Thunder Storm on a Summer Day in June.
The work of the unrecognized dramaturgist who concealed himself under the pseudonym of Roly-Poly.
The first picture.
“’It was a splendid day in June.
The scorching rays of the sun illumined the blossoming meadows and environs … ’”
Roly-Poly’s Don Quixotic phiz spread into a wrinkled, sweetish smile; and the eyes narrowed into half-circles.
“’… But now in the distance the first clouds have appeared upon the horizon.
They grew, piled upon each other like crags, covering little by little the blue vault of the sky.”
By degrees the smile was coming off Roly-Poly’s face, and it grew more and more serious and austere.
“’At last the clouds have overcast the sun … An ominous darkness has fallen … ’”
Roly-Poly made his physiognomy altogether ferocious.
“‘The first drops of the rain fell … ’”
Roly-Poly began to drum his fingers on the back of a chair.
“’… In the distance flashed the first lightning … ’”
Roly-Poly’s eye winked quickly, and the left corner of his mouth gave a twitch.
“’… Whereupon the rain began to pour down in torrents, and there came a sudden, blinding flash of lightning… ’”
And with unusual artistry and rapidity Roly-Poly, with a successive movement of his eyebrows, eyes, nose, the upper and the lower lip, portrayed a lightning zig-zag.
“’… A jarring thunder clap burst out— trrroo-oo.
An oak that had stood through the ages fell down to earth, as though it were a frail reed … ’”
And Roly-Poly with an ease and daring not to be expected from one of his years, bending neither the knees nor the back, only drawing down his head, instantaneously fell down; straight, like a statue, with his back to the floor, but at once deftly sprang up on his feet.
“’But now the thunder storm is gradually abating.
The lightning flashes less and less often.
The thunder sounds duller, just like a satiated beast— oooooo-oooooo … The clouds scurry away.
The first rays of the blessed sun have peeped out … ’”
Roly-Poly made a wry smile.
“’… And now, the luminary of day has at last begun to shine anew over the bathed earth … ’”
And the silliest of beatific smiles spread anew over the senile face of Roly-Poly.
The cadets gave him a twenty-kopeck piece each.
He laid them on his palm, made a pass in the air with the other hand, said: ein, zwei, drei, snapped two of his fingers, and the coins vanished.
“Tamarochka, this isn’t honest,” he said reproachfully. “Aren’t you ashamed to take the last money from a poor retired almost-head-officer?
Why have you hidden them here?”
And, having snapped his fingers again, he drew the coins out of Tamara’s ear.
“I shall return at once, don’t be bored without me,” he reassured the young people; “but if you can’t wait for me, then I won’t have any special pretensions about it.
I have the honour! … ”
“Roly-Poly!” Little White Manka cried after him, “Won’t you buy me candy for fifteen kopecks… Turkish Delight, fifteen kopecks’ worth.
There, grab!”
Roly-Poly neatly caught in its flight the thrown fifteen-kopeck piece; made a comical curtsey and, pulling down the uniform cap with the green edging at a slant over his eyes, vanished.
The tall, old Henrietta walked up to the cadets, also asked for a smoke and, having yawned, said:
“If only you young people would dance a bit— for as it is the young ladies sit and sit, just croaking from weariness.”
“If you please, if you please!” agreed Kolya. “Play a waltz and something else of the sort.”
The musicians began to play.
The girls started to whirl around with one another, ceremoniously as usual, with stiffened backs and with eyes modestly cast down.
Kolya Gladishev, who was very fond of dancing, could not hold out and invited Tamara; he knew even from the previous winter that she danced more lightly and skillfully than the rest.
While he was twirling in the waltz, the stout head-conductor, skillfully making his way between the couples, slipped away unperceived through the drawing room.
Kolya did not have a chance to notice him.
No matter how Verka pressed Petrov, she could not, in any way, drag him off his place.
The recent light intoxication had by now gone entirely out of his head; and more and more horrible, and unrealizable, and monstrous did that for which he had come here seem to him.
He might have gone away, saying that not a one here pleased him; have put the blame on a headache, or something; but he knew that Gladishev would not let him go; and mainly— it seemed unbearably hard to get up from his place and to walk a few steps by himself.
And, besides that, he felt that he had not the strength to start talking of this with Kolya.
They finished dancing.