“I am touched, touched,” M’sieur Pierre was saying, as they took turns coming up to him to congratulate him.
As they did so, some of them stumbled, and a few sang. The father of the city firemen was disgracefully drunk; two of the servants were trying stealthily to haul him away, but he sacrificed his coattails like a lizard does its tail, and remained. The respectable woman, who supervised the schools, flushing blotchily, was silently and tensely leaning away as she defended herself from the supply director, who was playfully aiming at her with his finger, which resembled a carrot, as though he were about to transfix her or tickle her, all the while repeating, “tee-tee-tee!”
“Friends, let us go out on the terrace,” announced the host, whereupon Marthe’s brother and the son of the late Dr. Sineokov pulled open a drapery with a rattle of wooden rings; the swaying light of painted lanterns revealed a stone veranda, bordered further by the tenpinlike uprights of a balustrade, between which showed black the hourglasses of night.
The sated guests, their bellies gurgling, settled themselves in low armchairs. Some lounged by the columns, others near the balustrade.
Near it, too, stood Cincinnatus, twirling in his fingers the mummy of a cigar, and beside him, not turning to him but incessantly touching him either with his back, or with his side, M’sieur Pierre was saying to the accompaniment of approving exclamations from his listeners:
“Photography and fishing—those are my two chief passions. It may seem odd to you, but fame and honor are nothing to me compared with rural quiet. I see you are smiling skeptically, kind sir” (he said in passing to one of the guests who at once repudiated his smile), “but I swear to you that this is so, and I do not swear idly. The love of nature was bequeathed to me by my father, who never lied either. Many of you, of course, remember him and can confirm this, even in writing, if it should become necessary.”
Standing by the balustrade, Cincinnatus peered vaguely into the darkness, and just then, as if by request, the darkness paled enticingly, as the moon, now clear and high, glided out from behind the black fleece of cloudlets, varnished the shrubs, and let its light trill in the ponds. Suddenly, with an abrupt start of the soul, Cincinnatus realized that he was in the very thick of the Tamara Gardens which he remembered so well and which had seemed so inaccessible to him; he realized that he had walked here with Marthe many times, past this very house in which he was now and which had then appeared to him as a white villa with boarded-up windows, glimpsed through the foliage on the hillock … Now, exploring the surroundings with a diligent eye, he easily removed the murky film of night from the familiar lawns and also erased from them the superfluous lunar dusting, so as to make them exactly as they were in his memory. As he restored the painting smudged by the soot of night, he saw groves, paths, brooks taking shape where they used to be … In the distance, pressing against the metallic sky, the charmed hills stood still, glossed with blue and folded in gloom.…
“A porch, moon’s torch, and he, and she,” recited M’sieur Pierre smiling at Cincinnatus, who noticed that everyone was looking at him with tender, expectant sympathy.
“Admiring the landscape?” said the park superintendent to him with a confidential air, hands clasped behind his back. “You …” He stopped short and, as if somewhat embarrassed, turned to M’sieur Pierre: “Excuse me … do I have your permission? After all I haven’t been introduced …”
“Please, please, you don’t have to ask my permission,” M’sieur Pierre replied courteously and, touching Cincinnatus’s elbow said in a low voice, “This gentleman would like to chat with you, my dear.”
The park superintendent cleared his throat into his fist and repeated, “The landscape … Admiring the landscape? Right now you can’t see very much. But just you wait, exactly at midnight—so our chief engineer has promised me … Nikita Lukich! Over here, Nikita Lukich.”
“Coming,” Nikita Lukich responded in a jaunty bass, and obligingly stepped forward, cheerfully turning now to one, now to the other, his youthful, fleshy face with the white brush of a mustache, and placing a hand comfortably on the shoulder of the park superintendent and on that of M’sieur Pierre.
“I was just telling him, Nikita Lukich, that you promised, exactly at midnight, in honor of …”
“Why of course,” the chief engineer interrupted. “We shall have the surprise without fail. Don’t you worry about that. By the way, what time is it, boys?”
He relieved the others’ shoulders of the pressure of his broad hands and, with a preoccupied mien, went inside.
“Well, in eight hours or so we shall already be in the square,” said M’sieur Pierre, squeezing shut the lid of his watch. “We shan’t be getting much sleep. You aren’t cold, are you, my dear? The nice man said there would be a surprise. I must say they are spoiling us. That fish we had for dinner was without equal.”
“… Stop it, leave me alone,” said the husky voice of the lady administrator, whose massive back and gray bun were coming straight at M’sieur Pierre as she retreated from the supply director’s index finger. “Tee-tee,” he squeaked playfully, “tee-tee.”
“Take it easy, madam,” croaked M’sieur Pierre. “My corns aren’t state property.”
“Bewitching woman,” the supply director remarked in passing, totally without expression and, capering, headed toward a group of men standing by the columns; then his shadow was lost among their shadows, and a breeze made the Japanese lanterns sway, and in the dark there would be revealed now a hand pompously preening a mustache, now a cup raised to senile, fish lips that were trying to get the sugar from the bottom.
“Attention!” the host shouted, passing like a whirlwind among the guests.
And, first in the garden, then beyond it, then still further, along the walks, in groves, in glades and on lawns, singly and in clusters, ruby, sapphire, and topaz lamps lit up, gradually inlaying the night with gems. The guests began to “oh!” and “ah!” M’sieur Pierre inhaled sharply and grabbed Cincinnatus by the wrist. The lights covered an ever-increasing area: now they stretched out along a distant valley, now they were on the other side of it, in the form of an elongated brooch, now they already studded the first slopes; once there they passed on from hill to hill, nestling in the most secret folds, groping their way to the summits, crossing over them! “Oh, how beautiful,” whispered M’sieur Pierre, for an instant pressing his cheek against the cheek of Cincinnatus.
The guests applauded. For three minutes a good million light bulbs of diverse colors burned, artfully planted in the grass, in branches, on cliffs, and all arranged in such a way as to embrace the whole nocturnal landscape with a grandiose monogram of “P” and “C,” which, however, had not quite come off. Thereupon the lights went out all at once and solid darkness reached up to the terrace.
When engineer Nikita Lukich reappeared they surrounded him and wanted to toss him.
It was time, however, to begin thinking about a well deserved rest. Before the guests left, the host offered to photograph M’sieur Pierre and Cincinnatus by the balustrade. M’sieur Pierre, even though he was the one who was being photographed, nevertheless directed this operation. A burst of light illumined the white profile of Cincinnatus and the eyeless face beside him. The host himself handed them their capes and went out to see them off. In the vestibule morose soldiers were clattering sleepily as they sorted out their halberds.
“I am ineffably flattered by your visit,” the host said to Cincinnatus in parting. “Tomorrow—or rather this morning—I shall be there, of course, and not only in an official capacity but also in a personal one. My nephew tells me that a large gathering is expected.
“Well, good luck to you,” said he to M’sieur Pierre in between the traditional three kisses on the cheeks.
Cincinnatus and M’sieur Pierre, with their escort of soldiers, plunged into the lane.
“On the whole you are a good fellow,” said M’sieur Pierre when they had gone a little distance, “only why do you always.… Your shyness makes an extremely unfavorable impression on new people. I don’t know about you,” he added, “but although I am delighted with the illumination and so forth, I have heartburn and a suspicion that not all the cooking was done with creamery butter.”
They walked a long time. It was very dark and foggy.
A blunt knock-knock-knock came from somewhere off to the left as they were descending Steep Avenue. Knock-knock-knock.
“The scoundrels,” muttered M’sieur Pierre. “Didn’t they swear it was all done?”
At last they crossed the bridge and started uphill. The moon had already been removed and the dark towers of the fortress blended with the clouds.
At the third gate, Rodrig Ivanovich was waiting in dressing gown and nightcap.
“Well, how was it?” he asked impatiently.
“Nobody missed you,” M’sieur Pierre said dryly.
Chapter Eighteen
“Tried to sleep, could not, only got chilled all through, and now it is
