Smile, When Stars Weep!

This time, a figure of evidently male. An unknown man running out of the thicket.

The man's unbuttoned coat was checkered, his checkered cap cocked back on his head, and his spectacles and two devices in his hands suggested that he was not a phantom or wood goblin. "Where's she?" he said in German, panting.

"Who?" I fumbled for my revolver in the pocket.

The stranger placed his devices on the ground – one device was a cine camera with a tripod, the other was a lamp – and with his hands he began drawing a tall figure's contour in the air.

I was the first to understand and I gestured to the opposite side of the glade. "The creature went there." The man too his devices in hands and dashed towards the thicket. I cried out y question, "What, any filming?"

He paused to see a good way in the thicket and said, "That's it."

"A guest of the Contest? Journalist?" I said.

"All together," he said without turning his head.

"But why filming? Here?" I said.

"The movie's title is Dryad, all the rest about it is top secret."

Fearing he was out of sight, any minute, I asked, "Hey! What about the costume? It scared us! The fancy dress, eh?"

"Papier mâché," he said without turning his head, "From De Moulin Bros & Co. It's expensive."

"Why did you leave the gem alone on the road? Where did you go?"

He turned his head, "To visit the boys' room in a bush, of course. See you, gentlemen." With that he got out of sight in the forest.

"His partner went to find the girls' room, most likely," I said, "Magically simple, just like their art."

Clem stared at me, and then we both chuckled. Then, I said, "A fancy dress like those droll masks from De Moulin Bros & Co. Did you hear of them?"

"I saw their advertisements in papers and... I happened to see De Moulin catalogues. The pictures of the papier mache heads of an Irishman, a Negro, a Chinese, with movable mouth and eyelids. Worn over heads and rest on shoulders, they look scary."

"I happened to see them at Carnival. Our task is reaching the only site of civilization on this path, which is our destination, today, and we are to be faster than our fellow travellers, who go by the autocar. Do you remember?"

Making common cause currently, we, Clem and I respectively always had something more important to think about and more important bondings than our temporary union in the quest. He had his own passions, the world of his poetry and the wish to find his mother; I had my Julian, who was far away. And yet we were comrades, in our immediate time.

Clem said, "Goal-seeking behaviour above all?"

"Today. For walkers like we."

On our further way, Clem straightened his clothes, his undone raincoat, scarf and cap, checking up his pockets and travel bag in his hand, and his motions, which our walk made so clumsy and hectic, looked like his wish to dust off over and over again.

"Is your hand all right?" I said.

"Yes, all right. I forgit of it." A moment more and his wish to dust off had been appeased and he simply walked along with me.

It must be said that earlier today, being passengers of the ill-fated autocar, we left the town of Yarrburg late in the morning, and by the moment, when we more or less happily reached our destination, on foot. It was late afternoon; October was not far off, and days didn't get longer or warmer, although the weather was fine.

"Naked,

the trees quiver, branches down.

In vain,

Dionysus pours his sparkling juice."

Out of water, in the end of our trip, which began so ordinary and finished so fantastic, we were on the forest path, having a bar of Fin Vanille chocolate for two. The only advantages were two: the fine weather and the possibility to take a leak whenever we wanted with no confusion on our lonely way.

Our destination, the estate Borsky House, I regarded as a place for our brief stay, where we could have a snack; all the rest could wait; or to be more exact, I was not sure, for the time being, whether I would ask the hostess to make carriage for us, right after a snack, so that Clem and I could reach his home Lesyinesmagi Estate by the gloaming, or I would feel like being longer at the countryside fest, which was gaudily styled "Chess Contest", in order to hear something useful or eyewitness something interesting.

A hundred metres more and, from the top of the next hillock, we saw the edge of a parkland. The road curved going round the Park with trees planted close to one another. On the inner side of the wooden fence there was a female figure wearing light. The woman energetically waved her white shawl on her shoulders which made her look like a light bird in a dark forest. Her easy and cheerful motions suggested it was not the elder of the hostesses. "A damsel at a garden rail."

"We are jolly late. I expect, the driver Illarion has told you why we preferred to go on foot?" I said, after Clem and I got inside the Park, through the gate, and exchanged greetings with Mona Borsky, whose smiling face shone with the understandable excitement of a hostess.

"No, Illarion has not arrived… I think," Mona said, nervously, with her fingers nipping the fringe of her white shawl.

(So, the quirky driver was not quirky enough for taking his passengers to the estate faster than we, walkers had reached it. I wished I made a bet.)

She turned to my young fellow traveller, "Clem, your elder brother is here… or rather I am not sure right now, but I saw him come, earlier today. He and your younger brother," she strangely faltered, saying it with a chortle, "Virtually, Hippolite was the one who told me about your arrival." Pausing, she looked round, and Hippolite arrived on the scene, coming out of a shade.

A basket was on the boy's arm, and in the basket there was a piece of sunshine; in other words, the basket held our mutual friend, Hippolite's yellow pet cat. Seeing the nice-looking teenager, I forgot of my hunger and drew up, though his unexpected appearance and his presence was quite pleasurable, as nice as his fluffy pet's. The boy and we said hello, and Mona went on, "At first, I didn't… I could not believe in Hippolite's words about your arrival. The guests are so many, you know…"

"That's all right," I said, wishing her explanation to stop, because both Hippolite's brother and I knew a secret source of the information about our arrival. The secret's yellow fluffy head watched us from the basket. I said to Mona, "I merely think that Kasimir-Theodor is mistaken bringing our dear Hippolite to the fest of adults."

Mona gave a smile, both nervous and polite, "Oh! Our Chess Tournament is for everyone!"

To round off it all, I asked her to show us a way to the buffet, and my simple and quite natural request made her ablush about her duty of a hostess towards tired travellers like Clem and I, hungry and exhausted.

Neither Clem nor I had any questions about Mona's faltering out. On the way to the manor, Mona said, "Mr Graf… Clem plays chess, I know of that. And you? Are you a chess player, by any chance?"

"No. This game is killing for me."

Clem said, "Mona… Is a masquerade expected at the fest?"

Wise of him.

Mona said, "A masquerade? Not exactly. True, some entertainment is to be right after the last game, but it's not a masquerade. Something the same nice and most interesting."

Sic. Something "nice and most interesting."

Smiling, both constrainedly and excitedly, Mona sought to do it without opening her lips, in order not to show her small, widely spaced teeth that could not be called snow-white, far from it, like teeth of a smoker. A coffee addiction was so usual in this part of the world. Her light-gray Scottish mixture suit became her pale complexion. Recognizing her Parfum Inconnu from Houbigant, I wondered why not to use the more up-to-date Quelque Fleurs. Other than that, Mona looked like one of those slender females, somewhat sinewy, who you could meet when attending a lecture on influence of the Mongol invasion on jazz music, or something of the advanced humanitarian sort. For me, it was a kind relief that I didn't see his widowed mother, Mme Borsky, at the immediate moment of my arrival. My legs gave when I thought of the big woman, my childhood friend several years older than me. True, big beautiful women were something to my taste, but what's in a big beautiful woman, if she's not my admirer or slave; moreover, whose person was always depressive for my mind? Did I say, Dear Diary, that this part of the world could be called a land of big women? And also, a land of blond people. Moreover, it looked like the chimney sweepers alone looked swarthy in this land. Merely a piece of information.

I said, "We had an encounter... On our way, in the forest. We saw two fol-makers. A camera man and his actress who was in a fancy dress too extravagante for our part of the world."

Listening to me attentively, she said, "As far as I can understand, it's .... most likely, it's one guest from Germany. He acts as a pressman and camera man at the event, and yes, he said that he was about to do some filming en plein air. Yes. His partner is a woman... a film actress. Their names... Mr Taube and Mlle Weise."

"Their film is about a Dryad."

"About a Dryade? Really? She walks in the forest in a costue of a dryad? So nice! Ha-ha!"

On the way to the manor house I saw there were a lot of people among the guests who didn't mind the Tournament as such, grouping and walking everywhere in the precinct. Perfectly natural. But I didn't saw familiar faces among them. On the way to the buffet and a little bit later, when we had the snack a la fourchette, the smart boy Hippolite had time to tell something to us, something interesting.

It looked like the countryside fest was a true chess tournament known abroad, if not famous, and my previous irony about it was out of place. (Why not?) The day of our arrival was the last day of the Chess Tournament. (Never mind.) A reason why the event did not take place earlier, in the past summer, was that one of the celebrities, a chess player, could not come earlier. A reason why the Tournament was not put off till the next summer season was the lovely weather, no rains, unless some mists, this autumn. At the time of our snack, when Clem and I consumed sandwiches and all eatables we saw on the table, two players were at the chessboard. The last game of the Tournament, whose battles took place in the Blue Pavilion in the Park. The world chess champion Ostenbacken -- the chess champion Blucher. It was the game's fourth hour. The day before, Leonides L played with Adrian Magnhus the manager of the Suurkukk Factory, and the Manager won the game, fast and with ease. (Sic. Mr Leonides, the man of letters, was one of the invited celebrities.) They said the stake was rather strange but Hippolite didn't know what exactly.

At the buffet, a tall obese gentleman shared our interest to the food, but he didn't look so hungry as we. After our mutual informal greetings, in his travel along the table, reaching me, he said, "A veritable feast! Even better than the last year Gas Balloon Fest."

"Ego trip," I said, my mouth full of sausage and rye bread.

"Pardon?" the gentleman stared at me.

"Personally I am not a huge lover of events like this. Merely, on a visit at my far cousins', today."

"Aha…" the gentleman said.

I introduced myself and my cousins to him. In reply, I learned that he was Mr Lutatovsky, the landowner. I first heard the big landowner's name when I overheard the business conversation between him and Kasimir-Theodor which sounded so funny to me. Now, both of us had the intention to proceed with choosing and having more food.

Accompanied by Hippolite, I thoughtfully replenished supplies from flat boxes of chocolate The Merry Widow, and Sofie, from George Borman, placing the sweets in a napkin and then in my coat pocket. Napkins of the house had the other emblem in the corner, as far as I could remember. At present, the emblem was a palette crossed by legs of a compass. "Interesting," I said as though thinking aloud, "The event makes this place interesting for us, the team of three cronies."

"Why three?" looking up at my face, Hippolite arched his sun-faded eyebrows.

Four, of course, we were a Vexillum of Four, with the fourth being not Kasimir-Theodor, who was somewhere among the guests of the manor, no, the fourth was Hippolite's tomcat Lionheart, according to Hippolite's firm belief, which was familiar to me. It was the second time when I heard a similar corrective remark from the boy so gratifying to the eye, and I felt like reaching and tousling his auburn hair a la page, grown outrageously long for the time of his mother's absence, but I didn't dare, as usual. Should one take liberties with the boy, who was something like an acknowledged oracle at his pet cat's, either knowing the cat's language or talking with the pet with no words? Instead, I reached and carefully and coaxing caressed the fluffy head, neck and breast of Lionheart, who was so quiet and looking so ordinary in the basket. The boy and the pet cat could not be called inseparable companions, but they were friends, and the boy took the cat for a walk placing it in a basket sometimes and earlier, when the boy was much younger and a basket could be much heavier for him.

Not being a chess player, I was about to go from the buffet to our room to brush up my clothes, to tidy up my look, body and thoughts, and afterwards, to join the happy spectators. Before parting company with Hippolite, I said, "The basket is rather heavy, I guess." In reply, the next piece of information ensued.

Yes, the basket with the cat was heavy, but Hippolite had no choice, because Lionheart feared… no, rather hated the very thought of going out and meeting with one of the local dogs. That's why Lionheart was so quiet for a tomcat in a basket. But Lionheart himself asked Hippolite to take him to the fest. That's why the boy had this burden about the day long.

I gave the last sycophantic smile at the tomcat, just in case, and Hippolite, chewing the next chocolate sweet on the move, ran skipping to find Kasimir-Theodor, cheerfully, according to my advice to keep his pecker up. I turned to Clem, who washed food down with calvados (where did he get the strong drink?.. personally I took a glass of lemonade), "You are a chess player. Are you about to participate, by any chance?"

"Fi donc! True, I play chess, but… nothing can make me do it today, after our wild trip." With that, Clem placed a half of his sandwich with hum into his mouth.

Oh well… Calling a servant, I told to bring hot black coffee to our room.

Nothing could make Clem play chess tonight, and nothing could make me leave the room, even a masquerade, before my legs had had a rest, my face – a good washing, and my strength – more refreshment. The manservant, who brought us coffee, we asked to bring more sandwiches with cheese and sweet cakes, and Clem asked more calvados or brandy. The manservant said that he might bring cider. Gladdened, Clem left finishing off the rest of the hot coffee in the coffeepot to me. He was about to have the meal, being undressed and lying on the broad bed, the only in the room. I didn't want to get drunk this evening.

An hour or two more, and I was more or less ready for leaving the room. By the moment, Clem was asleep, lying on back with his mouth open and snoring quietly and melodiously. Too much cider. (Le pauvre petit! I'd like to bunk up with you, my brother in arms, scenting you with my Après L'Ondée before that.)

"As never fool for love, I starved for you;

My throat was dry and my eyes hot to see.

Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view…"

However, as my reader knows, sex with the young man was not joie inconnue for me. On the bedside table I placed a small candlestick, match-box and bell for calling servants. The bell was a quaint metal thing in shape of an enamelled maiden wearing and dancing in the Russian style. Leaving the sleeping youth, I wanted Kasimir-Theodor to say hello, and Hippolite I wanted too.

By the moment of my going downstairs, the contest had finished, moreover, the dinner party had come to an end a short while ago my coming. Presently, I learned that one surprise was brought from Mitava, unexpected, funny and highly up-to-date.

The afternoon wasted away, but the guests' enthusiasm not. Refreshed with the snack and drinks, the guests were invited to go to see a show. A jazz band. New Orleans jazz musicians on tour. A show-booth as an open stage was built in the park, and the piano was placed there. But I didn't hasten there, I have to confess, I was interested in seeing the table with snack first of all.

The buffet was in the ballroom, which served as a dining-room tonight. The large oval ballroom with the inlayed floor, painted dome and orchestra balcony, had the gallery around which made the second level. Without going upstairs, I knew that the bordure of the ceiling was graced with moulded chariots, cupids, stags, does, white on sandy, and from the dome, they were watched by two goddesses, Artemis the huntress carrying a bow and arrows, and Flora with garlands in hands. If a newcomer turned to look back, at the enter door, he saw two stately figures of dark bronze, male and female, guarding in niches on sides of the front door, and the newcomer was wrong, because both the bronze statues and niches were skilfully painted on the wall. Trompe l'oeil, the optical illusion that the depicted objects exist in three dimensions – funny, I happened to see the old art technique at my tender age when visiting the Borsky House, much earlier than I could appreciate it.

The servants cleaned and restocked the long tables. In the meantime, the only guest in the room, I was quick to find some eatables to my taste. On a visit at my childhood friends', I trusted my compatriots' culinary taste and I always loved our food. While eating a piece of meat pie, I noticed a French chair in a corner back to the tables and everything in the room, for some reason.

Oddish. The servants took no notice of the distant position of the big arm-chair. Indeed, nothing special, but the sight of this solitary chair haunted me. Finishing the helping of pie, I poured a glass of cider, drank it up, took another glass of cider and went to take a look at the chair in the corner. At a respectful distant from my goal, as soon as my eyesight angle changed, only a teeny bit, I saw the chair was not derelict as it seemed, which fact made me stand still, because...

…on the floor, someone's feet wearing boots, lifelessly stretching, were seen from the chair. I looked round -- no servant in the room, at the moment, as if on purpose. All convenient for mystery of every sort. Before calling somebody, I decided to go on towards the chair.

As I approached, it was more and more obvious that there was a man reclining in the chair. The man's big, completely dressed body was motionless. His side, arm, bearded chin, got in my sight… One of guests. Motionless, in the lifeless attitude. In state of acute tension, while getting close to look at the man's face, I expected to see a spot of blood, on the chair or the man's clothes, at any moment, or a rope around his neck, but I saw… The familiar obese gentleman snorting peacefully in the chair.

Lutatovsky. Damn, those big fatties.

Nobody can believe in a possibility that anyone of fatties, those chunks with big flabby paunches and rosy cheeks, can write amorous messages, compose poems about northern damsels and gazelles or sullenly walk by a shop door, back and forth, for two hours, awaiting the familiar sound of high heels. Women talk of fatties indefinitely and with no ardour --

"Last night, at our party, a dozen of guests came. Five ladies, seven gentlemen and Lutatovsky."

"Lutatovsky? The lawyer?"

"No. The fatty."

Children alone feel highly respectful and openly envious to fat men. Seeing a fat stranger at home, a 5-year-old stands still in the doorway and stares at the stranger, daring not to make the next step.

"Come here, dear," the toddler's mother say, "Say hello to Mr –"

The baby shakes his head, frowning and thinking of something, for some time, and then turns to the fat guest, "And I know why you look like this."

"Like this?.. How?.." the fat man asks, hesitating as a man who doesn't expect anything nice or flattering.

"Like this…" Regardless of his parents' anxious look, the baby spreads his short thickish arms as much as he can, and before the adults have time to do or say anything, the baby says, "Because you ate up your own granny. My nanny said. She's old, and the old don't lie."

Poor fatties: they are both heavy and hard pressed, all alone. However, this minor digression is from my other Notes.

The evening glow was going out above the nice location. Beige and white, with galleries, pillars and arched porch, the manor house of this big estate was built recently, 50-70 years ago, that's why the house looked so open; rather a country house of a Russian landowner with claims to artistry. The back porch, not less magnificent than the main entrance, had a view over the Vihmauss River (Earthworm River). From the three levelled and pillared balconies of the back porch, a long terraced alley in the simple form of a broad stone staircase went towards the river. But I didn't go there, after the snack, because the cold air was coming from the stream.

The river, the long shady staircase overgrown on both sides, the Park spreading from the main entrance, with all the pathways, lights and buildings – but for the hubbub of voices, the night could transform the countryside into a mysterious realm, enormous and engulfing. From the ballroom, I went to the spacious porch of the main entrance, rather an open gallery with several statues of white marble.

Two buildings, one with offices, another for guests, were dimly and customarily silhouetted in the dusk, somewhere at a respectful distance from the manor's sides. A sound of music was wafted to my ears, but two figures, gentleman and lady, came into my sight, and I recoiled to the shade of a pillar, because the tall lady might be "Lamp" Borsky.

"The sear and yellow leaf. Zum Teufel!" the man said.

"While there is life there is hope," the woman said.

Their shadows passed by me, letting me avoid the dubious pleasure to meet my "childhood friend", and in my rear, a male voice said, "The night is still young, ladies and gentlemen!" The voice was familiar, and the man's intention was not to remain in the shade. He and his companion came out, and in his silhouette I recognized Adrian Magnhus.

Two steps more, and his youngish face with the roundish chin, bright blue eyes and old gold-coloured hair, short and carefully set, got lit better. He was one of the several men, who I wanted, tonight, but seeing his companion, I forgot of him and the world, for a couple of moments… because it turned out that I happened to see his companion, earlier.

Half-way to my cousins, on my way to Est-Toila, in the compartment, being about to read the opus from "L'Endelel" in the yesterday issue of Evening Brumburg – by day -- I looked at the young man sitting opposite, and tonight, he was before my eyes, again, nice-looking, handsome, with the beautiful colours of his physique, bright even in the shade. Seeing my stare, Mr Magnhus felt compelled to introduce the young man first of all, "Mr Graf… Meet my secretary Clarence Batwick."

Clarence Batwick! And so, I happened to see one of the Four, before hearing of the notorious Four! (One of the Four, as Clem called them. The suspicious Four. The four outlanders, who looked suspicious to us and every local, despite their wealth and beauty.) Golden hair, green eyes, honeyed skin, soft-rosy lips. The young man's tweed and every detail of his clothing said that he dressed at a best English tailor. Clean-shaven, like me…. like his boss Adrian Magnhus… like his boss' boss Kornelis Aboleo… like the son of the boss of his boss Cecil Tottenheim. (Crikey, the five of us shared the taste. A society of beardless at our time of beards and moustaches, not so closely-knit though, or a group of actors -- no, personally I did not play a role, at the moment of my contemplation of the beautiful young man. Actors, shufflers and con men had clean-shaven faces too…) Clarence Batwick made a little bow to me, and I voiced my thought that occurred me, when I first saw him, "…your image is worth being featured in the next issue of Art et Décoration, promoting fashion as a fine art by the use of photography -- but not every magazine is worth your look."

Taken aback, the young man remained silent and serious.

Mr Magnhus smiled with his cheek getting rosy like a baby's, "Von Gloeden said almost the same, when seeing Clarence, one day, in Capri."

In the sunshine, in Capri? It dimly reminded me about one of my intentions. The young man's restrained and stand-offish look reminded me of the other youth, the same serious and beautiful, my Julian, and it helped me to come to myself completely. My intention. The point was that I was about to check up something experimentally. In addition to Mr Magnhus' hot handshaking, I wanted to know whether the man, one of the Four, reflected in mirrors or not.

Adrian Magnhus' warm, no, hot handshaking was unforgettable and meaningful to me, when we first pressed hands, several days ago, and his mode of life evidently could not be called purely nocturnal, but there was so much fantastic in my stay in my homeland that I wanted more evidence concerning his belonging to humankind. "Apropos…" I said, looking at Magnhus, "You look nice too…" He gave a polite smile. I went on, "As usual…" I looked him up and down. He gave an affected smile. I said, "Yes, as usual, unless… the tiny spot on your cheek. A birthmark? I didn't see it before."

He said he didn't know of birthmarks on his face; but I had a small looking-glass in my pocket, as though by chance, and I rapidly placed it before his eyes.

Glancing at himself in the looking-glance, he said, "Are you all right, sir?" Stepping back, he shrugged, and said quickly as though trying to stop my possible new attack, "Apropos, Mr Graf… Mr Lisnyak and Hippolite have left."

"Have left?" I blinked.

"They have." Before he finished speaking, he and his young companion disappeared in the opposite end of the gallery. Really, the two could be fast.

They left me, like my cousins, on the night, what a pity, but I felt satisfied with a result of my experiment, because I had managed to see the man's blue eyes turning dark-gray in my small looking-glass. The man could be seen in mirrors – what's more? Somewhere in the Park, the jazz band played ragtime music.

More lanterns were lit, in the Park, showing the way to the pavilion. Regretting of my contemptible action not in the least, I went to the sound of the music.

It was a good small jazz band, as far as I understood music: trumpet, trombone, clarinet, with the rhythm section -- guitar, banjo, string bass, piano, and drums. The white-skinned jazzmen's faced were painted black, as is often nowadays, but their singer was a Negro, and the Negro was not only a singer, but he danced and played banjo. The whites of his eyes seemed big as a horse's; his tap dance was splendid.

White-gloved, wearing a red coat and chequered trousers, the Negro crazily moved over the stage, using footwork and not showing much his arm or body movement, to the sound of the jazz band. Those of the guests, who adjourned to the park, enjoyed. This part of the fest, the lights in the darkness, the music and dancing, remembered of the other dance party, which resulted in the accidental death of the village girl in the park of my Kernstadt Castle, nine days ago. To crown the impression, the exhilarated spectators began dancing when the jazz band began playing the next dance music; the first was Mona with her partner as I was told; several more couples hastened to join them, and by the time of my approaching the show-booth, it was a huge glee there, with the Negro performing the song "Smile, When Stars Weep!" singing, playing banjo and in the end tap dancing, like a crazy imp.

The pavilion's front door was open, for the building could not hold all spectators. I recognized two ladies, Mme and Mlle Borsky in the crowd. The guests, silk hats, gray, and black, mainly, they were many, and most of them were strangers to me. Several guests were wearing dark spectacles. By night. Droll. Their faces were clean-shaven. Too many men with this style for a nowadays assembly -- however, the men might be travellers from Britain, and the event was international, after all – I thought, but I saw a monk in dark from top to toe. Both of us were in the rear of the crowd. Nameless, silent and bald, with a shade of a friendly smile on his haggish beardless face, he looked at me and gave a nicest and most friendly smile. I smiled at him in reply, and went to one of the clean-shaven men in dark spectacles.

"Nice show," I said to the sound of the music, "Nice soiree isn't it, sir?" Without waiting for his reply, I asked, "Did I happen to see you at Mr Aboleo's, by any chance?"

In reply, he touched his black silk hat and said, "Administrator of the Théâtre de l'Ambigu-Dramatique, at your service…"

His business card said –

Étienne Louis de la Roche

Théâtre de l'Ambigu-Dramatique

(aka Theatre des noctambules)

Acting Administrator

"It sounds nice, Monsieur de la Roche," I touched my Kromer cap. His name suggested he could be ascion of a noble family dating back to… But you never know with actors. I said, "Is your Theatre on tour?"

"Yes, it is, sir."

"Very nice, sir."

Outside the vortex of the glee, at the long side of the pavilion, several dozens of small light chairs at round tables, each made around a trunk of half a dozen of trees, formed an open air café, and there, in the varicoloured lanterns' light, a group of guests gathered, chatting and smoking. The place looked like the last frontier lit space, because further, behind the place, the Park was in the darkness. I joined the group.

Men took a whiff, women straightened their shawls. The breeze brought the smoke away from me, and the air smelled of soft and misty fragrances of late flowers. Capuchins. Balsamine. Sweet peas. Ylang-Ylang. But wait… Could it be time for sweet peas? Unless the herb was dying. What about the waft of Ylang-Ylang? Remembering of the perfume of the elder of the hostesses, I thought that most likely, each of the floral fragrances was the people's perfumes.

The centre of the group, among the sitting on the chairs, there was Doctor Talvik, who didn't smoke, but he generously took the part of the life and soul of the party on, as the most compliant and the eldest of the residents, in the small gathering. As far as I understood, the people gossiped about the celebrities of the night.

"Did you hear of the funny incident when our dear champion was taken to court in France?" one elderly man said. It was the lecturer, who brought the autochrome set "The Archives of the Planet" shown via an opto-mechanical device (either a motoscope or kinematoscope or phantasmascope… rather, a stereopticon), which show was entertainment of the last night here, at the fest -- highly impressive, it must be said, as I learned later. Hereing nobody could anser his question, the elderly man said, "This is how it came about."

Thus, from the chat, I learned that the champion Blucher was luckier than his rival today. His unhappy colleague and he had departed; some of guests too. The elder of the hostesses, Mme Borsky, retired to hers, alleging tiredness. Hearing the news I relaxed. So, this is the funny story about Mr Blucher --

Despite his German surname, Blucher was Russian. One clear night, in Paris, after a spree, Mr Blucher went home, and on the way he saw a Frenchwoman walking ahead of him, and the woman's handbag undone. Determined to be courteous, he ran after the woman, crying in Russian: "Vash ridicule! Vash ridicule!" With that, it never occurred to Blucher that his exclamation sounded in French as "Fanny cow! Funny cow!" Indignant, the Frenchwoman turned to agent de police, who immediately stopped the drunken passerby, who looked so suspicious: while chasing the woman, our dear writer wildly gesticulated, tousled his disheveled blond hair and cried out loud: "Vash! Vash!" – "Yours!.. Yours!.." in Russian -- which l'agent took personally, because French policemen were nicknamed 'mort au vaches,' death to cows, in the Parisian argot. Without going into details, Blucher was arrested for harassment to the woman and offence against the policeman. Next day, his friends found him in prison, wearing striped clothing and making match-boxes as the prisoners' work task. Later, he went on trial, and he was acquitted of all charges.

Those men of genius…

"And I thought you would say that he was found to be mentally unfit to stand trial," Doctor Talvik said.

Ha-ha-ha-ha.

"And the other celebrity! Only think!" Doctor Talvik said.

"Ostenbacken?" someone asked.

"No, I meant our 'great' writer." Doctor Talvik began talking of Leonides Leonides. "Good heavens! He's like nothing on earth! The broad-shouldered male with a beard like that of a chieftain of robbers. The ruddness in his cheeks seems enough for a whole round dance of villagers, and his voice is so stentorian that he could cry from the Left Bank of the Siena to the Right. But he talks about mysticism and occultism alone and in the whisper which reminds of an enervated man who can die any minute, before your eyes, turning into a ghost or anything from the theme of his talk. Have you ever seen the like? It's difficult to understand whether it's his airs and graces, or he's pretending or he's delirious, indeed. What a crank!"

Indeed, I remembered one of the innumerable funny stories of Leonides L too --

One day, in Paris, his friend asked him, "Show me the night Paris." In reply, he said that he loved night roaming about Isle des Juifs the islet in Siena in front of Notre Dame.

"Isle des Juifs? What do you do there, by night? Even by day, there's nothing interesting there."

"I listen to Templars."

"Templars?"

"Didn't you know that in 1314, in Isle des Juifs, the Templar Grand Master Jacques de Molay along with all the chapter of the Knights Templar was burned upon a scaffold?"

"I knew. What about that?"

"On a still night, their voices are heard there."

"Really?"

"Generally known."

"Do you hear them?"

"I do."

"Congratulations."

Nobody had time to reply to Doctor Talvik, because two comers attracted everyone's attention. Leonides L arm-in-arm with Mlle Delamarche. Thus, I had the chance to see the woman in person for the first time.

Person of no reputation by all standards, the slim pale lady seemed a head taller than her fiancé. Obviously, she used to look like a translator from the Dutch with no doubt about her ability to argue of Schiller while making an omelette -- today, wearing all the proud and expensive rigging that reminded of curious involvements of English society – with the baroque necklace, three strands of claret stone beads and a yellow gold big pendant in shape of a lion head holding a round handle, and gold lion heads and dark-claret cabochons earrings as well as some bracelets and something in her henna hair looking stupendous, in comparison with the discreet jewellery of all the rest ladies -- she looked like a representative of ancient families, decaying into the humble vale of life and then rising again. Either the woman loved jewellery or she simply feared being in public without them. Clem's wish to describe her dress in detail seemed quite comprehensible to me, becoming mine -- but why?

The Doctor introduced her to all those present. Using the chance, I approached, before she took a seat. "Oscar Maria Graf. An affectionate lover of venerable antiquity."

She bit her rouged lip for a moment. (Crikey! I wander what she expected to hear. Requests for sexual favours from every man she looks at?) Eventually, she pressed out in reply, "Nice to meet you, Mr Graf… the Archaeologist, I presume?"

"At heart," I said, genuinely, not feeling like adding anything more, for some reason.

Upset, she looked like a woman whose work was some exotic translations, for example, memoires of ancient pirates from Danish and songs of Flemish wet-nurses for popular editions. However, I had the chance to press her gloved hand: the long-fingered hand was warm and quite living to the feel.

She took a seat on a chair next her fiancé; Doctor Talvik subsided on his chair again and said, "For a long while, nothing new came out from you, dear Leonides Leonides. Do you work on anything big?"

In no mood or for no apparent reason, the writer sounded grumpy, "No, I don't. Frankly, I'm not about to write anything new and big. That's it. What the hell one could write about, nowadays, when nothing's comprehensible in the St Petersburg life? Nothing! People are so obscure, slimy, their images are so elusive…" Unlike the most of men in the group, he was not about to smoke. Like the most of men in the group, while sitting on the chair he placed his walking stick between his legs and his hands on its handle.

Doctor Talvik said, "But you could write about this, about your incomprehension to what's going on. Candidness is the main in creative writing."

"Nice to hear a piece of advice like yours, dear Doctor, but… Candidness? It's not the point, my dear friends. All I can do candidly, today, is leaving my creative writing and settling in countryside… like Diocletian." His mood and reply were somewhat unexpected, and everyone looked at him to listen to him attentively. He said, "But I live on my writings, so, I have to write anything. But for whom? I don't' understand. A writer should know his reader. Who is he? What is he? Five years ago, I believed that I knew my reader. I knew what my reader wanted from me. Today, I realize that I've lost him. Yes, lost. That's the point and drama! They say, New Reader has come into being in the Russian Literature. Who's he?"

"A new reader? In Russia? Truly, it sounds tremendous, but… incomprehensible for us, your admirers. You must agree that we are always with you, no?"

"Incomprehensible for me too! I can't understand the new reader, but I realize the Reader exists. In St Petersburg, I walk in a street and see some people. Their faces are strange, special… and their eyes… I see them and realize that they don't read my books. My books are not readable for them. Of no importance and of no interest to the people. Last winter, I participated at the reading, and there was the same. I saw many eyes looking at me, attentively, with curiosity, but I felt those were strangers to me. They were not fond of me. I was unnecessary for them, like the Latin language. In other words, they needed me like a dog needed a fifth leg. I'm too old for them. My all thoughts are too old. And I can't understand who they are. What are they fond of? What do they want?"

Touched, I lifted my hand to attract his attention and opened my mouth, "They need us like a dog needs a fifth leg? All right. But they look much like the fifth column. Quite superfluous."

In reply, Leonides L shook his head energetically and sorrowfully, and heavily moved on his chair. The light of a blue lantern fell upon his head, lending his face a look of a dead man.

Doctor Talvik said, "Curious. Most curious. But… it all is nerves, if you ask me, dear Mr Leonides. Spend some time in this peaceful countryside, take a rest, restore your balance, and then, who knows, your reader will be found again. In my view, our balanced and attentive attitude towards all around is the main in life. And you know… try to stand straight and move and walk with the peculiar stateliness… er-er… like a peacock."

"What?! Like a peacock? Why?"

Everyone was surprised like the writer. Doctor Talvik answered, "In order to strut like a peacock before our ladies' eyes. Are you married? They said, you were divorced."

Leonides L shook his head, "Divorced, yes, and then got married, and divorced again. A woman cannot be a friend or comrade."

"I'm of your mind," the Doctor said simply.

Leonides L said, "And you should know, dear Doctor, that the look of your charming fiancée kills one's desire to pay attention to all the rest women."

The old druggy Mlle Delamarche, fresh as daisy in the light of a rosy lantern, draped her big boa around her neck – either the night coolness or her confusion made a part of her jewellery concealed from everyone's eye.

Leonides L turned to Doctor Talvik, "Your advice, Doctor, is so reasonable, and all that, but I… Spare my feelings and mind, I beg you and everyone, for I'm so tired of serious words! I've got tired of my own seriousness. I'm through with philosophy. All I want is being vegetative. You know, before you gave me the advice, I was about to live here, walking and taking care about my nerves. I was about to make court to ladies…"

"Were you!" a lady in violet opened her mouth, "So, Mr Leonides, you make court to ladies and take care about your own nerves, at the same time? Both the intention and ability is something extraordinary. Why don't you pay your addresses to me, in that event?"

Her chair was next to his. Making a little bow to her, he said, "I shall not fail to use your kind permission, Madame."

"I didn't permit, sir. I asked," she said.

"But I shall regard your question as a kind permission, anyway."

"Well…" the lady in violet said, "Let's leave it. So, you don't believe in friendship between man and woman? Answer my question, sir! And be true!" She sounded like a friend of the hostesses and one of their discussion group mates.

The writer said, "Well… if you like… I'm ready to admit friendship with a woman, for myself. Yes. But I don't believe the relationship constant. Nobody can cheat out Nature!"

"In other words, you regard friendship with a woman as a preface to a love affair?" the lady in violet said.

"Love? I take it seriously," the twice divorced writer said emotionally, "When I love a woman, I want to elevate her, placing her above all the earthly… I want to decorate her life with all flowers of feelings and my ideas!"

Here, a gentleman arrived on the scene, coming from the outside shade, and his young voice called the woman in violet by name, "… dear, we are waiting for you. Come to listen to the music!"

The lady in violet rose from her chair and said to Leonides L, who politely rose, "Au revoir, Monsieur Florist. Put your greenhouse in order!"

She left an illusion of a kind of intensive clair-obscur over the scene full of shades but smoky sooner than with extreme contrasts between light and dark. A kind of ladies whose pince-nez seemed red-hot.

The music was non-stop, or it only seemed to me. One of the smokers, an army officer said, "The fair sex should be renamed to the mean sex. I know that I'm in luck that the lady's left before I voiced my view, like I know that lots of men share the view. If it were not for women, the Earth would become Eden. It's a view of the Holy Writ, as far as I remember."

"What did you say! Why do you think so?!" Several voices said with a chortle, and two ladies rose and demonstratively left us.

Taking a quick puff at his cigarette, the army officer went on, "Judge for yourself… The first woman on the Earth, our original mother Eve, got involved with the devil's business, on her arrival at Paradise. The Holy Writ says it was Serpent. Parable. Euphemism. It was her boyfriend and her adultery. As a result – Paradise lost. The two were removed to the Earth."

"A boyfriend?" It was the lecturer, the elderly man whose name was Lindorrini, either historian or mechanical engineer or Doctor of Philosophy. "No men but Adam, in the time of Adam."

The army officer said, "It was not a man, it was not a human. The devil in the guise of a young man. He fathered Cain, who became a source of all evil in the world. The second son, Abel, was Adam's son. Good guys are posterity of Abel. Bad guys are posterity of Cain. The terrible struggle between Evil and Good with the aid of the two posterities."

"You, Mr Nesselrode, are an author of a theory!" Mr Lindorrini said.

"Not me. It's according to my friend archbishop." Ether the young officer of the name Nesselrode was serious or he joked with no smile. He went on, "No honest woman among women. No faithful wife among wives. All of them are the very image of their original mother."

Doctor Talvik said, "You are right. I am one of the lots of men who share your view, dear Anton-Ulrich."

"Thank you, Doctor," the army officer grounded out his cigarette end and left us in our colourfully lit spot.

I said, "He is not right. Faithful women exist. But he scarcely wants to use their faithfulness when seeing them."

Some ladies sniggered, apparently, nice-looking. Doctor Talvik looked at me, but the fickle lighting prevented from understanding his expression.

The lady in gray turned to him, "True, Mr Nesselrode is a nobleman, one of us, but he should explain his meaning before going away…"

"Ah, Mlle Norninsky…" the Doctor said, "…we have nothing to worry about, listening to him. The young man never was dangerous, and today, he's dangerous less than before."

"Why do you think so?"

"He speaks out readily and witty. Some have their skin eruption, and the know-all like he have their chatter. Never fear chatterers. They are not dangerous. Dangerous are others, those who are taciturn. Melancholiacs, epileptics."

"I see… Tell me, Doctor, does Mme Lutatovsky get better?"

"If you ask me… she's all right as never before."

"She ate nothing at table and she retired, after dinner, leaving her husband walking alone, here."

"Not illnesses alone take away our appetite."

A smoker said, "I take it Mme Lutatovsky is in the pouts at you, Doctor, for some reason. At table, her remarks about you were highly uncomplimentary."

"Really? Women hate it, if our eye is keen. Do as they bid, assist them, be their footman, and in addition, pretend that everything in their life is obscure or enigmatic to you! That's what they are!"

A lady in gray raised her voice, turning to all those present, "By the by… Sharing Mr Nesselrode's view, our Doctor celebrates his retirement by his first marriage!"

"Let's talk about it," Doctor Talvik said, "Why not? En famille. I am ready. Do you mind, dear?" He turned to Mlle Delamarche.

Blinking, she mumbled, "What did you say, Doctor?" Her gloved hands wrapped her in her boa.

"Ah, dear, let me say… Don't look mincing and downcast. Both you and I are not so young. All the airs and graces don't become us. Let's talk about it seriously and business-like as it is to be between us, at our venerable age. And so, the point is that we are nice to each other… at least, I suppose, you are nice to me – no?"

"Me? Really, Doctor…" Mlle Delamarche stopped short, with her chin in the big fur neckpiece.

Her fiancé said, "Well, well… That's all right. You, as any female, are to do it… that is…" he turned his right hand in the air, "…to resist and to yield, to yield and to resist. It's rapture for you, females. This being so, we are nice to each other. For my part, I'm tired of my life of a bachelor. Old bachelor. My cooks always robbed me. So, our interests are in tune with each other. But there is one nuance. We little know each other. To be more exact, you little know me, as I am familiar with your temper and mode of life fairly well. A fiancée of your age always has both merits and demerits. Never mind. A good husband's wife is soft as wax in his hands. But I wish you to know me better before our wedding. We must share the blame, and I hate to cheat you."

She said, "But Doctor, as I think I've had a chance to know your mode of life and… your temper!"

The Doctor said, "You? It's an unsuitable job for a woman. Like many, you believe I am always joyful – a fantasizer, eh?"

"I always reckoned you a gentleman… dear."

"That you did. You see how it's easy to make mistakes. Because of the questionable fact that I often and readily entertain people, one could think I'm a man of convivial habits. I happened to do it, indeed, more than once or oftener, because I was interested in the people's favour. But I always realized that some of them despised me, however much they were in need of my service. And I always returned the favour. Take Mme Lutatovsky as an example… Do you think I can't see her through? All of them are humans like we, you and me, like all the rest, I assure you."

"Doctor, you surprise me!" his fiancée said.

"I knew I could do it. You see now I am not joyful and perhaps not a gentleman. But I am a good doctor and the best for this part of the world. At home, I'm sullen, silent and exacting. Not angry, if I'm well-treated and pleased. Fond of care to my habits and good food. But I'm not jealous or stingy. Reckoning myself a quite bearable housemate. Only please me and no tears. I can't stand tears! Anyway, I'm not fastidious. This is my confession. What do you think?"

"What could I say?" she said, "If your intention was not blackening yourself…"

"Why blackening?" he said, "The other man could avoid giving publicity to his demerits, and then after the wedding, it's too late for his bride. And I am not about to be a pretender to my bride. Now, when you know much about me, think it over, when alone, and let me know of your final decision. Your age of discretion has come long ago."

His fiancée smiled, trying to catch his eye.

The lady in gray said, "And so, Doctor, you believe that Mr Nesselrode's ideas don't make him dangerous?"

"I do."

Mlle Delamarche opened her mouth, "You know, Doctor, I think… Mme Lutatovsky… from recently… it seems to me that she pays much attention to one gentleman… no? Perhaps, that's a reason why she… today, at table…"

Not sure, but Doctor Talvik's glance slashed her, making her stop, and he said in his usual, calmly careless manner, "I've forgotten to tell a thing or two more. I am curious, awfully, but I can't stand curious women. In my view, a wife is to be curious and observant to others. In that event, her curiosity is highly useful to her husband."

This time Mlle Delamarche seemed not to have strength to smile in reply.

"Bravo!" Mr Lindorrini clapped, "Nice interlude! We enjoyed seeing it! Bravo!"

The lady in gray clapped with her gloved hands too. To make a bow, slowly and thoroughly, the Doctor rose, slowly too, and then, taking his seat again, he announced, "I know one amazing true story whose main personages are one of our Ostsee barons and a Negro from America."

"A Negro?" someone said.

"That's it. Why not?"

"What a coincidence!"

"Just so. Would you like me to tell the story, ladies and gentlemen?"

People wanted him to, since the old Doctor was known as an excellent story-teller.

He began by saying, "I first saw Baron von… let's name him von Werther… in his estate in Livonia, where I spent my leave, three years ago, at my friend's. My friend was a doctor too. Doctors know much of their neighbours, that's why I know the story in detail."

I retell the story, omitting his figurative description –

The Baron's patrimony was large. The manor house in the style of old German fortresses. The Baron's fortune was half ruined, but he didn't suffer privations. Guests always mingled at his Castle, neighbour landowners, his messmates from St Petersburg, his childhood friends. Von Werther was known as a hospitable and diligent landowner and good family man. His wife was a young, good-looking woman of noble birth, and malicious gossips suggested that while caring about his real estate he could lose his another one. His young wife felt bored in his old Castle. However, it was but gossips. For celebration of the Baron's birthday, the Castle received yet more guests. The buzz of revelers and sound of music didn't stop resounding in the old park of Wertherdorf, for weeks. Picnics, hunts, cavalcades alternated with dancing, fireworks, dinner-parties. It seemed that the olden days had returned, the days of gallant knights, when the Baron's grandsires made sumptuous feasts in honor of their military orders or victories. Although the fussy and noisy indolence of the day was not to the taste of the Castle owner himself, but it was the custom, besides, it gave much pleasure to the Baroness. Wild ducks were in abundance in lakes of Wertherdorf. That year, several days before his birthday -- his 45th birthday -- the Baron went to Weymarn to get some delicatessens and wine in for the party. In addition, he brought a troupe of performers from the Weymarn summer theater Aquarium. A famous dancer, Negro of the name of Mr White from America was among the performers.

The Negro proved to be an excellent dancer – either cakewalk or tap dancing. The guests were impressed by his art, and the Baroness clapped in rapture louder than all. Consumed with curiosity, she wanted to know a way a real African negro ate, and she wanted to ask him if it's true that women and men in Africa didn't wear suits. The naivety of the lovely hostess amused the society, and the Negro dancer proved to be good at languages – German, French, English – and a courteous talker. The performers were to show their art at sunset of the Baron's birthday; and at dawn of the day, Baron von Werther and his guests was at the lakeside.

Here and there, cheerful gunshots were heard; here and there, flocks of wild ducks took wing; here and there, pointers' tails at attention. But the Baron's neighbour --let's name him Colonel von Brandenstein –didn't seem fascinated too much. The Colonel's face winced, now and then, and finally, frowned. Presently, nobody could see him among the hunters. Some time more and the hunters got hungry, and almost all of them settled underneath hospitable branchy pines for refreshment. Only Baron von Werther himself and his three friends Captain of Cavalry NN, the district Marshal of the Nobility MM and Public Prosecutor SS were fascinated too much to stop, and they proceeded with the hunting.

In the meantime, in the Castle, nobody got bored. For the next feast should be prepared. Everyone was busy, servants and ladies. The Baroness was at hers, sitting at the open window. Wearing her dressing-gown, she combed her long blond hair, but a shade of a tall man rose in the window. The Baroness screamed, and recoiled deep in the room.

The man said cheerfully, "Don't fear, Baroness!" It was Colonel von Brandenstein. Clinking with his hunt gear and gun, he sat down on the windowsill. "I didn't want to frighten you." His face smiled, and his blond moustache pointed upwards.

"But your sudden arrival…" the Baroness said.

"It highly becomes my costume!" the Colonel laughed, "The costume of a bandit makes me entitled to this way of arrival."

"Entitled to come unbidden through windows?" the nice-looking and good-tempered hostess smiled.

"Yes, yes, and in addition, to admire the lovely lady!"

"Colonel!.." the Baroness exclaimed.

The Colonel's long nose got reddened, and his small eyes twinkled brighter than his hunt gear. He threw his long legs wearing jackboots over the windowsill, stood on the floor and resolutely made two steps forward.

"But… Colonel!" the Baroness exclaimed again, and another moment he whispered, "You are crazy…"

Curtain. By night, the first, biggest racket of the firework announced the time for the show on the open air stage. Now, imagine the long string of guests and hosts going along the long alleys towards the place in the Park, where the temporary show-booth towered. Baron von Werther, the happy hunter, walked arm-in-arm with wife of Public Prosecutor SS heading the procession; next, Public Prosecutor SS with wife of Captain of Cavalry NN; and the group of cheerful hussars with the lovely Baroness brought up the rear. The Colonel Von Brandenstein bit his long moustache for some reason.

In the show-booth, thick German women from Weymarn sang sentimental songs, the 'man-snake' wearing scaly tights showed that humans could scratch their ear with their leg like any dog, but the most amazing was yet to come, because the Negro's performance was the last in the show. Exposing a set of white teeth, Mr White smiled, dancing gracefully and with ardour, "just like our Negro, today." The musicians hardly could keep up his pace. The hussars clinked spurs; the ladies gasped; the servants cackled in the background. It was triumph. After the show, the Baroness went to the dancer to press his hand and to thank for the pleasure. She was back to guests only by supper, walking arm-in-arm with Mr White. The Baron enjoyed the merriment in his old Castle on his birthday.

After the last carriage of the guests departed, disappearing behind the gates of the Wertherdorf Castle, the peaceful silence fell again on the Park, and Baron von Werther returned to his business life. The familiar string of quiet idle days was for the Baroness. As usual, before going to bed, the Baron came to his wife to kiss her hands, to ask how's she, and to tell about household. The Baroness stealthily yawned in a yellow book, kissed on his husband's forehead and went to her bedroom, rarely accompanied by the Baron. But soon, something new got woven in the gentle lapse of life. One day, in reply to his husband's usual question, she said that she was to be a mother soon.

The Baron's face fell in surprise; then his face relaxed in a smile. "But when it happened?" he asked gently.

"As I think… on your birthday," the Baroness said.

Thus, his birthday was yet happier than he believed.

In eight months, Baron von Werther nervously walked about the dimly lit hall of his Castle and listened to the distant voices heard through the closed doors. Von Brandenstein and Marshal of the Nobility chatted in undertones while sitting on the corner divan and smoking cigars. Von Brandenstein seemed more agitated then his companion. Shaking his leg, the Colonel spoke, "I know one most curious case. In Italy, one pregnant woman often went to church. In the church there was a fresco depicting the hell with the devil in the forefront. Every time, in the church, the woman stopped in front of the fresco to watch the picture. Now, she gave a birth to a child who was the very image of that devil. C'est epatant!"

Marshal of the Nobility chewed cigar and kept silence. His shifty small eyes smiled in response to the Colonel's story. Baron von Werther kept on walking about the hall, when the door opened, the butler came in and announced the birth of the Baron's heir. Then a nurse came in, having a white pack in hands.

The nurse's face showed a strange tenseness; she seemed not to dare to cast her eyes up. Making several steps, she stopped. With a timid smile, the Baron approached. His companions too. The Baron carefully removed the coverlet from the newborn's face, and then… he recoiled in horror.

Marshal of the Nobility got closer. The Colonel stood still, as though stoned. The nurse remained with downcast eyes. The baby boy began crying. He was black-skinned.

By night, the Baron departed. By train, he went to Weymarn. It was early spring; the snow only began melting; the Summer Theatre was boarded up. From the watchman, the Baron learned that the group of performers had left five months ago, God knows where. In the local police station, the Baron was advised to apply to the police office. Knowing the Police Chief, the Baron learned from him that the group of performers from the Summer Theatre moved to the Buff of Warsaw. The Baron went to Warsaw. Then, let's say, to Odessa. From Odessa to Brest. His journey looked like a scorch. Vengeful and vehement, the Baron spared neither his own time nor his money when dashing from one town to another in search of the offender of his family honour, but in vain. Personally I learned of his fate only a year and a half later.

One day, I was walking in a street of Brumburg, when I stumbled upon my friend. My friend was a lawyer. "Where are you going?" I asked.

"To the court, dear," the lawyer said, "Most interesting case. Concerning the Baron von Werther… What, you know him?"

"Something most curious happened to him, but he left his estate a year back, and I've heard nothing about him, unless his visit to Weymarn, Warsaw and other cities. In search of a negro."

Then my friend burst out laughing, "You don't know what happened next?! Listen…"

Then he told me the final part of the story.

Finding his offender nowhere, the Baron von Werther went abroad. In Berlin, in a restaurant, seeing a dancing Negro, he found out the Negro's surname. It was the surname of his offender. Awaiting at the exit, the Baron approached him. "Are you Mr White?"

"Yes, I am," the Negro said, slightly surprised.

The Baron took out his business card, showed it to the Negro, and then, believing that it said all, he shot the Negro dead. But the drama was not over.

Very soon, the Baron learned that the killed Negro was not his offender, never being in the Russian Empire. The police never got the Baron. The killed being the black-skinned and not a white Caucasian, the police didn't care too much, and the killed Negro's impresario received a monetary reward from the Baron. But the murder had been committed and it was senseless. The stain never was wiped out, but the first bloodshed took place. The Baron cocooned himself, shunning society. He could think of nothing but his vengeance to the Negro from the Summer Theatre. He wandered from Germany to France, from France to America. His desire to take revenge slipped into a mania. Timed passed, the offender had not been found, and the Baron's vengeance fell onto all Negros. He murdered 4, wounded 6. Tormenting himself, he wandered from one town to the other, a victim of his self-esteem and superstitions. Finding himself in a summer theatre or buff, where black-skinned performers danced and sang, he took a seat in the first row and waited for the end of the show. After the curtain fell, he went to the service exit. A Negro came out – the Baron approached, and looking at the Negro's face, he said dryly, "What a black monkey!" Naturally, the Negro got indignant, and it all went as usual. In Philadelphia, one Negro, who was a circus athlete, in reply to the Baron's challenge to fight a duel, beat him black and blue. Next day, the Baron shot the athlete dead and fled, returning to the Russian Empire. In his homeland, he was arrested. --

Finishing, the Doctor laughed again, "True, it was insane of him to risk everything he had, but the most amazing was that the Baroness, his wife, succeeded in adjudicating his insanity, a while before he was arrested, and she got married to Colonel von Brandenstein, who became an appointed guardian of the 'mentally ill Baron.' The little baby Creole was sent to an orphanage. Most probably, by the time, when we are together here, Baron von Werther has been placed in a lunatic asylum!"

In troth, a tale from a doctor. Both enlightening and entertaining.

"What a pity…" Leonides L said.

"Oh yes," someone said.

"What a pity…" Leonides L said again, "I'm so sorry that the wonderful story is not written by me." He rose, made a bow and left our group.

"What if it's the same jazz band, today?" a lady in gray said.

"Maybe," Doctor Talvik said, "But not the same Negro, for really, that Mr White can't feel desire to revisit this part of the world."

"That he can't! After the maniac's chasing him."

I said, "The Baron fell a victim of his duty. Akin to Othello. It's one of the cases, when we may say, Poor, poor murderer. He was a mental mix of Othello and King Lear."

Mr Lindorrini said, "I don't think it worth his while to daub his fingers about them. Apropos… Have you, ladies and gentlemen, heard of the latest death in Weymarn, at the house of one cosmopolitan nobleman of the name of Niecislaw Baudouin. The family has a house in Padrik… Doctor, you should hear of the case. One Mlle Elisabeth Medovsky died in the household. It must be said that her story is so romantic."

Mr Lindorrini was asked to tell the story, and his telling was more graphic and explicit than my retelling –

Past springtime, the family of Mlle Elisabeth Medovsky rented a cottage in Padrik. In the late May they settled there. She was going on 16, with her virtue of the purest tint. Her grandfather and grandmother were her last of kin. One day, she and her childhood friend, a girl of her age, were in the garden, when they heard a horrible wail from behind the fence. Thus, Elisabeth learned that in the next cottage, an ill man lived under his doctor's supervision. In a week, he had a chance to see the man in person. On the day, she and her friend were in the garden, when she saw a man's head appearing above the high wall of stone that fenced the garden. with hair his hair standing on end, wild eyes and remains of chains on his hands… and he was about to get in the garden. Briefly speaking, Elisabeth stayed to talk with the stranger, who was not about to attack, and her friend ran away to call help. Presently, people came to help, with the doctor heading them, and then Elisabeth learnt that the stranger was Ignacy, the mentally ill, twenty-years-old son of Niecislaw Baudouin. It must be said that the Doctor was a fascinated scientist. Checking up his patient Ignacy, he saw the visit to the garden proved to be beneficial to the young man's sate, moreover, the young man didn't want to go home, being as though mesmerized by Elisabeth's look. Only with the help of Elisabeth the Doctor and his people could manage to take the young man home. At home the Doctor thought the happening over, and he went to Weymarn to share his conclusion with Ignacy's mother, who was the head of the family if a question was her son's health. Their conference was long, eventually, the family decided to proffer the 15-years-old girl of the name of Elisabeth Medovsky to come and spend some time beside their ill son. Ignacy's mother herself came to the cottage of Elisabeth's guardians to make the proposal. This idea sounded wildest to the girl, and her old guardians were unpleasantly surprised as well. But Ignacy's mother could persuade them not to reject, as mothers alone could do it… Thhe Medovsky family conference was long too. As a result, Elisabeth was permitted to go to live at the Baudouins for a while. The Doctor proved to be right. Seeing her every day, for the first week, the mentally ill young man got better. His delirium stopped; he could forget of any handcuffs; it seemed to everyone that the very look and voice of the girl cured his mental state, in some extraordinary way. In three weeks, his mother invited friends to spend the summer at theirs, and the friends were the family of the damsel, who Ignacy used to love. Soon, he was all right so much that he could return to his former mode of life, old friends and entertainments. It looked like a little more and he would be able to live as before, burning the candle at both ends, as before… But his healer Elisabeth was not all right. After the next ball, the girl swooned, got unwell and then took to her bed for a month. Later, some rumours said that a reason of her illness was that she fell in love with Ignacy. But he never loved Elisabeth, and it goes without saying that his mother was not interested in a girl from a burger home as her son's bride. The better he got, the more he mingled in society, the less he paid attention to Elisabeth. The better he got, the worse she was. They said, the ill girl got the best of care, in the house -- the best doctors, and all that – and yet in August, she died. Some said she died from pneumonia; some said she died from the unshared love and the fact that Ignacy forgot her, but there was something strange in her death. Rumours had it that she was found dead in her bed, in the morning, and on the skin of her throat there were two pinholes like a trace of an animal bite. Nobody could say that he happened to see a person, who saw the trace -- but the family Baudouin and the Doctor went abroad so hurriedly, as though for fear of the rumours, which way caused new rumours. The dead girl was buried. Her grandfather and grandmother remained wrapped in woe for ever.

"Suspicious. Most suspicious," all listeners were one in this.

I said, "It looks like the young Ignacy sucked a vital energy out of the girl in the manner of a leech."

"Many believe so," Mr Lindorrini said.

Doctor Talvik took Mlle Delamarche's hand in his and turned to Mr Lindorrini, "It's cruel and out of place to tell sad stories like this to us, my bride and me…"

"Your tale was cruel too, do you remember, Doctor?"

"My tale was about a Negro and a love-story.

Look on a love which knows not to despair,

But all unquenched is still my better part,

Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart…"

I continued the poem by Byron, changing it slightly –

"…As dwells Lord Byron's lightning in its cloud,

encompassed with its dark and rolling shroud.

Till struck, -- forth llies the allethereal dart."

Letting my citation get commingled with the ether, and leaving his fiancée's hand, Doctor Talvik turned to everyone, "Have you heard the new joke about Russia?.. Listen… A riddle: Greasy, dirty, for sale. Name it."

"Anything from Russia," I was the first to say it.

"Love," a smoker said.

The Doctor said, "Love is everywhere, and not from Russia alone." Nobody could answer the riddle. Then he said, "The answer is… petroleum. Greasy, dirty, for sale. Petroleum."

Only now, I noticed the music stop.

The restless Doctor said, "What about a snack? The samovar is ready, I guess. Nobody wants to sleep."

"Where there's Doctor Fridland? He looked tired…" the lady in gray said.

The Doctor said, "Yes, tired. It's not late at night, he's not so old, but he's tired."

"You often sound so ambiguous, Doctor!"

"He left," the Doctor said, "Left for Siberia. He asked to bow to all. Sent with a secret mission to Lake Baykal, the Tzurru-Khay-Tuy Fortress, to keep the Chinese maneuvers under observation."

The lady in gray said, "The mission is to be secret. Why did he tell about it?"

"He left for Caucasus," the Doctor said.

"Where?"

"Either for Africa or for Siberia."

"You are a joker, indeed!.. I'm going to have a cup of tea…" Seeing someone on her way, the lady in gray said, "Have you heard, Doctor Fridland departed!"

"As though somebody wants him!" she heard in reply.

People parted company.

Mlle Delamarche gave breath, turning to Doctor Talvik, "Let's take the walk! I feel giddy." Or something of the kind, with a vibration in her hat plume.

"Take a tincture," he said.

"What kind of tincture?" she said.

"Not sure what kind is available here. Mona doesn't take medicines. But her mother takes some. She smells of something toxic, sometimes. Diethyl ether, maybe. Her perfume is not less killing."

"Do you love her?"

"Her? Which of the two?.."

Intriguing. Only a few ladies stayed around us.

Looking at the sky, the Doctor said, "Ah what a wonderful night! So would sing!"

Alarmingly and confusedly turning her head in her fur collar, his fiancée said, "Here and now? Are you sure, dear?"

"Indeed, it's silly of me. Besides, I can't sing." He said as though thinking aloud, "Meanwhile, humans come into the world and die… by day as well as by night. Not feeling envious to the new doctor." He looked at the dark sky again, "Bad singers like me love to sing." He cleared his throat.

"Are you about to sing a song?" she said.

"That's it, a song. To sing. Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, behold and get used to my singing…" Clearing his throat again, he began --

"L'amour est un rosier qui

fleurit sur nos lèvres:

Planté dans notre coeur, il

boit le plus beau sang.

Et le vase empourpré, Saxe,

Chine ou vieux Sevres.

Se brise quand les fleurs vont

s'épanouissent..."

(Love is a rosebush that blooms on our lips: Planted in our heart, it drinks our best blood. And the vessel is colored purple, Saxony, China or old Sevres. It shudders when the flowers bloom…) Lovely lyrics.

Mona's coming was somewhat preventing to the singer's complete triumph. The Doctor said, "Doctor Fridland away, it's my duty to go to see Mme Lutatovsky. Hope she won't bite me." Ladies sniggered. Glancing at his pocket watch, he said cheerfully, as though announcing an event, "The moon shines bright: in such a night as this… Nobody wants to sleep. Ladies! I have an idea. Let's go to have a cup of coffee and then we shall go to take the air to the fields. To watch the starlit sky…" Then he cited one poem --

"The moon rose, looking like Verlaine's,

white, ancient, exquisitely framed,

with white rays falling on the fields."

And I was surprised, hearing my old poem, published in a magazine; merely, the "white rays" fell on the sea and not on the fields, in my poem.

Receiving the ladies' consent, he asked them to go without him and then he turned to me, quite unexpectedly.

Taking my arm, he made me turn back to his retiring company and said, in undertones, "Mr Graf, I want you. To talk, in private. Don't worry, I won't keep you long."

Truly surprising. Peering at his face, I could not see much, because he led me to a shade.

"All the people… I dislike them, despising them. They are pitiable, small as midges. I can't take them seriously. I can't talk with them seriously. When seeing them, all I want is making faces more openly than they do." I was sincerely understanding to his small speech. He said, "Both of you, Clem and you, Mr Graf, may stop your search. For she's at home."

Stunned, I said, "In their Estate?"

"No, in their apartment, in Brumburg." Both of us meant Clem's mother. Seeing my dazed face, the Doctor sounded absolutely serious, highly business-like, and at the same time friendly as usual, "But she can go to the Estate anytime, for she's quite all right." His friendly manner and my shock prevented me from asking myself how the family old friend could keep my cousins in the dark about their mother's location for the long while.

Later, the answer suggested itself: by her own request.

Stars gemmed the sky, but the moon was veiled. Some of the lanterns had burnt out over the Park; the activity at the pavilion and inside faded away. Leaving the building behind, we walked towards the manor house. Too stunned, I never remembered my old intention to see Doctor Talvik's finger-ring. He was brief, telling me about the disappearance of Clem's mother, but it was enough for me to understand the uncanny affair, as it seemed to me, and I had the chance to know more about the Doctor's new business, which proved to have the unexpectedly close relation with Clem's quest and my revisiting homeland.

It turned out that my Aunt Leticia Lisnyak, landlady and authoress, left her home secretly, because she felt shy about a reason of the matter which urged her flight.

"As you know, dear Mr Graf, the Salon Almodis belongs to me…" Doctor Talvik said this, by the way, as though my knowledge was a matter of fact. Perhaps, Mlle Delamarche told him about Clem's visit.

All the time of our search, he gave the medical service to Leticia. In his Salon, he returned aging ladies their young look. "…And their young look could give them not only their Second or Third Youth but it could return their First," he said. While in hiding, Leticia lived now in Brumburg, at Mr Lundstrom's, their neighbour in Lamplighters Lane, who kindly gave the shelter to her, now at the Salon Almodis, the cottage in Padrik. After visiting the cottage, Clem told me about some offices or stables, which he saw there. According to Doctor Talvik, the secret of the medical procedures was an extract from dead bodies of rabbits, numerous at the offices of the Cottage. It goes without saying that I didn't learn of the technique in detail from the Doctor, but a result of the course of the procedures was rejuvenated skin of the aging humans. The course was painful and expensive and it was to be repeated once in half a year. "Pour être beau il faut souffrir, n'est-ce pas?" he said.

"Like it was in the clinic of Dr Jacob Bey-Nasar?" I said, "He departed so timely…"

Ignoring my hint, he said with a chortle, "You mean that man who looked like a typical jangler? I always believed that he was something like a fugitive or cosmopolitan charlatan posing as a new Cagliostro. The doctor was dentist by education, by the way."

However the Doctor hated the late Dr Bey-Nasar, his late business rival was no more, and his Salon Almodis got more and more popular among the rich and noble. The name of the wife of the Governor was expected to appear on the list, some day. Tiens tiens! As for any loud publicity and flashy signboards, the Doctor said, "Fi, c'est un mauvais ton! Signboards attract attention of those who need not the information, and publicity of the sort can frighten off those who need my miraculous assistance. Gaining notoriety is not for us."

According to him, many had been attracted by the tag and modest plate of black glass with white enamel "Salon Almodis." "Much forbidden, somewhat Tibetan is in the ladies' visits to my Salon," he said, "You must agree that it's more ticklish than a visit to dentist. All of the ladies feel shy about their desires. Although all of them know about each other that all of them use my Salon, but none of them lets the cat out of the bag, even between themselves, even those of them who share lovers. Each of them prefers to confess to a crime rather than to let out the fact that she's fresh as daisy at her age solely with the aid of the cosmetics shop and not by nature." The cottage in Padrik had two or three well-equipped rooms for procedures, massages and bathing. It was not so difficult to imagine all this and believe in the Doctor's telling.

How simple and prosaic the mysterious case proved to be! – I thought to myself, before the Doctor and I parted company in the scanty light of the manor house ground floor. Now, he went to have a cup of tea, and I stayed at the staircase for some time.

The concentrated charge of the information was to help me to concentrate my thoughts. A black and white figure flashed by and vanished in the alley. Apparently, a chambermaid in her white apron, I thought -- but a waft of ylang-ylang. It was slight, perhaps it only seemed, and along with it I heard a scrap of conversation. Two male voices held an easy conversation on the porch, above my head. Pricking up, I retreated in the shade.

"…au goût de tout le monde?" one of the voices said.

"Touché," his companion said, "When hearing the word vampire, most of people imagines a monster-looking undead who prowls around in search of a human's blood."

"But it's true… or rather it could be true if vampires exist," the first voice said.

The second said in French, "Le raisonneur tristement s'accredite. On court, helas, apres la verite..."

The first said, "Ach, croyez-moi, l'erreur a son merite."

One of the two voices was Leonides L's. Those notorious celebrities!..

Glad for Clem, I put the overheard conversation out of my head and imagined the boy swooning with joy. Oh happy day! Le pauvre petit was sleeping in our room. I went upstairs.

Nobody was on the windswept terrace of the porch.