Invitation to a Beheading

by Vladimir Nabokov

  The black pile of books on the table consisted of the following: first, a contemporary novel that Cincinnatus had not bothered to read during his period of existence at liberty; second, one of those anthologies, published in countless editions with condensed rehashes of and excerpts from ancient literature; third, bound issues of an old magazine; fourth, several bedraggled little volumes of a work in an unknown tongue, brought him by mistake--he had not ordered them.

  The novel was the famous Quercus, and Cincinnatus had already read a good third of it, or about a thousand pages. Its protagonist was an oak. The novel was a biography of that oak. At the place where Cincinnatus had stopped the oak was just starting on its third century; a simple calculation suggested that by the end of the book it would reach the age of six hundred at least.

  The idea of the novel was considered to be the acme of modern thought. Employing the gradual development of the tree (growing lone and mighty at the edge of a canyon at whose bottom the waters never ceased to din), the author unfolded all the historic events--or shadows of events--of which the oak could have been a witness; now it was a dialogue between two warriors dismounted from their steeds--one dappled, the other dun--so as to rest under the cool ceil of its noble foliage; now highwaymen stopping by and the song of a wild-haired fugitive damsel; now, beneath the storm's blue zigzag, the hasty passage of a lord escaping from royal wrath; now, upon a spread cloak a corpse, still quivering with the throb of the leafy shadows; now a brief drama in the life of some villagers. There was a paragraph a page and a half long in which all the words began with "p."

  It seemed as though the author were sitting with his camera somewhere among the topmost branches of the Quercus, spying out and catching his prey. Various images of life would come and go, pausing among the green macules of light. The normal periods of inaction were filled with scientific descriptions of the oak itself, from the viewpoints of dendrology, ornithology, coleopterology, mythology--or popular descriptions, with touches of folk humor. Among other things there was a detailed list of all the initials carved in the bark with their interpretations. And, finally, no little attention was devoted to the music of waters, the palette of sunsets, and the behavior of the weather.

  Cincinnatus read for a while and laid it aside. This work was unquestionably the best that his age had produced; yet he overcame the pages with a melancholy feeling, plodded through the pages with dull distress, and kept drowning out the tale in the stream of his own meditation: what matters to me all this, distant, deceitful and dead--I, who am preparing to die? Or else he would begin imagining how the author, still a young man, living, so they said, on an island in the North Sea--would be dying himself; and it was somehow funny that eventually the author must needs die--and it was funny because the only real, genuinely unquestionable thing here was only death itself, the inevitability of the author's physical death.

  The light would move along the wall. Rodion would appear with what he called fruhstuck. Again a butterfly wing would slide between his fingers, leaving colored powder on them.

  "Can it be that he has not arrived yet?" asked Cincinnatus; it was already not the first time he had asked this question, which greatly angered Rodion, and again he did not reply.

  "And another interview--will they grant me that?" asked Cincinnatus.

  In anticipation of the usual heartburn he lay down on the cot and, turning toward the wall, for a long, long time helped patterns form on it, from tiny blobs of the glossy paint and their round little shadows; he would discover, for example, a diminutive profile with a large mouselike ear; then he would lose it and was unable to reconstruct it. This cold ochre smelled of the grave, it was pimply and horrible, yet his gaze still persisted in selecting and correlating the necessary little protuberances--so starved he was for even a vague semblance of a human face. Finally he turned over, lay on his back and, with the same attention began to examine the shadows and cracks on the ceiling.

  "Anyway, they have succeeded in softening me," mused Cincinnatus. "I have grown so limp and soggy that they will be able to do it with a fruit knife."

  For some time he sat on the edge of the cot, his hands compressed between his knees, all hunched over. Letting out a shuddering sigh he began again to roam. It is interesting, though, in what language this is written. The small, crowded, ornate type, with dots and squiggles within the sickle-shaped letters, seemed to be oriental--it was somehow reminiscent of the inscriptions on museum daggers. Such old little volumes, with their faded pages ... some tinged with tawny blotches.

  The clock struck seven, and shortly Rodion appeared with dinner.

  "You are sure he still has not come?" asked Cincinnatus.

  Rodion was about to leave, but turned on the threshold.

  "Shame on you," he said with a sob in his voice, "day and night you do nothing ... a body feeds you here, tends you lovingly, wears himself out for your sake, and all you do is ask stupid questions. For shame, you thankless man ..."

  Time, humming evenly, continued to pass. The air in the cell grew dark, and when it had become quite dense and dull, the light came on in business-like fashion in the center of the ceiling--no, not quite in the center, that was just it--an agonizing reminder. Cincinnatus undressed and got in bed with Quercus. The author was already getting to the civilized ages, to judge by the conversation of three merry wayfarers, Tit, Pud, and the Wandering Jew who were taking swigs of wine from their flasks on the cool moss beneath the black vespertine oak.

  "Will no one save me?" Cincinnatus suddenly asked aloud and sat up on the bed (opening his pauper's hands, showing that he had nothing).

  "Can it be that no one will?" repeated Cincinnatus, gazing at the implacable yellowness of the walls and still holding up his empty palms.

  The draft became a leafy breeze. From the dense shadows above there fell and bounced on the blanket a large dummy acorn, twice as large as life, splendidly painted a glossy buff, and fitting its cork cup as snugly as an egg.

  Twelve

  He was awakened by a muted tapping, scratching, and the sound of something crumbling somewhere. Just as when, having fallen asleep healthy last night, you wake up past midnight in a fever. He listened to these sounds for quite a long while--trup, trup, tock-tock-tock--without any thought about their meaning, simply listening, because they had awakened him and because his hearing had nothing else to do. Trup, tap, scratch, crumble-crumble. Where? To the right? To the left? Cincinnatus raised himself up a little.

  He listened--his whole head became an organ of hearing, his whole body a tense heart; he listened and already began to make sense out of certain indications: the weak distillation of darkness within the cell ... the dark had settled to the bottom ... Beyond the bars of the window, a gray twilight--that meant it was three or half past three ... The guards asleep in the cold ... The sounds were coming from somewhere below ... no, it was, rather, from above, no, it was still below, just on the other side of the wall, at floor level, like a large mouse scratching with iron claws.

  Cincinnatus was especially excited by the concentrated self-confidence of the sounds, the insistent seriousness with which they pursued, in the quiet of the fortress night, perhaps a distant, but none the less attainable goal. With bated breath, with a phantomlike lightness, like a sheet of tissue paper, he slipped off--and tiptoed along the sticky, clinging--to the corner from which it seemed--it seemed to be--but coming closer, he realized that he was mistaken--the tapping was more to the right and higher up; he moved, and again got confused, fooled by the aural deception that occurs when a sound, traversing diagonally one's head, is hurriedly served by the wrong ear.

  Stepping awkwardly, Cincinnatus brushed against the tray, which was standing on the floor near the wall. "Cincinnatus!" said the tray reproachfully; and then the tapping ceased with abrupt suddenness, which conveyed to the listener a heartening rationality; and, standing motionless by the wall, pressing down with his toe the spoon on the tray and tilting his open, hollow head, Cincinnatus felt that
the unknown digger was also standing still and listening.

  A half-minute passed and the sounds, quieter, more restrained, but more expressive and wiser, began again. Turning and slowly moving his sole off the zinc, Cincinnatus tried again to ascertain their location: to the right, if one stood facing the door ... yes, to the right, and, in any case, still far off ... after listening a long time that was all he was able to conclude. Finally moving back toward the cot to get his slippers--he could not stand it barefoot any longer-he startled the loud-legged chair, which never spent the night in the same spot twice, and again the sounds ceased, this time for good; that is, they might have resumed after a cautious interval, but morning was already coming into its own and Cincinnatus saw--with the eyes of habitual imagination--Rodion, all steaming from the dampness and opening in a yawn his bright-red mouth as he stretched on his stool in the hall.

  All morning long Cincinnatus listened and calculated how he could make known his attitude to the sounds in case they should recur. A summer thunderstorm, simply yet tastefully staged, was performed outside: it was as dark as evening in the cell, thunder was heard, now substantial and round, now sharp and crackly, and lightning printed the shadows of the bars in unexpected places. At noon Rodrig Ivanovich arrived.

  "You have company," he said, "but first I wanted to find out ..."

  "Who?" asked Cincinnatus, at the same time thinking: please, not now... (that is, please do not let the tapping resume now).

  "You see, here's the way it is," said the director, "I am not sure that you wish ... You see, it's your mother--votre mere, parait-il."

  "My mother?" asked Cincinnatus.

  "Well, yes--mother, mummy, mama--in short, the woman who gave birth to you. Shall I admit her? Make up your mind quickly."

  "... I have only seen her once in my life," said Cincinnatus, "and I really have no feeling ... no, no, it's not worth it, don't, it would be pointless."

  "As you wish," said the director and went out.

  A minute later, cooing politely, he led in diminutive Cecilia C, clad in a black raincoat. "I shall leave you two alone," he added benevolently, "even though it is against our rules, sometimes there are situations ... exceptions ... mother and son ... I defer ..."

  Exit, backing out like a courtier.

  In her shiny black raincoat and a similar waterproof hat with lowered brim (giving it something of the appearance of a sou'wester), Cecilia C. remained standing in the center of the cell, looking with a clear gaze at her son; she unbuttoned herself; she sniffled noisily and said in her rapid, choppy way: "What a storm, what mud, I thought I'd never make it up here, streams and torrents coming down the road at me ..."

  "Sit down," said Cincinnatus, "don't stand like that."

  "Say what you will, but it's quiet here in your place," she went on, sniffling all the while and rubbing her finger firmly, as if it were a cheese grater, under her nose, so that the pink tip wrinkled and wagged. "I'll say one thing, it's quiet and fairly clean. By the way, over at the maternity ward, we don't have private quarters as big as this. Oh, that bed--my dear, just look what a mess your bed is!"

  She plopped down her midwife's bag, nimbly pulled the black cotton gloves off her small, mobile hands, and, stooping low over the cot, began making the bed afresh. Her back in the belted coat with its seal-like sheen, her mended stockings...

  "Now, that's better," she said, straightening up; then, standing for a moment with arms akimbo, she looked askance at the book-cluttered table.

  She was youthful, and all her features were a model for those of Cincinnatus, which had emulated them in their own way; Cincinnatus himself was vaguely aware of this resemblance as he looked at her sharp-nosed little face, and protruding, luminous eyes. Her dress was opened in front, revealing a triangle of red sun-tanned freckled skin; in general, however, the integument was the same as that from which a piece had once been taken for Cincinnatus--a pale, thin skin, with sky-blue veins.

  "Tsk, tsk, a little straightening up would be in order here too ..." she prattled and, as quickly as she did everything else, busied herself with the books, arranging them in even piles. In passing her interest was caught by an illustration in an open magazine; she fished out of her raincoat pocket a kidney-shaped case and, dropping the corners of her mouth, put on a pince-nez. "Came out back in '26," she said with a laugh. "Such a long time ago, it's really hard to believe it."

  (Two photographs: in one the President of the Isles shaking with a dental smile the hand of the venerable great granddaughter of the last of the inventors at the Manchester railroad station; in the other, a two-headed calf born in a Danube village.)

  She sighed causelessly, pushed the volume aside, knocked the pencil off, did not catch it in time, and said "oops!"

  "Leave as is," said Cincinnatus. "There can be no disorder here--only a shifting about."

  "Here, I brought you this." (She pulled a pound bag out of her coat pocket, pulling out the lining as well.) "Here. Some candy. Suck on it to your heart's content."

  She sat down and puffed out her cheeks.

  "I climbed, and climbed, and finally made it, and now I am tired," she said, puffing deliberately; then she froze, gazing with vague longing at the cobweb up above.

  "Why did you come?" asked Cincinnatus pacing about the cell. "It doesn't do you any good, and it doesn't do me any good. Why? It is neither kind, nor interesting. For I can see perfectly well that you are just as much of a parody as everybody and everything else. And if they treat me to such a clever parody of a mother ... But imagine, for instance, that I have pinned my hopes on some distant sound--how can I have faith in it, if even you are a fraud? And you speak of 'candy!' Why not 'goodies'? And why is your raincoat wet when your shoes are dry--see, that's careless. Tell the prop man for me."

  Hastily and guiltily, she said, "But I wore rubbers--I left them down in the office, word of honor."

  "Oh, enough, enough. Just don't start explaining. Play your role--go heavy on the prattle and the unconcern--and you won't have to worry, it'll get by."

  "I came because I am your mother," she said softly, and Cincinnatus burst out laughing:

  "No, no, don't let it degenerate into farce. Remember, this is a drama. A little comedy is all right, but still you ought not to walk too far from the station--the drama might leave without you. You'd do better to ... yes, I'll tell you what, why don't you tell me again the legend about my father. Can it be true that he vanished into the dark of night, and you never found out who he was or where he came from--it's strange ..."

  "Only his voice--I didn't see the face," she answered as softly as before.

  "That's it, that's it, play up to me--I think perhaps we'll make him a runaway sailor," dejectedly continued Cincinnatus, snapping his fingers and pacing, pacing, "or a sylvan robber making a guest appearance in a public park. Or a wayward craftsman, a carpenter ... Come, quickly, think of something."

  "You don't understand," she cried (in her excitement she stood up and immediately sat down again). "It's true, I don't know who he was--a tramp, a fugitive, anything is possible ... But why can't you understand ... yes, it was a holiday, it was dark in the park, and I was still a child, but that's beside the point. The important thing is that it was not possible to make a mistake! A man who is being burned alive knows perfectly well that he isn't taking a dip in our Strop. Why, what I mean is, one can't be wrong ... Oh, can't you understand?"

  "Can't understand what?"

  "Oh, Cincinnatus, he too was ..."

  "What do you mean, 'he too'?"

  "He was also like you, Cincinnatus...."

  She quite lowered her face, dropping her pince-nez into her cupped hand.

  Pause.

  "How do you know this?" Cincinnatus asked morosely. "How can you suddenly notice ..."

  "I am not going to tell you anything more," she said without raising her eyes.

  Cincinnatus sat down on the cot and lapsed into thought. His mother blew her nose with an extraordinarily loud tru
mpet sound, which one would hardly expect from so small a woman, and looked up at the window recess. Evidently the weather had cleared, for one felt the close presence of blue skies, and the sun had painted its stripe on the wall--now it would pale, then brighten again.

  "There are cornflowers now in the rye," she said, speaking fast, "and everything is so wonderful--clouds are scudding, everything is so restless and bright. I live far from here, in Doctorton, and when I come to this city of yours, when I drive across the fields in the little old gig, and see the Strop gleaming, and this hill with the fortress on it, and everything, it always seems to me that a marvelous tale is being repeated over and over again, and I either don't have the time to, or am unable to grasp it, and still somebody keeps repeating it to me, with such patience! I work all day at our ward, I take everything in my stride, I have lovers, I adore ice-cold lemonade, although I've dropped smoking, because of heart trouble--and here I am sitting with you ... I sit here and I don't know why I sit, why I bawl, and why I tell you all this, and now I shall be hot trudging down in this coat and this wool dress, the sun will be absolutely fiendish after a storm like that ..."

  "No, you're still only a parody," murmured Cincinnatus.

  She smiled interrogatively.

  "Just like this spider, just like those bars, just like the striking of that clock," murmured Cincinnatus.

  "So," she said, and blew her nose again.

  "So, that's how it is," she repeated.

  They both remained silent, not looking at each other, while the clock struck with nonsensical resonance.

  "When you go out," said Cincinnatus, "note the clock in the corridor. The dial is blank; however, every hour the watchman washes off the old hand and daubs on a new one--and that's how we live, by tarbrush time, and the ringing is the work of the watchman, which is why he is called a 'watch' man."