A Mad Autocar Racing

"It's such a fun, at ours, in Priory, sometimes," our oarsman said, a while after the boat unmoored and the oarsman's work took the steady rhythm.

Seeing the retired soldier wishing to chat, without stopping his work, I kept the conversation by saying, "Why? Is a fun possible in places like a monastery?"

"Why not?" he said, "Especially, when people came from cities for confession. Interesting. For those who knows a place good for overhearing. One can hear things of a sort that simply amazing. When it's cases with women, it's not so interesting, but with men... Spicy. Everyone knows the winged words: Live and Learn. Living at the Monastery, I better understand a sense of these words."

I peered in the eyes of the guy wearing a worn khaki uniform with the neglectfully undone colour and loosely tied wool scarf: the eyes were glassy blue. I peered in the distance: we were in sight of the shore. I said, "What next!.. As for us, the meaning of our visit was other. We wanted neither fun nor confession. And you, my friend, seem to want to tell more about the Monastery? Do it, my friend."

"Last night, I heard something," the retired soldier turned to Clem, "Sir, I accidently overheard your talk with Father Antonius."

Clem and I exchanged glances, and then Clem said to the Oarsman, "Could it be possible?"

The Oarsman said, "I was in the passage, sitting and awaiting, on the left of the cell door. One of my works is to look after Father Antonius. He's so old, you know."

Glancing at Clem again, I said, "Well…"

Clem said to the Oarsman, "I expect, you won't tell anybody about what you heard?"

"I won't, of course," the Oarsman said. When keeping this implicit conversation, the robust guy never got out of the rhythm.

I said, "Indeed, Father Antonius is very old. Go on, my friend."

"Yes, sir," the Oarsman said, "He's old and unable to see much. No use to help him see. I only nurse him till he is sent to the other monastery."

I said, "Indeed, I heard that deaths are forbidden on the isle. Quaint."

He said, "There is much funny and interesting in the Priory."

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. That's all right. Next?"

Without blinking, the Oarsman said, "Next, I'd like to say something to you, sir…" he turned to Clem, who thoughtfully frowned, "Sir, last night, after you… after you came in your cell, I heard you talking."

Clem said, "Me?! Last night?! Alone in the cell? You are mistaken."

"No, sir, I am not. I heard you talking."

"Maybe, in my sleep. I talk in my sleep, sometimes."

"No. It could not be in your sleep, for I heard two different voices."

Clem and I looked at each other, with Clem more himself than I myself. He said to the Oarsman, "It probably seemed to you. I am not an actor. Neither in my sleep, nor in reality, can I talk in two different voices."

"No, sir, I couldn't mistake."

Clem said, "And yet you were mistaken."

The Oarsman said, "Rumour hast it, the cell is haunted by an evil spirit."

Clem and I looked at each other, with me thinking, "They think that an evil spirit lives in the cell and they give the cell to tourists for spending a night. Nice."

The Oarsman said, "The old rumour cannot be called unworthy, that's why I venture to say so, sir. I believe…"

"…you believe that I talked with an evil spirit and I saw it, last night. You are mistaken. I didn't see an evil spirit and I didn't talk with him. But I involuntary thought of it, when I entered the cell, because I heard a rustle, two times, from behind the stove."

"A rustle. You see, it's true. You did talk with an evil spirit." The Oarsman's persistence sounded like something too much.

I said, "What's your name, my friend?"

"Aloysius Vyshniak, sir. Retired," he said.

"Why did you begin the talk, Aloysius?" It looked like the guy's intention was some information from us and not sharing his information with us as it seemed to me a while ago.

"Well…" he said, "I can explain, later on."

Clem said, "No, you won't have to explain. I did not see an evil spirit!"

Our boatman shrugged shoulders.

We kept silence too. The information from Aloysius Vyshniak should be taken into consideration like the previous one about Clem's oddish dream. In the meantime, our boat happily approached the shore, and we were hungry and impatient to reach the town and the Inn.

Gradually, the new azure got dark and heavily loomed over the permanent anxiety of the yellow foliage and the watchful dream of the water.

In Pskovsk, in the Northern Star Inn, when at table, I saw two bearded elderly gentlemen from St Petersburg, who I happened to know. Let's say, their names were Mr Memel and Mr Munich.

Mr Memel used to be a famous man of letters, a writer of namby-pamby with the pen-name "Miron Khitruk," but he had been writing nothing for the last eight or ten years, forgotten as an author. Mr Munich was an editor at a prestigious literary magazine of St Petersburg, the capital of the Russian Empire, and author of the only novel "Predators." More details about the gentlemen I heard from him and Mr Munich, at the table-talk, over two or three bottles of brandy, in the dining hall, where the two came from the railway station.

Their table talk had begun a while earlier, when they were in the train, and it was highly active as it was usual between Russian men of letters: the Censorship Committee, the editorial gossip, the professional conflicts. Heated with the familiar atmosphere of the quick waiters, corks popping and warm smells of the earthly viands, the gentlemen went on talking so passionately that they nearly forgot of their destination.

The point was that their path lay towards Clem's home Lesyinesmagi estate; to be more exact, their destination was the Borsky House, and they were guests like Clem and I. Warmed by the balsam of our substantial meal and drinks too, hearing the familiar name from our tablemates, Clem and I exchanged glances.

The two gentlemen said that Mr Memel was invited by the Borskys to a fest with the title of "Chess Contest" and he invited Mr Munich to accompany him. Lots of guests were invited to the fest, which was an opportunity to see several famous chess-players, meeting them over the chess-boards; and for men of letters, it was an opportunity to write an article on the subject. Seeing the envelope with the card, which Mr Memel showed to us, Clem recognized the hand of Mona Borsky.

"She sent an autocar for us," Mr Memel said, "It was awaiting at the railway station, and now it's awaiting in front of the Inn."

I remembered I saw an autocar in the street, not far from the main entrance. Needless to say that Mr Memel and Mr Munich invited us to join them going to the fest by the autocar. Needless to say that accepting their invitation was quite natural for us, neighbours of the Borskys. In an hour, when the four of us came out of the Inn's door, Mr Memel waved his squash hat towards the big gray autocar-landau.

It was one of the metallic freaks of nature whose prominent snout looked like a galosh above bobbins. The driver was wearing a fir-jacket – perhaps, a sort of uniform among drivers – the goggles on his face created an impression that I had a chance to see the man, as well as his autocar. "Ford Model T," the Driver said, gently stroking the wheel. It took me a moment to understand that he introduced the autocar and not himself. My view cannot be called that of a connoisseur, for I hardly understand a way why autocar can move, but it was clear for me that out of all dumb things, who Man had tamed, over the history of humankind, for the purpose of riding and transporting, Autocar was the vilest and most sly, which view was to be proved further, on our way. Some of my thoughts I voiced, while the four of us, to say nothing of the Driver, settled inside the autocar in order to go to Nyomanland.

"Never mind," Mr Memel said, "It wouldn't take two days. Before we know it, we are in Nyomanland."

"It's clear as noon," Mr Munich said, nearly sitting on my Kromer cap, with me being prompt enough to take it from him, the fattest of us, "A traveller always has the innumerable troubles in a train: by night you must sleep, at a railway station you have to get out and take two wineglasses of cognac... when the train starts again you hardly have time to take your seat, you've arrived. Autocar is quite another matter."

"I am with you in that. When travelling by autocar, one hardly could have a lie down and good sleep or meal."

"But we all had had the substantial meal, and the brandy at dessert..."

The vehicle seemed the only making the way to the Borskys' estate straightforward, that's why I agreed -- to my future great regret. Clem took the seat by the Driver, and he looked languorous, the youngest of us. The jars of strawberry jam, which Clem and I got in the Monastery of St Serguis, we left in the Inn as tips: let somebody else enjoy the good helpings of gelatin.

It must be said that while we moved through streets of Pskovsk, the autocar's manner seemed that of a schoolgirl in holidays: it politely drove round all angles and obstacles as though out of respect to stupid advertisements on the way, with the shining metall snout smiling friendly at every passerby. Only two men felt sure that the beast was sly, obviously and by nature; the two men were the Driver and me.

The Driver looked quite himself, because all drivers were posterity of horse-thieves, in my view. As for me, I felt powerless in my ignorance about all the rest concerning the beast of steel and in my seat somewhere between a bottle of brandy and something stiff. Leaving the town behind, the autocar ran into an ant hill, which could be called neither a hill nor a rock, and yet the engine sputtered and stopped. "Strange," Mr Memel said, "As soon as a height on the way, every autocar stops."

"Nothing strange," Mr Munich said, "Downhill, every autocar stops too."

Every passenger of an autocar, sooner or later, "I must be helped… You must help…" hich meant a beginning of a fun, vulgar, uncivilized and far from any kinds of sport. Usually, every driver's endurance in this fun can be called fantastic, since they are able to be sitting at the wheel for two days long while passengers strain themselves to breaking point at the fourth mile. As for me, I stopped appearing as an offended horse in five minutes. "What next!" I said, "Listen to me, all of you! If you rely upon me regarding me as an engine, the way long, then fill me with fuel or let me go home. My talents and abilities differ from those of a dray-horse." With that, I got in the autocar.

Only I did it, the Driver grinned and offered all the rest passengers to follow me, saying that the autocar had returned the ability to move. Presently, the autocar got to a road where the Driver stepped on gas, and in a short while, the autocar began moving along another road… if a road could be called the broad serene stream of dark water suddenly appearing at the autocar wheels. The melancholic phrase from Mr Munich, "What a picturesque road… As I think, we'll have to undress."

Despite the fact that the autocar was heavily stuck in the stream -- like a piglet in a paddle… no, like a hand-made hippopotamus -- we never had to undress.

Mr Memel, the very one who was invited to the Borskys and who invited us to make the pitiable journey, looked confused. My cousin Clem looked puzzled too much to realize all, and he only blinked watching the muddy water. From the mortifying future perspective, my fellow travellers were dragged out by me, the sanest of them. "Listen to me, all of you!" I said, "I'm ready to undress. Moreover, I can loosen my necktie right now. But I'll get in the water only after this despicable one, our driver, and we'll swim side by side. Otherwise --don't ask me to move. In the morning, I'll make a raft of your suitcases and drift out, down the stream. On the waters of the Nyoman, I'll be found, and they'll take me home. And you'll die of despair, with the dark waters around."

The Driver, who previously failed understanding any of reasonable words, was unexpectedly quick understanding all --my small speech and much more --and he began manipulating all the wheels, levers, screws and buttons, at his hand, so energetically that in two minutes, his autocar brought us on shore. This time, the Driver's work and he himself earned my hearty praise. I said, "If an inventor attaches a sail to this autocar and takes you, our dear friend, away, the autocar could serve as a nice yacht. True, in that event, as before, I'd prefer to be a mere viewer and not a happy user."

After the small incident, humiliating for the Driver and gaining for the autocar's prestige, we, the passengers, held a small conference about the better way to Nyomanland. My elderly fellow travellers opened the bottle of brandy. Clem had a drink too. Only two men refused the alcohol: the Driver and me. Quirky of him. By the by, the sly and quirky Driver's name or surname was Illarion, and he talked in a Tartarean mix of English and Tartarian which made my elderly fellow travellers feel flattered because they could understand him. I took a piece of cheese out of the packed lunch, which luggage was my care and which Clem was charged to keep on his lap the way long. In addition, our packed lunch contained hard bisquits and bars of chocolate The Merry Widow, and Sofie, from George Borman, for chocolate was essential as a dry ration, in my view. Clem took the chocolate and refused the cheese.

Coincidentally, all of us equally little knew of the local roads. Eventually, our conclusion was the way through the town of Yarrburg. At first, a reason remained obscure to me, but the following small dialogue from my two elderly fellow travellers explained it.

Mr Munich said, "The road via Yarrburg is sandy and hard. Apropos… in Yarrburg, one lady lives. Good-looking. She's my friend." He tugged at his pomaded moustache.

Mr Memel said, "I hate sandy roads. The way may be so taxing. Apropos, if she's blond, let's go via Yarrburg."

In cases like our conference about the road, I was as ill-informed as Clem, the youngest of us.

The road to Yarrburg went fairly well: the autocar cheerfully jumped over some seedbeds, playfully upset some fences, and two fat cows in a delicate condition were scared with the sound of the cupper snake. It was nice to be inside of the mechanical destroyer and not outside. Contemplative, I was full of clandestine and sweet anticipation concerning the peasants who could remember our gray autocar for the rest life and they would not miss a chance when seeing it, elsewhere, some day.

In Yarrburg, we spent the time which took Mr Munich to enter a house and to roll out of the house, a few moments later, with his face distorted with terror, and hysterically crying out to someone out of sight, "…How dare you! You can't!.. Shocking!.. It's simply a scandal!.. Speak out, but why the cane?! Ill-mannered! Unethical!" Rolling up to our autocar, he heavily pressed against the footboard and rubbed his forehead, "They call this 'intelligentsia of Yarrburg...'"

My quiet and careful question sounded especially distinct in the silence, "The blond? Good-looking?"

"You are the idiot," the gumptious seeker of adventure said on the move to his seat. I chortled with delight. He said, "Stop grinning. He'll be shot if I knew that her husband was in. If I knew he's in… I would have a pistol about."

His mate said, "Good-looking blond lady! My friend! He brags away. Suppose, I have a lot of ladies who live where I can get my skull fractured. But I don't brag."

It was a scream! But the raindrops began falling, with several of them friendly dropping in the scruff of my neck.

"Rain, rain, go away

come again another day.

Rain, rain, go away

Little Clemmie wants to play.

Rain, rain, go to Spain,

never show your face again!" I asked Clem to take care about Mr Munich's hat which luckily was not far from the autocar, on the pavement.

After the hat was returned, we drove on. Leaving Yarrburg behind, the autocar began showing the kinds of positive potential which nobody could expect seeing its repulsive exterior of a garbage bin or a pigeonry. Seeing the autocar acting as a corkscrew and being inside, I could not call the experience pleasant during our next going downhill. Now, the Driver, the sad evil-doer, turned a wrong lever, and the autocar began spinning on the spot, like a young cheerful imbecile sooner than a thousand dollar bulky and cumbersome object of iron. I asked, "Tell me please… it's of obligation or for fun?"

"What do you mean?"

"This… Tobogganing and then spinning like a top. If it's of obligation for this kind of vehicle, then let me get out of here, and I'll go on foot. Three or four day walk would be better for my nerves than any spinning, even a shortest like this."

Clem mumbled, "My head is spinning."

A meaningful silence, in reply. Next, we drove on.

The rain was not long, luckily, for the way to the next shelter, we came on foot, mostly, with a slightest aid of our autocar. When the Driver cheerfully announced that some "candles burned out," I had a chance to see the "candle" a dirty piece of iron, which seemed to be placed in an autocar solely for breaking it. Next, some screws broke and they were to be repaired or replaced. Now, the Driver said, "The end crowns the work. Everything's all right, unless our crank." Carefully wiping his hands with a scouring cloth, he looked at me, for some reason.

I arched my eyebrows, "Pardon?"

Then he explained, "If the crank isn't broken, we could drive on."

Then, following his eye, all of us looked at the broken crank on the ground. Thus, the repairs were going on till the gloaming.

In the gloaming, the Driver evidently got tired of his own tinkering with tools; he sat at the wheel again, pulled at a handle and the motor started. Inside again, I had something to suggest, "Gentlemen! If driving suggests passengers getting out of it and going on foot, every five minutes, I can do it instead of the Driver. Really, I'll be faster."

"Your idea is good. Quite business," Mr Munich said, "Apropos… I used to be good at typewriting. Using my technical capability, I can control the autocar horn."

Mr Memel said, "Of all kinds of sports, my most preferable are ham and eggs for supper, and good sleep in a good inn. Don't bother the Driver, mates. Let him take us to ham and eggs."

Hearing that we were about to spend the night indoors, the Driver apparently thought that he could have a chance to steal a bottle of brandy while we slept, and the autocar suddenly got to a road where the Driver stepped on gas, and in a short while we arrived in a town whose name slipped my memory.

We arrived after dark. Having again the ground underfoot, in the Starrodub Inn, my elderly fellow travellers cheered up and their small eyes twinkled. Seeing a nice-looking waitress, they tried to send Clem and me to our room, highly recommending a good sleep after our long way. But Clem and I said that we were hungry. I wanted something light; some sardines, a little bit more sausages, much more hum and eggs, and a handsome piece of cheese; not to mention of brandy and white bread.

"Mademoiselle!" one of my elderly fellow travellers said in Russian, "Could it be possible that a girl with the lovely feet like yours has no sardines for us? You have? Wonderful!.. Why I kissed you? Gladdened about sardines. Don't angry? Neither do I. Apropos, about your legs and eyes, could you bring ham and eggs?.."

I lost my temper, and using her ignorance about German language, I said in German to her, "Look, you snub-nosed fool. If in ten minutes this table is not laid for four and I don't see here all what can refresh power of a man who has been jumbled two hundred and fifty kilometers in rainy weather, by landau, I'll tear your head off, not giving a flying smile. Comprends?"

She gave a playful pig-like shrill and ran to the kitchen.

Five minutes more and we had sardines, sausages, eggs, bread and butter, all cold but eatable. A quarter more and we paid off, with my elderly fellow travellers announcing in German that actually a man could not expect anything good from a Russian woman. I was with them in that, being disappointed by the high price of the cold snack. Then we parted company, with Clem and me going to bed and not caring about the elderly gentlemen's further night adventures.

My face needed shaving. Clem's facial hair, his pencil moustache should be trimmed, but he fell asleep, immediately having a lie down on the rough-dry linen of the bed. For a quantum of solace, I took out the vial of Après L'Ondée -- After the Heavy Summer Shower -- my favorite fragrance for the last six years: bitter almonds, with the composition including violet, rose, heliotrope, hawthorn, anise, and citrus notes -- maybe this warm fragrance on my pillow, for good night, caused my weird night dream.

In my sleep I saw the scene that one could see in the picture by Natoire, "Cupid Sharpening his Arrow," seen by me in St Petersburg, one of the time-varnished and époque-branded pictures in soft and joyful tones, blue, pinks and golden, without a slightest sign of dramatic or sinister clair-obscur. Instead of his young assistant, the Cupid himself energetically kept on turning the golden crank handle of the big rotary grindstone while his assistant did something, maybe sharpening an arrow, standing back to me, the viewer. Now, the Cupid turned his head to look at me, and his rosy and golden exterior, beginning from his smile, began turning into the familiar exterior of the driver Illarion, smiling and repulsive. And the handle turned into the familiar crank. Fortunately, I woke, before the moment when the mythical grindstone turned into a real modern day autocar.

Awakening in the morning, I could not say what was worse, the phantasmagoria of the dream as a continuation of that of our journey or the upcoming continuation of our journey as that of the phantasmagoria of my night dream.

The roads of Ostsee are traditionally better than those of the Russian territory in the immediate vicinity. The sun was shining kindly, and the weather looked promising on our way.

"Beautiful view," Mr Munich drawled.

"Wonderful landscape," Mr Memel's tone echoed.

"Gentlemen," I said, "Leave these drab landscapes, dull view and changeable weather alone. There is a sight, more instructive, before your eyes. Look at the idiot who was invited to go by this autocar, who accepted the invitation, and who involved his younger and less sophisticated friend."

I meant myself. The bearded faces of my elderly fellow travellers smiled. The Driver seemed to be immersed in his work, with his goggles watching the road. Mr Munich was the most talkative of us, today; he began talking of this and that, telling about some news and gossips. Hearing Clem and I having been at a monastery, Mr Munich told a true story, which could delineate the attitude of Russians towards their native religion and priests, as he said.

"…About one landowner, military man retired. After dissipating two estates, the Landowner inherited the third. In his inherited estate, he arrived along with eight spongers. On the patron saint day of Saint Nicholas, celebrated in December, the Landowner invited all the local clergy for the traditional thanksgiving service. At his, the clergy did it properly. Then he made all of them dead drunk. The Deacon reached his own home, on all fours. In the morning, the church bells rang for Morning Prayer. The Deacon had a splitting headache when he came to the church. Parishioners came. But the Father Priest did not. Everyone was waiting for him, for some time; eventually, the Deacon told about the last night spree at the Landowner's. Then the Church Warden and several peasants went to the Landowner.

Wearing a dressing gown, sitting in the clouds of his pipe smoke, the Landowner said to them, --What do you want, brothers?

--Is Father at yours?

--No.

--But… where is he?

--Died.

--Died? How?

--How… In the way like any human dies.

Silence. Feeling confused, the visitors hesitated. Then the Church Warden said, -- Well then… Where is he?

--In the cemetery.

--Are you joking?

--Why to joke? Go there to see. On the right from the gates, in the corner.

The people went to the cemetery. Indeed, in the right corner there was a fresh-made mound of snow. Digging out, they saw the dead drunk Priest snoring in a wooden box. Last night, the Priest was packed in the box, the Landowner put on the Priest's vestment, took the censer in hand and headed the procession of his spongers who carried the box like a coffin. They read the burial service, as far as they could remember the rite, in a general way, and then they buried the box in the snow."

How simple. Charming.

The head of Mr Munich's mate held more playful thoughts, and he began his true story by saying, "One cannot make court to a lady in Nyomanland like one cannot bake potatoes at a crater of volcano." Then Mr Memel told a true story of his love affair with a good-looking blond lady wearing hats blue with a suggestion of green and gray stockings when, he lived in Weymarn. She proved to be too sociable at his young age, and the ending was unhappy.

"...On the approach to her home, I said, --Farewell. Do not think badly of me…

She said, --You too… --I felt sorry. For she was a good-looking woman.

I waved good-bye. She waved good-bye too and said, --Maybe, I'll see you tomorrow?

--How could it be possible… -- unless our all friends will die out, by the tomorrow morning."

We laughed, agreeing with Mr Munich, who said, "A bit of a woman she was." And I thought that with all his heterosexual frustrations, Mr Memel could become one of us, by now.

Encouraged, Mr Memel began talking about all we saw on our way, about those who lived there, how and what doing. I asked his view of Doctor Talvik. "…He's so nice and a greatest joker ever."

"Is he!" Mr Memel said, "And I knew him as a tough professional… to put it mildly. Years ago, I rented a summer cottage in his parish. The Borskys and I are relatives and their estate is so big, but I prefer living independently. So, I spent the summer nearby. One old woman brought an action against me, stating that my dog attacked her and rumpled the hem of her skirt. Seeing Doctor Talvik, one day, I told him about the upcoming court session.

In reply, Doctor said, --I knew. For I gave her the certificate of her wounds.

--You, doctor?! --It must be said that he and I were pals.

--Amicus Plato... --he said, --Where both are friends, it is right to prefer truth.

--But the old woman is a retailer, by trade and by nature, who gads about the summer cottages. My dogs run loose about my yard to keep people like she out of my cottage.

--However that may be, --he said, --it just as the judge will consider.

I knew, it was too late. It was the end of our friendship."

Tough man? Maybe. Mr Memel pointed to the right where some buildings were visible through and from behind a small forest, and he said, "Lutatovsky's land. Schopfer Castle, as far as I remember. Rich estate. A biggest pigeonry ever." And I recalled the Legend of the Evil Lake and the Orchard that I heard I my childhood --

In the 18th century, there was a big orchard, right at the southern walls of the Schopfer Castle. One of maternal grandsires of the landowner Lutatovsky began rebuilding the landscape, and the orchard, lots of apple trees, was all cut down for an artificial lake. The apple trees were fallen in time of blossom. Absolutely improper, according to the local belief. The belief has it: made like this, the Lake will take as many human lives as the apple tress have been fallen. Nobody knows how many apple trees used to be in the Orchard. Since then, humans began ti die drowning in the Lake, with the first victim the grandsire's 13-year old daughter. The grandsire himself was the second victim, found on the Lake side, soon after his daughter's death. I always found the legend scary. On the day of the mad autocar racing, I could not remember any information about any victims of the last two decades.

Meanwhile, the sun was shining kindly; the road was relatively dry, uncommonly for the season, but the Driver had to slacken speed, because the road became uneven: by a mere coincidence, neither we nor he wanted to slide into the gutter. Now, on the top of the next hillock, we could see a big flock of pigeons further on the road.

Something was in the wind. Ominous. Ominous, not for anyone, but for us, the travellers whose vehicle had the unbearable habit to stop at every ant hill. Whining, the autocar burst in the flock, with the Driver energetically pressing the horn. Flushed, the soft-coloured birds flew off, and our vehicle cheerfully passed the spot, but presently, its vigour ended and it stopped. The Driver pulled at levers, back and forth, as if they were a hare's ears, but the beast of steel remained dumb. The Driver's goggles swept all of us, and he got out of the autocar.

The next checkup of the "patient". The iron cover was taken off, the temperature was taken, plasters of cotton waste were applied, some indicators were twiddled. No result. The "patient" began trembling all over, hiccupped two or three times, and it stood still again. The Driver voiced his old thought of our questionable duty to push the autocar. In virtue of my refusing to do it, we, passengers, went to take the air or sat down on the grass nearby the autocar. Presently, the Driver announced that a mere trifle was out of order, and that we were waiting for another autocar to get something unbroken from another driver's tools. It seemed in order of things, akin to my refusal to push the autocar.

It might sound unbelievable but we got what our vehicle needed, soon, from a red autocar that was on the way in the opposite direction. The red autocar's passengers were guests of the Chess Contest, and before the autocar left us, continuing the way, we heard that the event was to come to an end later on the day, and consequently we with our gray autocar were rather late. While the gray autocar was put in order, I followed the red autocar with my eyes, thinking to myself that it well may be the very vehicle, which our "friends" peasants expected with anticipation.

However that may be, we went on, making up for lost time. Risking to cause my reader's sarcastic laughter, I have to say that in two kilometres, we stopped again. Reason: we had forgotten of more petroleum. "The autocar is not given a sup of tea," Mr Munich said the joke.

I said, "We shall do the rest of the way on foot." I touched Clem's shoulder and looked at Mr Munich who had to let me out.

Everyone stared at me. "Why?" It looked like the scorch by the mad vehicle didn't shake their progressionism.

"We are leaving you," I said, getting out of the autocar, "On foot, we'll be faster than you. It's not far away. Just tell us which way. On the right or on the left?"

"To the right," Mr Memel said, "Walk in the vista, with nowhere to turn. The way seems all right. You'll be fast, indeed. "

Mr Munich said, "It seems only two kilometres or so."

I said, "The weather is nice for a walk, isn't that, Clem?.. Mr Memel… Mr Munich…"

"Good luck!"

"See you!" Clem and I waved our caps at parting and walked on the pathway of the breakthrough in the forest, in the gleaming gold leaves of the autumn aspen – onwards, onwards, to the hospitable familiar dwelling where we could get all, refreshment and entertainment. But the rest of the way proved to be longer than it seemed.