspberry leaves and used them as a fig leaf to cover their own genitals. In the manner of those of a statue. For the creatures were naked. When they paused, it seemed to Clem that he heard their whisper. It looked like they held a conference. In vain he sought to understand the rustling sounds, catching a sense or coherent speech: either it was an unknown language or it was not a human speech. They suddenly stopped talking, left each other and quickly went in all directions: to the right, to the left, forwards and across. A half of dozen ran forwards, away from Clem, towards a grove beyond a dike. Clem dashed after them.
He now seemed to be faster, and he nearly reached them, but they jumped down in the dike, one after another, disappearing in the young thick raspberry canes, on both sides of the dike, with the leaves looking white in the moonlight. Clem lifted his hand to his eyes as though trying to dispel something invisible or driving away some spells. What an obsession! It turned out that what he kept in view, when chasing, was the very raspberry leaves, turned with the wind and whitish among the darkened greenness – no the mysterious apollos. He jumped down into the dike and went it through, from one end to another. No trace. The stars and moon hazed over again as a large cloud covered the night sky. Vexed, he turned to go home.
Ignoring the servants' questions, he went upstairs. The wind came freely in his room, and the room seemed to move all over; all the lamp flames swayed, creating moving shades, curtains moved, papers flew to the floor and moved underneath the presse-papier. He threw off his raincoat and crossed over to close the balcony door. He felt vexed so much that he never watched the apollos' return if it ever took place.
Spending some time sitting, looking straight before him, in a state of numbness, he heaved a sigh, as though reviving, or it's simply his limbs had got warmed. Realizing that the nasty weather was all what he could understand on the night, he reached for a book, because a little more and he would feel like a blockhead. Opening the book at random, he read a text which sounded oddly consonant to his mood and state and the air of the night.
(Given the book, I read the text, which might be a small divertissement in this narration --
"It's ten o'clock, and it's all over. And I
must be the first who gets the torch
to this unknown,
age-old and splendid home of superstitions.
To make the fire that must burn
old testaments and centuries of dusk?
Stop, crazy youth! Behold what you begin!
Is it within your power?
Can you create and stop fire?
Can you create another world from the chaotic maze?
It's fearsome to sail at storm without knowledge
and magic spells.
When struggling, painfully, against the waves, in vain,
we lift arms skywards, but we can't avoid
the chasm of waters. For the tempest,
we are but flocks or flush of doves,
doomed from the day of our birth. The Eagle alone
can fly above the thunderbolts, invoking
the mighty hordes of storm, and coming out
lightly,
so light and mighty, from the waters.
To his command,
new worlds are coming out from the chaos. What for?
Why I was never destined for life
in rustic quietude of Carlsbad?.."
and so on and so forth. The toponym "Carlsbad" made me think, what if Clem needed it? Going to Carlsbad to be cured. A nice, quiet, out-of-the-way resort could be found on the Baltic shore as well.)
When he woke in the morning, his night ramble, when the ghostly creatures turned into mere raspberry leaves, seemed a dream.
He felt fit to get up and leave his room only by lunchtime.
("It's not healthy," I said to him, "You shouldn't get up after noon."
"I know. I got up with my head oh so heavy," he said and continued his narration which began to sound like a history of a quest for truth.)
At lunch, at the table, both the young Hippolite and the busy Kasimir-Theodor listened to him attentively as he began talking of the need to go to Brumburg. All of them realized that they should go to visit their town flat on the day of their mother's disappearance, or to send a message there.
In the meantime, he was asked, "Why did you go to see those creatures?"
The question was from Doctor Talvik, who was on a visit with no particular reason, merely to let know of some news, as usual, and of his own upcoming retirement, in particular.
It was interesting news. If to take into consideration the Doctor's age and length of service, then his retirement was timely, in theory, but not in fact, since the old doctor didn't look old --elderly at most -- being one of the most cheerful people of the parish. His full name was Raymundus-Joachim Talvik-Aschersleben, but everyone used to his shortened name "Doctor Talvik."
Clem said, "How did you, sir..."
"Mme Lisnyak told me," the Doctor said.
Clem said, "They might know anything about Mother, that's why."
Hippolite said, "How silly… Why on earth they want our Mother?"
Thus, the youngest of the brothers had heard of the creatures too.
Kasimir-Theodor said, "It goes without saying that the creatures are only a vision."
"Seen by two?" Clem said, "However, I saw them last night, and yes, they may be only a vision."
"A play of the moonlight," Kasimir-Theodor said, "What is your view, Doctor?"
Doctor Talvik said, "As a physician, I am with you in that. You, Clem, as the main searcher in this case, you never thought of what you should think first of all, and you never searched where you should do it. New Sherlock Holmes. Personally I can't help you in an active search or begin a career of private eye -- too old and ill, you know -- but I can give a piece of advice."
"Give us a piece of advice, please!" all the three brothers said.
Doctor said, "We must find a clue. I could think of it, if I could spare more time, but I can't. You should think of it, each of you, or Clem as the main searcher. Apropos, have you browsed your mother's correspondence? Did you search in her room?"
"But it's awkward," saying this, Clem voiced his as well as his brothers' view.
"Why awkward? If you don't dare, I give my permission of an old man. Moreover, I order to do it. As an old man. And I can take on the responsibility." Doctor said this emotionally, gesturing his left hand with his fork, in the end.
Clem stared at him.
Aiming his fork at him, Doctor said, "You are extraordinary, my dear, if you find my suggestion extraordinary. The situation is of the sort, so serious that all means are good. All right, if you feel dubious about search at hers... Go to Brumburg first. If you find out nothing there, then we'll think it over, once again."
Hearing that, Clem began thinking about the keys. Where there could be Mother's keys? Did she take her keys along? But the next day, in the city, he was involved in the series of events which made him forget of keys.
("I'd love to see Doctor Talvik again, some day. The old man sounded so reasonable."
Being with me in that, Clem proceeded. So do I.)
For going out to the city and for visits, usually my young Oblomovist was wearing properly and seasonably. A good tailored suit, soft shoes and gloves. His felt hat with a medium brim looked all right. Sometimes, when going for events, he was wearing a top hat, having a dark wood stick in hand which made him more personable -- in short, it all about his clothing was like all the rest gentlemen', including his elder brother and neighbouring landowners -- and now, as well as on the day when he went to the city and when he could be called an "Oblomovist in troubles," he looked comme il faut too.
Alighting from the horse tramway, Clem turned to the familiar side-street Lamplighters Lane. In the apartment house, he presently had the chance to learn that his mother had been in the flat neither on the day of her disappearance nor later. No result is a result too. It was done -- Clem looked at his watch -- 9 a.m. -- plenty of time till the next train, or he might spend the rest of the day in the city, if he wanted, going whenever he wanted. But first, he crossed the lane towards the mansion of Mr Martin Lundstrom, wanting the old man as their neighbour.
The red-bearded yard-keeper, familiar to Clem, let him in the gate. The garden around the mansion was small and neglected; the path to the house was paved with boards and not cobbles or gravel or grinded bricks. The household had only two servants, a cook and the yard-keeper, but it was always enough for the lonely old man. Next, in the study, Clem saw Mr Lundstrom completely dressed and sitting in the French chair, in the middle of the room.
A tubbed bush was in front of him; the old man cut tips of the branches, with the aid of secateurs, apparently shaping the lush vegetation. An ordinary hat on the old man's head added eccentricy to his look and work. To attract his attention, Clem had to be the first to begin talking, "How do you do, Mr Lundstrom?"
"Awaiting unbidden guests, Mr Lisnyak. Take a seat. You'll be standing somewhere else, not at mine."
"I'm here on business, sir." Clem subsided on the edge of a chair.
"Business. I expected nothing of the kind from you, Mr Lisnyak," the old man stopped working and placed his secateurs on the floor, "How's your mother?"
"No-how, you know. I'm afraid, she's no-how, sir."
"How could it be?"
"Mother departed."
"Poor little thing. What's a reason?"
"No, she's alive. We all hope that she's alive, but she left us, a couple of days ago, secretly, by night. I'm in search of her. My brothers and I want to see her or get a message from her… Would you give us a piece of advice, sir?"
The old man gave his silvery hair a smooth, straightened his hat and said, "Give me my specs… over there…" Following his eye, Clem found the gold spectacles on the desk.
The old man straightened the spectacles, took out a chequered handkerchief, wiped his clean-shaven face, and said, "Why not to apply to the police?"
"It's not for us... au milieu de nous, entre nous... well you know, sir. Mother herself would be against that. The police investigation means publicity, perhaps pressmen and a sensation in papers." It was all Clem could mumble in reply.
It was a kind relief to leave the old man's house, the feeling familiar to Clem like it was familiar to everyone who ever had to be on a visit at one's old relative's or family friend's. Leaving your old relative's house is relief like no other, making you feel like an unsaddled stallion even if you never were like a stallion in everyday life or at heart. Refreshing himself at La Belle Chocolatière cafe, Clem was cheerfully roaming the streets for some time, and then he went to cinema.
Frescos in the rococo over the ceiling were the main sight of the Silver Screen Palace interior. Taking his seat, Clem looked up at the fresco as it seemed a custom of everyone, and then he saw something unexpected and much more of interest, because it belonged to life and not art. Some black gloved hands from the prominent red plush banister of the balcony overhead. Obviously, a spectator placed his or her idle hands on the banister. Obviously, the hands were black because they were gloved and not because the person was black-skinned. Either male or female, the gloved hands were rather small. No other hands on view overhead at the moment, when… the black gloved hands dropped something. A small light object. Now, the object fell down lightly flying straightforward towards Clem like a small white bird from the painted sky of the ceiling.
Quite instinctively, Clem caught the object, with his own gloves falling from his lap down on the floor, because of his rapid motion. When a folded piece of white paper was in his hand, he looked at his neighbours with an apologetic smile, being ready to pass the paper if by chance it was intended to anybody of them. But nobody showed interest to his trophy.
It took him some time to find his gloves underfoot; then he looked at the paper in his hand again and began unfolding it. At a glance, it was a note or letter written on... black-coroneted and black-bordered paper. Mourning paper. That was all he had time to see before the lights were dimmed down, and the show began.
A mysterious ghost came to the room of the beautiful heroine of the film, by night, giving her an exquisite, tormenting and fatal bliss. It should be titled "Incubus", but the title was HAPPINESS OF THE ETERNAL NIGHT.