New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (39 page)
Read New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Online
Authors: Alexei Panshin
He stopped knocking on doors. He shouted on no streetcorners. And he decided at last not even to raise the subject of parties unless someone were to ask.
From perfunctory, his efforts became nominal. He simply walked the streets thinking vaguely of what he was supposed to be doing and feeling inadequate to do it. Then from nominal his efforts became nonexistent.
He sat down on a public seat by the side of the road and said, flatly and definitely, “I quit.” And he found relief in the admission. His anxiety departed and he began to try to set his excuses in order:
-He had tried.
-He hadn’t been able to find anyone. He hadn’t known where to look.
-He had looked, but it was dark.
-Nobody had wanted to come. He had asked, but
every single person
he had met had turned him down.
-It wasn’t his fault.
And after a time he had his case in hand and his anecdotes trimmed to fit. Only then did he check the time, and to his horror he saw that he had dawdled too long. It was fully, fully time for Lord Semichastny’s party.
He thought of his alternatives, and decided at last to have a drink.
* * *
It was some time before Jules and Miriam Parini set out for Lord Semichastny’s country maison. Their best cherry-picking clothes had been packed for travel, and they would not have even considered going to Lord Semichastny’s party in anything else.
Parini’s cherry-picking suit was his most stylish, the only suit he owned that could allow him to pass as something more than a rug salesman with social ambitions. It was the suit in which he had encountered the scrutiny of the interviewing alumna from Miss McBurney’s and passed inspection. He rated that as a heart-held triumph second only to the amount of tuition Miss McBurney allowed him to pay.
And not only were the clothes stylish, but they had a sufficiency of pockets, a detail modern tailors are prone to overlook.
Dressing Annie suitably in tight black took some time, too. There were on occasion little things for a little girl to do and Parini felt that it was not an auspicious time to find someone to watch her, so he dressed her in black and took her along.
Before they left, the mail from Duden came.
Annie reproved the mailman by saying,
“Beng,”
in severe tones.
“There,” said Mrs. Parini. But Parini thought that reproof was deserved and so he did not speak to his daughter.
* * *
Villiers took the letter that his uncle held. It had been opened, no doubt by oversight. It is extremely easy to open an envelope without checking the formal address. He looked at the letter only long enough to see that it was from Louisa Parini at Miss McBurney’s Justly Famous Seminary and Finishing School on Nashua, and put it away unread.
“Thank you,” said Villiers. “I believe that Sir Henry is still in his Trog costume and if I make no mistake, I think you can see him in a few minutes being judged as a Marvel on the green below.”
He waved to the windows.
“Well, you’ve certainly failed me, then, haven’t you?” asked Lord Semichastny. “Was this our understanding? Give me the letter back.”
Villiers said, “I believe you confuse me with Harbourne Firnhaber, sir. We have no agreements.”
“Oh, yes. Harbourne! Charteris, you are not serving my interests as you ought. If you expect me to locate this missing money of yours, you’ll go find Sir Henry and bring him back to the house for the party.”
Lady Oliphaunt laughed shortly. “Are you going to invite me to the party as well?”
“But of course you’re coming. I’ll have Charles find you a costume. You could try Semiramis Among the Doves.”
“It wouldn’t suit me,” she said.
Villiers said, “However, Uncle, I do have a suggestion. A considerable number of people are shortly to meet on the green, including Sir Henry. Bring your party here.”
“Bring what? Bring the party . . . I don’t like it. Let the people come to me.”
“An excellent policy,” said Villiers. “The question is whether they will come.”
Lord Semichastny began to pace and growl. He said, “No,” under his breath and he slammed a toe into the wall. He swung around and looked angrily at Villiers. He was more successful in intimidating Lady Oliphaunt, who had developed a certain shyness of him.
He said, “But it isn’t right. They’re
Monists
.”
Villiers said, “I’ve heard both you and them spoken well of in all but the same breath.”
“By whom?”
“By our host, Mr. Xenakis.”
“He doesn’t know me very well,” Lord Semichastny said. “Did he really?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“What did he say about me?”
At that point, Villiers knew he had the argument won. The argument was clinched when there was a light rap on the door. Villiers opened to Xenakis.
“Ah,” Villiers said, but Lord Semichastny did not take advantage of this opportunity to ask Xenakis his opinion directly, though Xenakis would have given it. Lord Semichastny had his opportunity for direct communication and let it pass by. No wonder he was considered difficult.
Xenakis said, “Mr. Chimmeroon from the Xochitl Sodality is here. He wants some judges for the Wonders and Marvels contest.” Xenakis was greatly disappointed not to be wanted as a judge himself, but was carrying on well.
“How many does he need?” Lord Semichastny asked.
“Three,” said Xenakis. “Was I right to ask?”
* * *
At the door of the house, Jerzy McBe nodded his thanks to the nice lady. He had knocked seeking relief, and found not only relief but refreshment. She had offered him jellyroll, but he had turned it down in favor of cookies and sympathy. He had not expected hospitality and understanding, and ordinarily would not have been aware of them, but on this particular night he was receptive to an offer of cookies and sympathy. He didn’t care much for jellyroll.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “This has been a welcome hour. If you are ever up at the Castle, come through my line.”
“Can’t you stay?” she said.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve got a job to do.”
The power of cookies and sympathy as a restorative has too long been underestimated. McBe set out again in Trog pursuit.
* * *
The Xochitl Sodality in ones and twos and threes, in green and red and yellow, strolled in a passing parade down the street and then down the stairway to the park and the green. Harbourne Firnhaber stood on the steps leading up to the
Centre
and watched the middle-aged men pass.
Harbourne had the impulse to call down and ask them if they wanted to go to a party, but he didn’t. Instead, he resented them for appearing now that his mind had been made up. He had his excuses in very good order, such as they were. But then he wondered if these strange men might not be fitted into his story. The Xochitl Sodality. But as villains or as humor?
He turned and took the stairs, feeling very much in need of his drink. He reached for the door only to have it open in front of him.
It was Lord Semichastny. Behind him were Lord Charteris and Lady Oliphaunt.
The encounter was completely unexpected by Harbourne Firnhaber. His heart beat wildly and he was swept with a wave of cold. He felt discovered.
“There you are, Nephew,” said Lord Semichastny. “Be a good boy, Harbourne, and run out to the house and bring my party to the green. I’ll have Charles and all the serving mechanicals. And make a point of bringing some melons.”
10
N
OTHING IS IMMORTAL, NOT EVEN THE UNIVERSE.
Nothing is immortal but change. And change means mortality. Mortality is the one central fact with which every self-aware being must deal. It is every man for himself in the wrestle with death.
The most presumptuous thing to ask of any mortal being is to wait. There are none so visibly involved with death as those condemned to wait.
Those who wait squander their little time, and they know it. They wait for change, change of any sort, for change is hope of life.
* * *
Charles the Butler told of the fate of the old man. He was eaten. He told of the fate of the old woman. She was eaten. He told of what happened to the little household robot. She was carried off, but eventually she was rescued.
And poor little dog Turpie.
The thrust of justice and fate in the story was so overwhelming that the gathered mechanicals were struck dumb with pity and terror. In the hush that followed the story, the growing sound of a flitter could be heard. The mechanicals shivered and their gears clenched.
“Be calm,” said Charles. “Be calm. It’s time for the party.”
He straightened his tarboosh and bade them all stay. He rolled to the front door and waited there beside the glass urn filled with flower petals, purple, white, yellow, and pink. At last the door opened and Harbourne Firnhaber entered. Charles dipped out double handfuls of flower petals and strewed them in the air.
“Welcome,” he said. “Welcome.”
* * *
While Harbourne Firnhaber was down in Lord Semichastny’s cold cellar picking out a variety of his best melons, Charles gave instructions to the serving table that was to be left in charge when all the other mobile mechanicals had gone.
“But I’d like to go, too,” the serving table said.
“Someone has to stay. Someone has to be in charge.”
“I was counting on serving tonight. This is my most attractive set of attachments.”
“I know,” said Charles.
But when Harbourne Firnhaber and Charles and all the other mobile mechanicals, and all the food, music and celebration had been loaded, and all had departed the house, the serving table was left behind. It rolled disconsolately from room to room, feeling the size of its responsibility.
“Food,” it said plaintively. “Drink. Stimulants of all sorts. Canapé? Amygdala? Maybe a salt olive?”
It raised its serving covers half-heartedly. But no one answered. The house was empty.
The serving table swept back and forth through the house. Responsible. Alone. And it sang: “ ‘The joys of future years are past, tomorrow’s hopes have fled away. Still, let us love, and e’en at last we shall be happy yesterday.’ ”
But music provided no consolation. And then at last there was the sound of another flitter outside.
The serving table rolled to the door and waited. It did not dip double handfuls of flower petals because it lacked the capability with this set of attachments. And it waited for what seemed the longest time before the door sounded. The table tripped the door release.
Standing on the step were a middle-aged couple in formal dress and with them was a young female child dressed all in black.
“We were invited to a party here,” said the man.
The table said, “The party has been moved to town. It’s to take place on the public green as part of some Monist celebration.”
“Oh,” said the man. But he made no move to go. Indeed, after a brief moment he waved the little girl and the woman forward.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the table, “but I can’t allow you inside. No, really, sir.”
“We’ll only have a brief look around and be gone before you know it,” the man said inexorably.
The table protested. “My instructions are firm. You aren’t supposed to be within the house. I’m afraid I’ll have to put you out by force.”
It realized that it lacked the right attachments, but it was determined. It circled them and tried to herd them back toward the open door. It nudged the little girl.
“Go on,” it said. “Go on.”
The little girl stepped back abruptly and reached for her mother’s skirts. “Mommy!”
Her mother said, “Get away from her, you table.”
The man, hardly seeming to notice, shined his light around the entry hall of the maison. The woman shooed the table back. It circled, looking for advantage, and then rolled forward again.
The little girl dipped into the urn of flower petals and threw a handful at the table.
“Hobyah! Hobyah!”
she said.
The table fled, and who could wonder.
The woman said, “Do you see, Jules? Aren’t you ever going to say anything to her?”
11
T
HE VERY BEST PARTIES IN ALL THE WORLD
are unscheduled, unheralded, and unrehearsed.
The three judges sat in the middle of the green on a small one-step platform with Ossian Chimmeroon and the four Locutors. On each of the four sides of the green stood the four Houses in their colors, surrounding their Marvels like secrets.
Anthony Villiers sat at ease waiting for the judging to begin. He opened the letter that Lord Semichastny had handed him and read it for the first time; a quick scan and then he put it away.
Lord Semichastny, having made his decision, was determined to enjoy himself. He took quick little glances around. He talked to Lady Oliphaunt and took a sweet little pinch on her cheek. She took the opportunity shortly thereafter to switch her seat, but he did not notice because he was asking a question of Rafael Abdelnoor, the Locutor of Schermerhorn House.
Lady Oliphaunt was somewhat less quick to adjust to her role of judge. She wasn’t sure she cared to judge Trogs.
She looked around restlessly. She could see faces at the windows of the
Centre
and other people here and there among the trees under the swaying somnolent peels.
She said to Ossian Chimmeroon, “Don’t you mind being watched?”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” said Ossian Chimmeroon. “It’s one of the best ways we have for recruiting Monists.”
Lady Oliphaunt noticed Villiers’ quick look at the letter from Louisa Parini.
“And who was that from?” she asked.
“Another friend,” he said.
“Another Trog?”
“No,” he said. “A girl.”
She turned from him to Ossian Chimmeroon. She said in a careless voice, “Tell me, Mr. Chimmeroon. What do you think of our Princess-Gillian-to-be?”
It was a question for Ozu Xenakis, meaty and with lots of room for honest unconsidered opinion. As it happened, however, while Ossian Chimmeroon was not good at spur-of-the-moment opinion, this was a question to which he had given thought. The Emperor’s new daughter-in-law was a topic of interest even in Monist Houses.
“She doesn’t have much of a figure,” he said. “And her posture is bad. She slumps her shoulders and slouches her hips. But the report I have is that her voice is excellent.”
“It would have to be,” said Lady Oliphaunt.
“Excuse me, now,” said Ossian Chimmeroon. “It’s time for the Invocation.”
He stood and spread his arms. He called for silence and waved the Sodality closer, and they moved around him, their Marvels well-sequestered. It was the moment.
Invocation was the prerogative of a man of dignity like Ossian Chimmeroon, and he made the most of the opportunity. His voice rolled sonorously over the gathered heads. He used dignified fat phrases such as “judgment among the stars” and “this time-hallowed tradition” and “the pure simplicity of our way of life.” No one now could have said that he lacked manner.
He introduced the judges and they stood to their own round of applause. Lord Semichastny waved his hands over his head in acknowledgment. Lady Oliphaunt smiled politely, and nodded. Villiers smiled, too, and stood waiting quietly until the applause slackened, and then sat down.
The Houses had drawn lots for order of presentation, and Schermerhorn was first.
Chimmeroon motioned to Rafael Abdelnoor. “Go ahead, Friend Rafe,” he said. “Bring out Schermerhorn’s Marvel.”
Abdelnoor swept off his bonnet in signal to the men of Schermerhorn, and was given a few hoots for the gesture from the other Houses. Schermerhorn split open and there was their double marvel. The astrologers stepped forward. There was only light applause because their skills were subtle, not obvious.
Sotto voce
, Lady Oliphaunt asked Villiers, “Where is Sir Henry?” She had spotted a Trog surrounded by green and thought it must be her husband, but she was not sure.
However, Villiers pointed behind them into the mass of the Red of Montague. She looked where he pointed and saw Sir Henry the Trog waiting his turn to be called as a Marvel, and it was only then that she completely believed Villiers. As much as she completely believed anyone,
Rafael Abdelnoor gave his astrologers a substantial build-up, and then they took over for themselves. They explained—in simple non-technical language suitable for middle-aged Sodality members—their computations and calculations for the Universal Pantograph Project. They told how they determined the influences of the stars. They added their private opinions—for, after all, they were pantographers only by profession. By avocation they were astrologers, and it meant that they had some special ideas of their own.
Like all pantographers. Like all astrologers.
All in all, they managed to show themselves as very clever fellows and to convince the onlookers that Delbalso was a most special and favored place out of all the places in the universe. At their conclusion they received applause that was distinctly enthusiastic.
“I really will hate to leave this planet after all these years,” Lord Semichastny remarked.
“It’s a Wonderful place,” said Ossian Chimmeroon. The astrologers were good enough to sway even him for the moment, because he agreed so heartily with their conclusions, but then it was the turn of Joralemon House and his sympathies quickly became properly reestablished.
“Joralemon House,” he said. “Badrian, here’s your opportunity.”
Badrian Beaufils gave a whoop and a holler and led Joralemon House in leading the Sodality and spectators in applause for Mr. Dodd, the Christian Historian. The applause was louder from the Sodality than the spectators, louder from Joralemon House than from the Sodality, and loudest of all from Badrian Beaufils.
“This one doesn’t look like much to me,” said Lord Semichastny, beginning to take an interest in his work. He sat up and waited skeptically for Dodd to prove himself Marvelous.
Lady Oliphaunt took advantage of the moments of Dodd’s approach in study of Tony Villiers’ friend the Trog. Brown, basically. He made her exceedingly nervous. He seemed to be staring back at her with great bulgy blue eyes. She looked away.
Dodd took the step up to the platform. He acknowledged the applause and thanked the crowd. Then he was properly introduced by Badrian Beaufils, and he did his level best to look modest.
“A Christian,” said Lady Oliphaunt, who disapproved of kinkiness.
“True, true,” said Zimmerman, the Locutor from Pierrepont, disparaging what he could not have. Everyone knows that the Christian beyond reach is sour.
But even Lord Semichastny had to admit that Dodd’s tonsure chart was truly Marvelous. And by the time Dodd had finished with the story of Epiphany and Twelfth Night, both chock-full of historical anecdote, Zimmerman was quivering with the suppressed urge to carol and Lady Oliphaunt was at least listening.
In the interstice between Marvels, Lord Semichastny said, “This is excellent good fun, Charteris. In my spare moments I’m trying to think where your money might have been misplaced. That is, of course, if it ever came.”
“To be sure,” said Villiers.
After the showing of his Marvel, Badrian Beaufils looked very pleased with himself. “All right, Montague. Have your turn,” he said.
Lady Oliphaunt turned to look at her husband. Sir Henry’s turn.
“And now we shall judge Trogs,” said Lady Oliphaunt.
“Oh, yes,” said Villiers. “The best saved until last.”
She said, “But, Tony, how can you travel with a Trog? How can you ever trust it not to turn on you?”
“He trusts me not to turn on him, and thus far we have both been fortunate. I used to be on similar terms with my stomach until we agreed to disagree.”
The discussion was ended by the anticipatory cheers for Sir Henry the Trog. The men of Montague opened a way for him to the platform, and there were
ohs
and
ahs
as well as cheers and applause. Sir Henry nodded and pranced toward the platform. He was self-evident. Introduction was not needed.
Montague’s Locutor smiled. Montague doubled the applause that Joralemon had mustered.
The only restraint was from Pierrepont Green. As Sir Henry jogged, shook his trotters, popped his eyes of pseudo-Trog-Blue, hopped and cavorted, they saw their own Trog Marvel—apparently one of a more phlegmatic temperament—fade into a paler copy. Some of them looked at Torve in near-accusation. The only satisfaction for Pierrepont was in foretasting the chagrin of the Reds of Montague. Even a dancing Trog is small change if everyone has one.
And all three judges had reservations. Even if the Sodality members of Pierrepont were unpracticed enough to see a rare, unique, and genuine Trog as a mere copy-Trog, and a copy-Trog as genuine, Villiers was one who knew the difference. Lord Semichastny only knew and believed in copy-Trogs. He had been one himself, so he necessarily held the crowd too easily swayed. Lady Oliphaunt’s reservations have already been presented.
But still—for a copy-Trog, Sir Henry was very persuasive. He had put his hours of night practice to good use in the service of felicity, facility, and fidelity. If he did not move to the platform with the certifiable pad of a true Trog, he did move with confidence and grace and, more important, he believed in himself. As the only Trog he knew, he could be the beau ideal of the Trog, and he fulfilled that beau ideal so well that he was sure he was a Trog.
Shakespeare, lacking a dictionary, was free. Believe it. Sir Henry, lacking any more guide than a few scraps of second-hand information, had been free to mold his characterization as his sense of art directed, and he had created “Sir Henry the Trog” from the well of his secret heart. There had never been an appropriate moment in Sir Henry’s life for him to express charm and sweetness and lose himself in dance. It would have been inconsistent with the Sir Henry that had always been.
But he took charm and sweetness and the pounding freedom of dance and poured them into his Troggish creation. He could not have said why, except that it did seem appropriate.
He had only hoped in wearing this Trog costume that his friendliness and good intentions might be apparent to the world, and to his intoxication they were—except to those very few with cherished and deep-seated prejudice against Trogs. A number which must be a small minority.
To a purist, he was not a Trog. But be not overly taken with exact categorizations. He deserved his applause: his style of Trog was quite Wonderful.
Feeling the full swell of his agrarian soul, this gentleman farmer did a Paddy Dance of his own spontaneous creation. Lord Semichastny had once had some notion of Sir Henry Oliphaunt in costume all alone waltzing. Now to Sir Henry the Trog, the platform, the judges, his wife, and the Sodality in their colors making a flower around them all paled. In his mind he was standing up to his knees in a paddy, surrounded by others of his kind splashing and stomping out their joy of life.
Oh, the wildness! His eyes were closed. He was oblivious to the whistles and cheers, the fascinated faces. He stomped and squelched in muddy abandon.
And then there was a parting in the ranks of the Green of Pierrepont, and Torve the Trog stepped forward into the open. It was not his turn yet. Sir Henry’s presentation on behalf of Montague House was not complete. Of those who saw Torve, some were astonished, some were curious, and some thought it a hideous breach of manners. It was
not
his turn.
Torve hopped up to the platform beside Sir Henry. Two Trogs, one brown-and-white (with a few black stripes, very faint), the other gray-and-olive. Of much the same size, a fair match, a fair pair. One with eyes of truer blue.
Sir Henry did not notice Torve’s approach. He was lost, his eyes yet closed.
Torve stepped in front of Sir Henry, put four-fingered furry hands on his shoulders and squared him away. Sir Henry opened his eyes and saw what he had seen with his eyes closed—another Trog. Sir Henry put his four-fingered furry hands on Torve’s shoulders.
“Dance!” he said. “Dance!”
And Torve did dance. Together they frolicked their way through the Paddy Dance. As could be plainly seen from his coat, Torve had no experience of paddies, but he recognized a Paddy Dance when he saw one. There wasn’t a spectator watching to whom the dance did not communicate paddies.
They danced warmly, freely, meeting, separating, stomping, and bogging. It was warm, exciting, captivating to watch. The dance went on, finding its proper shape, and even those who at first had blamed Torve, then reluctantly pardoned him as an ignorant alien, now found themselves approving of him wholeheartedly.
At last the dance ended and applause exploded in imminent conjugation. Sir Henry and Torve bathed in the warmth, and Torve relaxed to the oncoming swell of event.
When the applause had begun to fade and the moment was ripe, Torve turned again to Sir Henry. As he had done before, he put his hands on Sir Henry’s shoulders and squared him away. When Sir Henry was squared, Torve drew back his furry spatulate foot and kicked Sir Henry in the leg with full deliberate power.
The crowd went “Oooh.”
Sir Henry cried and fell to the platform. Torve stood above him looking down, said
“Thurb,”
very positively and then turned and walked back to the Green of Pierrepont.
Lady Oliphaunt stood and said, “There! What did I tell you,” speaking to Sir Henry, to Villiers, or to herself. She sighed, and then she sighed again, a sigh broken off in exasperation. She took one step toward Sir Henry, and then another.
“Darling!” she said. “Oh, what have you done to yourself? Oh, what have you done?”
Sir Henry said nothing in return, but lay looking after Torve, coming to realizations. And nursing his leg. He now had more data about Trogs.
Lady Oliphaunt fell to her knees and gathered him up and only then did he look at her with real recognition.
“Amita,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
* * *
Jerzy McBe pushed his way through the crowd surrounding the Xochitl Sodality, surrounding the platform. The people were applauding the two Trogs. As he burst into the open, one Trog kicked the other and walked away.
He was faced with a choice and after a moment of indecision, he chose the immobile one. Of course.
