Eros Rose
The upcoming journey to Padrik was to be neither long nor perilous. Virtually, it looked rather like a pleasure journey, and I offered to go by steamer, because I wanted to visit my Castle which was situated on the top of the high River side. Revisiting my Castle was necessary, for a mere checking up, at least, and strictly speaking, I should do it a while ago, on my arrival.
A few words about my Kernstadt Castle. The estate was my grandfather's acquisition and it could not be called the place "...where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin," not at all; it was merely the place where I got my first countryside impressions, where I played with children, and from where I was taken for visiting our neighbours and in due time sent to the public school. Actually, children of my age or any were of little importance to me, in my childhood, and oh so often, I hated children. Did you happen to see a little child with a big book of no interest to him or her? Opening the book, the child placed his one hand on the book's page and with another hand he took the page's corner and pull at it. The page's torn in half. Horrible. Especially I hated the children who I saw at the Borsky Estate. I was the youngest there, in the group of children, and in some extraordinary way, Eulampia Grimm, now Borsky, the stubborn and self-assured girl, nicknamed "Lamp" became my constant partner in play. "Lamppost," I would say. She was three or four years older than me, and the girl positively took me in hand, me, the six-year-old. At the play, I seemed driven to her like to a wall, by virtue of some circumstances above me. Our playmates hated her for her air of self-assured confidence. As for me, I was threatened by killing and scalping because of my long locks, which danger was a result of our playing "cowboys and American Indians", of course, "playful" sooner than real, and yet it was shuddering to me and it was happily added to the fears, which made me a sad neurasthenic, a real boon for Sigmund Freud, when I was oh so young... Luckily, this state of my mind either had stopped or passed off soon after my pubertal period came. What did it help me to get better? What happened next to me? On se tait là-dessus. But I proceed with my Castle description...
The Kernstadt Castle was surrounded by parkland, with woodland beyond the parkland. The manor house's appearance incorporated elements of Scottish Baronial, Moorish Revival, and Gothic Revival architecture. Interesting. More interesting than graceful. Built by an Italian architect, in the1800s, for a cousin of the Emperor Alexander I, the estate had the manor house, outhouse for servants, offices, and initially, the French formal garden going into the English landscape park with the cascade of ponds, but the gardens had turned into the parkland where there was the trace of the main alley and one pond. One side of the Castle and the Watchtower looked over the steep of the cliff. At the construction of the Watchtower, two workers died, which everyone took as ominous.
The shady lime-tree alley began from the Watchtower's foot. Lower, on the steep, a big stone showed black in the grass, looking like a gravestone, with no inscription. Nearby, a garden seat of mossy stones. The oaks around were said to be aged 1200 years at least. Supposedly, the stone seat was a favorite place for ghosts. A legend had it, one girl, a beauty of Nyomanland, fell in love with one of the Knights, that is, her homeland archenemy, and by night, she came to the seat for dating with him. The lovers were eventually exposed, and the beauty's father cursed her. Now, her phantom was said wandering over the earth in search of anybody or anything to get her rid of the power of the curse. More than once, her phantom appeared before eyes of people who spent time under the shelter of the oak or she was seen roaming around the Castle. Simple people said that they happened to see a luminescent spot in shape of a human in a dark room. Whose phantom it was? Sometimes, by night, over the Nyoman, some will-o'-the-wisps could be see, and some boatmen took the lights for steamer's and went to meet them, but there was nobody on the River's surface. People said the lights were the wandering souls of warriors, killed at battlefields. The River, the steep, all this told about a tectonic break, which could cause some paranormal activity, as we could say nowadays. In the Parkland, there was a hoary edifice which the natives called Devil's Kitchen. The flat stone, mossy all over, was surrounded with six "stools" of granite. Supposedly, the place was favourite to sorcerers. The gate of the Castle had another watchtower, more graceful, with clock in the upper part and archway in the base. Looking so decorative amid the lawns. The manor house' subterranean was deep and vast, looking much more ancient than the building, with chambers and halls of unknown purpose. One chamber had a well, chocked up with soil now. If you drub with your heel on the floor, you heard a booming sound which suggested some emptiness and perhaps the next level of catacomb and the base yet more ancient.
That night, in my cousins' flat, Clem and I opened a bottle of rowanberry schnapps, Clem told to bring cheese, bread and butter, and then, after the meal, I used the chance –I took a bath, and yes, we did it together, for the hot bath was healthy for his foot. And yes, we spent a part of the night as petits copains, in his bedroom. But we fell asleep in different rooms, finally, which always was my custom and taste, unless I had need, or was in a fantastic mood.
I had a most dreamful slumber ever, which unpleasantly stirred my mind. I saw myself going through my Castle parkland. Summer. All the shady and mystique sights, mentioned above, I passed, one by one. Now, the last of the sights faded out, turning into a big nebulous and formless blot. The varnished counter of Fait's shop glimpsed along with the red and golden cigar straps and pictures, and all the impressive moustaches and uniforms of South American army-generals scattered as an army of some quick midgets, gray, red, colourless, running somewhere quickly. Then the army disappeared too, and then I saw a neglected ground plot or a field, grassy and shrubby, dimly lit by a bleak greyish light. Either a night dusk or a pre-morning glow. The lurid light seemed to go through the ground, evenly and dimly lighting the stale roots of shrubs and an endless labyrinth made by a mole among stones, roots and clots. It turned out that the bleak gray light could go through woodwork of a coffin. Apparently, the woodwork resisted, and I had to strain my eyes trying to see the features of the one who was lying in the coffin. The image of a human's face was fuzzy like in a faulty photograph; I watched long, and finally I recognized the features… the familiar beautiful face… of my fair baby... No. Gulf yawned at my feet.
Awakening, I saw it was late at night. My forehead was wet with sweat. Why the dream? Julian. My boy was alive, for the messenger from the post office came tonight bringing the reply from him. Was the dream warning? Could the dream be a reminder? A reminder of my own unfaithfulness? No… It's something other, which was above me, for the time being. Abed, alone, imagining my boy's visage and auralizing his voice, I began tossing and saying the prayer familiar for both of us --
"Your forehead is Elysium for me, your eyebrows are rainbows, your embrace is a violet lotus, and your mouth is heather ale. Oh yea..."
Nyoman is navigable the whole year round, and ships go every hour, from Brumburg to the river's mouth. The Knights' main way to Nyomanland went along the riverside. At the hour, when we were aboard of the white steamer, the weather was nice; the steamer seemed fast. Roman Catholic churches passing by our eyes; curly verdure covering the red hilly banks suggested deciduous forests. Clem carried a hamper of eatables, so, we were not fated to remain with no snack, solely thanks to my care, and an hour later, we could dine alfresco.
In an hour and a half, the hills of the right bank, rolling by, looked higher and higher, a Roman Catholic stately temple came into view, and underneath, on the steep, there were some drab wooden ruins. No tree or shrub among the ruins, only three deep washouts in the bank and traces of some ramparts and big mound. It was one of glorious sites of the native history, which usually related to the armed patriotic resistance to the Knights. The resistance used ramparts, moats and fences, and the Knights had to break lots of lances before conquering all around and Christianize everyone around.
An hour more and the green mountain had rolled by; merlons of a round tower came into view seen from behind the forest and a part of a red bricked wall glimpsed between trees. My Castle.
It was not one of biggest or oldest, but it was a real castle, unlike someone else's built in the sky. Walking on the well-trodden pathway, we quickly reached the white stone fence. The Gates with the watchtower and clock were worth our attention. Recognizing me, the old servant let us in the spacious rectangle of the courtyard. The offices in the same style, stalls, all looked in perfect order, at first glance. The arched door of the main entrance with two lancet windows on sides looked uncommonly broad for the Gothic style. The usual left-faced swastika in a wreath of oak leaves guarded the main entrance, from above, for my coming. In the main hall, the fireside was crowned with a tile-scaled roof like a castle's and it seemed large enough for frying a boar or deer. Opposite, the solid oak broad staircase led to the first floor. But the main sight was neither the fireside nor the staircase there; the main was the still group of four knights horseback, looking at full tilt to a comer. Both the horses and equestrians were armoured from top to toe, and the figures were well-done, what's more? A group like this one could see in the Tower of London, but those knights were English and their attacking group was enormous; the keepers were wearing the ancient clothing from top to toe, and there was not our medley of the past and the present.
All the graceful bronze handles of casements and doors, which we saw on our way, were as ancient as the building. The problem of heating had been solved in the old time too, genially: from the big stove in the cellarage, through the thickness of the walls, ten chimneys had been laid. From the chimneys, smaller chimneys went like capillary through all the building, heating walls of every floor. Unlike your heating batteries, my Castle heating system was slow to cool, besides, no ash-pits. In addition, this heating system worked as your artificial ear for overhearing, which secret passed from father to son. By care of the architect, in the first floor there was the small room, which was the ear of the building -- my readers know of all the gothic tricks. In a certain corner of the room, you open a certain secret damper, and you can hear every conversation in any of the rooms. The house was with running water, cold as well as hot, because the water-tower was in the vicinity which was by my grandfather's care. Nice familiar nest, isn't it? I love it too.
The very thought of the possibility to settle in the lovely place took my breath away. Why I never did it? This impression from the Castle as well as the mentioned emotions and questions, only concerning other places in the world, were familiar to me, but every time, the wandering wind was stronger in my life.
The parkland around was not so well-groomed as the buildings. Unlike in the past, nowadays, the two main levels of the parkland were only dimly marked, and this should be improved in the future. The first level, inner to the house, should be free of tress in order not to shade the house, which was not so, today. The second, the park itself, should have shrubs, trees and flower gardens. Initially, the Park was to have green "rooms" divided with green lines. The Park was graced by some megaliths of gay sandstone, which was my care, and it ended at the River side's brae. While walking in the parkland, I saw Clem's state: he fidgeted, looking interested in his own thoughts more than seeing the nature around or listening to my explanation. But I pretended not seeing it, waiting for Clem's speaking out. Eventually, he said that he appreciated all he saw, but he had something to offer. "What if I go to Padrik, right now, without wasting time, as it were, and you could proceed with your Castle inspection?"
Really, he saw my wish to do it. I said why not, and we went to my stalls to find a carriage for him.
A legend had it that on a clear night, the Castle turned into a dwelling of sorcerers, and you could have chance to believe in this romanced statement when you saw the dark form alluding to its presence, fantastic, with all the merlons and angles against the night dark-blue sky, with the numerous gleaming windows, with shadows passing across the windows, from time to time, either of someone inside or clouds sailing above. Like lots of old building, it lived its own secret life. One image of a possible phantom used to impress me, in the past. This is a bit of the description of the ball, in winter of 1836/7, which could be found among the chronicles in the library --
"…The hostess didn't dance at her ball, because she severely hurt her leg, in the beginning of the winter, when she did sledging down the ice-hill. She was heavily lame in one leg, and she could walk only with the aid of a crutch… The crutch in her hand seemed ancient, from her grandsires' maybe; of black wood, it had a polished curved handle with big brilliants all over. The crutch alone looked magic to everyone who saw the lady whose charming look was like a fairy's…"
Ugh. Now, nearby the mystique place, on my land, a chocolate factory with the use of steam engines had been built. The fairy land, me and some steam engines. Nonsense. Thanks to my good taste, the manor house was turned into a palace… if not full of fine furniture and objects of art, then the rooms were well-furnished, with all necessities, which was my personal care... however, if someone said that the rooms looked like a hotel's sooner than home, then I'd agree. My room could be any, but I preferred the most spacious of bedrooms. Looking round the room, I saw a flower in a tall graceful vase of stained golden glass. A single long stem red rose. The flower was artificial with fine satin petals; but if it were natural, the gift would be so much to my taste, that I felt surprised. It looked like someone knew my tastes. Too busy to inquire the servants immediately, I was about to do it later on. It used to be my mother's bed-room. Opening the door I remembered myself, a little boy coming to my mother in the morning, reaching and unable to get to the door handle. But I didn't cherish the remembrances of my parents. It well may be that I used to love my mother, but much about her proved to be so effaceable, unless the memory of the handle of the door that never became a portal to the supposedly wonderful world of my childhood memory. As before, the single-leafed mahogany door opened into the bath-room.
After the simple and substantial meal, two horses were put to a nice old landaulet: I was about to use the fine weather for going for a drive.
Another castle was at a distance of several miles. The road went over the hills above the Nyoman, and the views were one more picturesque than another. Baron von Raudans the owner of the neighbour castle was away, as my talkative coachman said, and the Baron hardly ever revisiting his estate. But I merely wanted to take a look. Now, my landaulet passed by an estate which looked neglected, with half-destroyed buildings. Then we descended in a clayey ravine with a glittering creek, and my coachman pointed to the forest beyond the ravine, "The castle!" The horses all together set to manage the rise; we went through the forest and found ourselves in a middle of desolation and decay.
All the expanse of the courtyard was overgrown with tall weeds, and the castle at the distance had no doors, casements or roof. What a pity… An excursion over the rooms of a building like that could be perilous by virtue of musty woodwork and staircases. Without leaving his seat, the coachman said that he heard that the walls of the rooms had remains of some interesting frescos. I said that I was too wingless to roam the rooms. I told to go round the castle. The towers in each corner of the castle looked lowering; foliage and branches came from their embrasures. In the rear of the building, the view was breathtaking: a gulf opened before my eyes, beginning from the very foot of the wall, and this enormous abyss was overgrown with giant oaks and lime-trees. Further, the distance opened up to the skyline where the Nyoman showed blue. The silence was celestial there, only skylarks warbled overhead. For me, the view was more tremendous than that on the island Shardana.
By the time of my return, they in my Castle had found the food which more became a landowner than cheese, bread and sausages alone. Hungry, I tackled the well-cooked chicken, after being told that fish and more meat was in process of being cooked. I declined the decanter of birch sap wine, telling to serve a jug of milk, and coffee for dessert.
I told to open all windows in order to air all rooms. The single long stem red rose in the vase of stained golden glass with no water was charming and it stirred my imagination. My inquiry about the artificial flower nonplused the few servants of the house, and none of the sober middle-aged persons looked like a joker or having a reason to mystify me. At sunset, when I finished my round about the rooms, the manservant came to tell about a visit of minor importance.
Clearing his voice, the old man said that several young villagers came to ask my permission to arrange a dance party in my parkland, by night. Why not? Questioning about more details, from the manservant I learnt that the event had become customary over the time of my absence. The young villagers came to the Castle for the permission periodically, and today they came on the occasion of some fete-day as usual. I went out to see the young people and to give my permission personally.
Anticipating the evening coolness, black flyers noiselessly traced the sky. Given my permission, the young people sent ten lads to make the playground. At the cross-alleys there was something like a square where the main flower garden used to be. Now, the ground was cleaned and thoroughly rammed. Maids began decorate branches of the trees with colourful lanterns, and by night, when it all was prepared and all the young people and guests gathered, I was invited the party as a participant or spectator.
The star-spangled dark-blue sky was above the alleys; red, blue and green lanterns glimmered among the trees; the local country music bad played a cheerful march as I approached the "dance pavilion." Footlights in the form of oil lamps along the ring was an additional illumination, and some open flames fiercely flickered. Guests settled on two wooden long benches, forming two rows of spectators. Unable to see the people in the semi-darkness, I simply took a seat on the front bench and begin watching the party.
A sort of a main entrance was made on the side where village people came from. The archway was decorated with flags and lanterns; there were tables with lemonade and sweets. On the round square, two dozens of couples looked fascinated dancing polka. Varicoloured blouses of maids flashed among dark suits of their partners. Waltz. It must be said that I enjoyed the show: having a rest, contemplating the fest and inhaling the fresh night air, I felt unnoticed and generous. An hour or two more and Clem would return, as he promised. The party was a nice way to while away the time till his coming. I leaned back, fetched a sigh, but I heard an unknown male voice, apparently belonging to one of the guests on the bench behind my back, saying nearly in my ear, "The dancing couples look so serious and grave as though they are solving a poser or mathematical problem and not having the fun. The next dance finished -- the task accomplished." I turned to look at the speaker, and the stranger said in reply to my eye, "Isn't that so?"
The stranger was wearing a dark suit and hat, navy blue maybe, but it was impossible to be defined preciously. His light blond hair was artistically long. The gloss of his golden silk necktie prevented from making out the gold of his big tiepin. His white hands covered the knob of his walking-stick. Wearing the gold-rimmed smoky spectacles, he could look like a Polish young priest if it were not for the amount of solid gold. I said, "Indeed... It looks like that."
The stranger said, "And their music... Profanation. A gramophone would be better." In English, he talked with the posh accent, which I always loved.
"Maybe..." Mesmerized by the play of lights in his smoky spectacles, I placed my elbow on the back of the bench to settle more comfortable, which gesture could be taken for both my courtesy and my genuine wish to continue the conversation. But my only wish was seeing him.
Except for his gleaming spectacles, the stranger was motionless but something moved in the shade… his left hand… no, something on his left hand... a solid gold finger-ring. With a dark-red cabochon, perhaps cornelian.
The stone looked simple but it was one of those which you look at narrowly, and it began changing hues from claret to dark-brown, depending on lighting, but this one seemed to change colours in the shade, regardless of the lighting, the colours changed periodically and some scarlet and gold sparkles furiously played without stopping in its centre. White brilliants lined the cabochon creating a big fantastic eye. Not sure, at the moment, but this eye-shaped jewellery might mesmerize. The view of the ring outshone the beauty of the stranger's white hand with the shining polished nails. Now, the stranger began speaking, again, thoughtfully, as though thinking aloud, and I peered at his smoky eyeglasses, but only flickers of the lights from the dance ground could be seen in the glasses.
"In our enlightened time," he said, "so rich in discoveries in the fields of chemistry, engineering and physics, it seems to many talented and unhappy artists that those discoveries is the most important and eternal, here below. Obeying the conclusion, boys as well as old men have discarded not philosophy alone but their own hearts too. Reckoning science a universal omphalos, clad in gilt uniform or black suits of clerk, in their daily round, they disregard the Temple of our Lord Apollo -- voilà qui me confond! Year after year, gardens of poesy droop. Neither sweet names nor fragrant air, nor airs nor sunshine, the gardens have any longer, and the artists feel neither their own beautiful naked bodies nor tremor in their muscles. A ragged Muse goes round houses and cities, but the boys and old men drive the Muse away -- and the face of our Lord Apollos gets darkened. When the moon rises, the artists don't go out, inhaling anything but the moonbeams. When the pink-fingered Eos, the goddess of the dawn, rises over cities throughout Europe, every morning, the artists don't hymn the sunrise but remain abed or go to work, no regard for poetry. Distressful to see the imperishable ideas and immortal god turning to dust -- no?"
A speech like this, consonant to my own views so much, was fated to remain unforgettable, that's why I adduce it. Both mesmerized and interested, I said, "Let's suppose that it's very true. What's your conclusion, sir? How do we improve the situation?"
"Form the monastery of our Lord Apollo. Work for the greater glory of his. The way is hard, but the belief in the resurrection is joyous."
"Most interesting." Could I fail noticing a person like he, when my eyes swept the benches, a while ago? Impossible. Not sure any longer. I said, "With a gramophone, the party would look better, more original and more interesting for a tourist like you, wouldn't it?" I paused. A shadow of a smile slipped across his thin soft-rosy lips, but the lips didn't part to say a word in reply. Then I said, "Marvellous night, anyway."
He said, "I hate disappointing you, but the night cannot be marvellous for long."
"Why not?" I never glanced at the playground, because of a vague thought that the stranger could vanish if he were not kept in view. Looking at his young beautiful face, I smiled expecting his reciprocation --but in vain.
"Because," he said, and the flecks of lights leapt wilder in his smoky glasses, "the couples are hot. Much hotter than they look. One of the couples has got close to the verge, two times. The night won't be marvellous till the end of the party, for the next time will be fatal."
Silence fell between us, but not elsewhere around, at the fete, which I didn't care for. His hands moved and I saw his walking-stick's golden top in shape of a snakehead was chained to his left wrist and the thin golden chain perhaps created a bracelet hidden in his white cuff... Yet more interesting --but my contemplation was interrupted by a sudden and awful noise from the dance ring. Spectators mobbed around spot where chaffing and laughing had been heard but just. I turned away from my companion and saw a flare-up among the dancers. Next, a pandemonium began there.
Afterwards, I was told about the incident in detail. One of dancing couples got too close to the footlights, only for a moment, which was enough for the hem of the damsel's petticoat to take fire. It was an oil lamp with an open flame. When the fire was noticed in the vortex of dancing, the damsel screamed and ran away in panic, and people hardly could catch her. When she was fallen on the ground and the people began extinguishing the fire over her dress, it was too late: she was alive but her side and breast were badly burnt.
The sound of the female screams was horrible. Standing up, I peered at the lit space in search of anybody of my servants – the next instant, it's clear: no use of my help, because too many people dashed to help. All the participants, every guest, and most likely, my all servants were among the concerned people in the crowd.
The young blond stranger was nowhere about.
Someone called me from behind, "Sir…" I startled and turned.
It was one of my servants who came from the Castle to tell about Clem's arrival.