Invitation to a Beheading

by Nabokov, Vladimir

  By means of retouching and other photographic tricks, what appeared to be progressive changes in Emmie’s face had been achieved (incidentally, the trickster had made use of her mother’s photographs); but one had only to look closer and it became repulsively obvious how trite was this parody of the work of time. The Emmie who was leaving by the stage door, in furs, with flowers pressed to her shoulder, had limbs that had never danced; while in the next shot, showing her already in her bridal veil, the groom at her side was tall and slender, but had the round little face of M’sieur Pierre. At thirty she already had what was supposed to look like wrinkles, drawn in without meaning, without life, without knowledge of their true significance, but conveying something very bizarre to the expert, as a chance stirring of a tree’s branches may coincide with a sign gesture comprehensible to a deaf-mute. And at forty Emmie was dying—and here allow me to congratulate you on an inverse error: her face in death could never pass for the face of death!

  Rodion bore this album away, mumbling that the young lady was just leaving, and when he next appeared he deemed it necessary to announce that the young lady had left:

  (Sighing) “Gone, gone …” (To the spider) “Enough, you’ve had enough …” (Showing his palm) “I don’t have anything for you.” (To Cincinnatus again) “It’ll be dull, so dull without our little daughter … how she flitted about, what music she made, our spoiled darling, our golden flower.” (Pause. Then, in a different tone) “What’s the matter, good sir, why don’t you ask those catchy questions any more? Well? So, so,” Rodion convincingly replied to himself and withdrew with dignity.

  After dinner, quite formally, no longer in prison garb but in a velvet jacket, an arty bow tie and new, high-heeled, insinuatingly squeaking boots with glossy legs (making him somehow resemble an operatic woodman), M’sieur Pierre came in, and, behind him, respectfully yielding to him first place in perambulation, speech, everything, came Rodrig Ivanovich and the lawyer with his briefcase. The three of them settled themselves at the table in wicker chairs (brought from the waiting room), while Cincinnatus walked about the cell, in single combat with shameful fear; but presently he also sat down.

  Somewhat clumsily (with a clumsiness that was, however, practiced and familiar) fussing with the briefcase, yanking open its black cheek, holding it partly on his knee, partly leaning it against the table—it would slip off one point, then off the other—the lawyer produced a large writing pad and locked, or rather buttoned up the briefcase, which yielded too readily and therefore at first muffed the fastening nip; he was just placing it on the table, but changed his mind and, taking it by the collar, lowered it to the floor, leaning it against a leg of his chair where it assumed the drooping position of a drunk; he then produced from his lapel an enameled pencil, on the back swing opened the pad and, paying attention to no one and nothing, began covering the detachable pages with even writing; however, this very inattention made all the more obvious the connection between the rapid movement of his pencil and the conference for which everyone had gathered here.

  Rodrig Ivanovich was sitting in the easy chair, leaning back slightly, making the chair creak by the pressure of his solid back, with one purplish paw resting on the arm of his chair and the other thrust in the bosom of his frock coat; every once in a while he would jerk his flabby cheeks and his chin, powdered like a Turkish delight, as if freeing them from some viscous and absorbing element.

  M’sieur Pierre, seated in the center, poured himself water from a decanter, then ever so carefully placed his hands, on the table, fingers interlaced (an artificial aquamarine flashing on his little finger) and, lowering his long eyelashes for ten seconds or so pondered reverently how he would begin his speech.

  “Kind gentlemen,” M’sieur Pierre finally said in a high voice, without raising his eyes, “first of all and before anything else, allow me to outline by means of a few deft strokes what has already been accomplished by me.”

  “Proceed, we beg you,” said the director resonantly, making his chair emit a stern creak.

  “You gentlemen are of course aware of the reasons for the amusing mystification that is required by the tradition of our craft. After all, how would it be if I had announced myself right at the start and offered my friendship to Cincinnatus C.? This, gentlemen, would have certainly resulted in repelling him, frightening him, antagonizing him—in short, I would have committed a fatal blunder.”

  The speaker took a sip from his glass and carefully set it aside.

  He went on, batting his eyelashes: “I need not explain how precious to the success of our common undertaking is that atmosphere of warm camaraderie which, with the help of patience and kindness, is gradually created between the sentenced and the executor of the sentence. It is difficult or even impossible to recall without a shudder the barbarity of long-bygone days, when these two, not knowing each other at all, strangers to each other, but bound together by implacable law, met face to face only at the last instant before the sacrament itself. This has all been changed just as the ancient, barbaric wedding ceremony, more closely resembling a human sacrifice—when the submissive virgin was hurled by her parents into the tent of a stranger—has changed with the passing of time.”

  (Cincinnatus found in his pocket a piece of tinfoil chocolate wrapper and began kneading it.)

  “And so, gentlemen, in order to establish the friendliest possible relations with the condemned, I moved into a gloomy cell like his, in the guise of a prisoner like him, if not more so. My innocent deception could not but succeed and therefore it would be strange for me to feel any remorse; but I do not want the cup of our friendship to be poisoned by the slightest drop of bitterness. In spite of the fact that there are witnesses present, and that I know myself to be absolutely in the right, I ask” (he stretched his hand out to Cincinnatus) “your forgiveness.”

  “Yes, that’s real tact for you,” said the director in a low voice, and his inflamed froglike eyes grew damp; he produced a folded handkerchief and was about to dab at his palpitating eyelid, but thought better of it, and instead fixed a severe, expectant gaze on Cincinnatus. The lawyer also glanced, but only in passing, as he silently moved his lips, which had begun to look like his handwriting, that is, without breaking his connection with the line, which had separated from the paper but was ready to resume its course upon it instantly.

  “Your hand!” roared the director, and took such a whack at the table that he hurt his thumb.

  “No, don’t force him if he does not want to,” M’sieur Pierre said gently. “After all, it is only a formality. Let us continue.”

  “Oh, righteous one,” trilled Rodrig Ivanovich, bestowing upon M’sieur Pierre a glance as moist as a kiss.

  “Let us continue,” said M’sieur Pierre. “During this time I have succeeded in establishing a close friendship with my neighbor. We passed …”

  Cincinnatus looked under the table. M’sieur Pierre for some reason lost countenance, began to fidget and cast a sidelong glance down. The director, lifting a corner of the oilcloth, also looked down and then glanced suspiciously at Cincinnatus. The lawyer, in his turn, made a dive, then looked around at everybody and resumed writing. Cincinnatus straightened up. (Nothing special—he had dropped his little ball of tinfoil.)

  “We passed,” M’sieur Pierre went on in a hurt voice, “long evenings together in constant talks, games and various amusements. Like children, we engaged in contests of strength; I, poor, weak little M’sieur Pierre naturally, oh, naturally was no match for my mighty coeval. We discussed everything—such as sex and other lofty subjects, and the hours flew by like minutes, the minutes like hours. Sometimes, in peaceful silence …”

  Here Rodrig Ivanovich suddenly tittered. “Impayable, ce ‘naturally,’ ” he whispered, getting the joke a little late.

  “… Sometimes, in peaceful silence, we would sit side by side, almost with our arms about each other, each thinking his own twilight thoughts, and the thoughts of both of us would flow together like rivers w
hen we opened our lips to speak. I shared with him my experience in romance, taught him the art of chess, entertained him with a timely anecdote. And so the days passed. The results are before you. We grew to love each other, and the structure of Cincinnatus’s soul is as well known to me as the structure of his neck. Thus it will be not an unfamiliar, terrible somebody but a tender friend that will help him mount the crimson steps, and he will surrender himself to me without fear—forever, for all death. Let the will of the public be carried out!” (He got up; the director got up also; the lawyer, engrossed in his writing, only rose slightly.)

  “So. Now, Rodrig Ivanovich, I shall ask you to announce my title officially and to introduce me.”

  The director hastily put on his glasses, examined a slip of paper, and in a megaphone voice addressed Cincinnatus:

  “All right—This is M’sieur Pierre. Bref—the performer of the execution.… I am grateful for the honor,” he added and, with an astonished expression on his face, dropped back into his chair.

  “Well, you didn’t manage that too well,” said M’sieur Pierre with displeasure. “After all, there are certain official forms of procedure and they ought to be followed. I am certainly no pedant, but at such an important moment … It’s no use holding your hand to your chest, you botched it, friend. No, no, stay seated, enough. Now let us continue. Roman Vissarionovich, where is the program?”

  “I gave it to you,” the lawyer said glibly. “However …” and he began to rummage in his briefcase.

  “I found it, don’t bother,” said M’sieur Pierre, “so … the performance is scheduled for the day after tomorrow … In Thriller Square. Couldn’t they have picked a better place … Remarkable!” (Goes on reading, muttering to himself) “Adults will be admitted … Circus subscription stubs will be honored … So, so, so … The performer of the execution, in red pantaloons … now this is nonsense—they’ve overdone it, as usual …” (To Cincinnatus) “Day after tomorrow, then. Did you understand—? And tomorrow, as our glorious custom demands, you and I must go visit the city fathers—I think you have the little list, don’t you, Rodrig Ivanovich?”

  Rodrig Ivanovich began to slap at various parts of his cotton-padded body, rolling his eyes and for some reason getting up. At last the list was found.

  “All righty,” said M’sieur Pierre. “Add it to your file, Roman Vissarionovich. I think that does it. Now, according to the law, the floor belongs to—”

  “Oh, no, c’est vraiment superflu…” Rodrig Ivanovich interrupted hastily. “After all, that’s a very antiquated law.”

  “According to the law,” M’sieur Pierre repeated firmly, turning to Cincinnatus, “the floor is yours.”

  “Honest one!” said the director in a breaking voice, his jelly jowls shaking.

  Silence ensued. The lawyer was writing so quickly that the flashing of his pencil hurt the eyes.

  “I shall wait one whole minute,” said M’sieur Pierre, placing a thick watch on the table before him.

  The lawyer inhaled jerkily and began gathering up the thickly covered sheets.

  The minute passed.

  “The conference is concluded,” said M’sieur Pierre. “Let us go, gentlemen. Roman Vissarionovich, you will let me look over the minutes before you have them mimeographed, won’t you? No, a little later—right now my eyes are tired.”

  “I must admit,” said the director, “in spite of myself I sometimes regret that we no longer use the sys …” He bent over to M’sieur Pierre’s ear in the doorway.

  “What’s that you’re saying, Rodrig Ivanovich?” the lawyer inquired jealously. The director whispered it to him also.

  “Yes, you’re right,” agreed the lawyer. “However, the dear little law can be circumvented. For example, if we stretch the chop-chop out to several times …”

  “Now, now,” said M’sieur Pierre, “enough of that, you jokers, I never make notches.”

  “No, we were just speaking theoretically,” the director smiled ingratiatingly; “only in the old days, when it was legal to use—” The door slammed shut, and the voices faded in the distance.

  Almost immediately, however, another guest called on Cincinnatus—the librarian, coming to fetch the books. His long, pale face with its halo of dusty-black hair around a bald spot, his long tremulous torso in the bluish sweater, his long legs in the truncated trousers—all of this together created an odd, morbid impression, as if the man had been squashed and flattened out. However, it seemed to Cincinnatus that, with the book dust, a film of something remotely human had settled on the librarian.

  “You must have heard,” said Cincinnatus, “the day after tomorrow will be my extermination. I shan’t be taking any more books.”

  “You will not,” said the librarian.

  Cincinnatus went on: “I should like to weed out a few noxious truths. Do you have a minute? I want to say that now, when I know exactly … How delightful was that very ignorance that so depressed me … No more books …”

  “Would you like something about gods?” the librarian suggested.

  “No, don’t bother. I don’t feel like reading that.”

  “Some do,” said the librarian.

  “Yes, I know, but really, it’s not worthwhile.”

  “For the last night,” the librarian finished his thought with difficulty.

  “You are awfully talkative today,” said Cincinnatus with a smile. “No, take all this away. I wasn’t able to finish Quercus! Oh yes, by the way, this was brought me by mistake … these little volumes … Arabic, aren’t they? … unfortunately I hadn’t time to study the Oriental languages.”

  “Pity,” said the librarian.

  “It’s all right, my soul will make up for it. Wait a minute, do not go yet. Although I know, of course, that you are only bound in human skin, as it were, yet … I am content with little … The day after tomorrow—”

  But, trembling, the librarian left.

  Seventeen

  Tradition required that on the eve of the execution its passive and active participants together make a brief farewell visit to each of the chief officials; however, in order to shorten the ritual, it was decided that those persons would assemble at the suburban house of the deputy city manager (the manager himself, who was the deputy’s nephew, was away, visiting friends in Pritomsk) and that Cincinnatus and M’sieur Pierre would drop in for an informal supper.

  It was a dark night, and a strong warm wind was blowing when, dressed in identical capes, on foot, escorted by six soldiers carrying halberds and lanterns, they crossed the bridge and entered the sleeping city where, avoiding the main streets, they began to climb a flinty path between rustling gardens.

  (Just before that, on the bridge Cincinnatus had turned, freeing his head from the hood of his cloak: the blue, elaborate, many-towered, huge bulk of the fortress rose into the dull sky, where a cloud had barred an apricot moon. The dark air above the bridge blinked and twitched because of the bats. “You promised …,” whispered M’sieur Pierre, giving him a slight squeeze on the elbow, and Cincinnatus again pulled on his cowl.)

  This nocturnal promenade which had promised to be so rich with sad, carefree, singing, murmuring impressions—for what is a recollection, if not the soul of an impression?—proved in reality to be vague and insignificant and flashed by so quickly as happens only amid very familiar surroundings, in the dark, when the varicolored fractions of day are replaced by the integers of night.

  At the end of a narrow and gloomy lane, where the gravel crunched and there was a smell of juniper, there suddenly appeared a theatrically lighted carriage porch with whitewashed columns, friezes on the pediment, and potted laurels, and hardly pausing in the vestibule, where servants flitted to and fro like birds of paradise, shedding plumes on the black and white tiles, Cincinnatus and M’sieur Pierre entered a hall buzzing with a large gathering. All were assembled here.

  Here the custodian of the city fountains could be at once recognized by his characteristic shock of hair; here t
he telegraph chief’s uniform flashed with golden medals; here, with his obscene nose, was the ruddy director of supplies; and the lion-tamer with an Italian name; and the judge, deaf and venerable; and, in green patent-leather shoes, the park administrator; and a multitude of other stately, respectable, gray-haired individuals with repulsive faces. There were no ladies present, unless one counted the district superintendent of schools, a very stout, elderly woman in a gray frock coat cut like a man’s, with large flat cheeks and a smooth hairdo as shiny as steel.

  Someone slipped on the parquetry, to the accompaniment of general laughter. A chandelier dropped one of its candles. Someone had already placed a bouquet on a small coffin that had been set out for exhibition. Standing apart with Cincinnatus, M’sieur Pierre was calling his charge’s attention to these phenomena.

  Just then, however, the host, a swarthy old man with a goatee, clapped his hands. The doors were flung open, and everyone moved into the dining room. M’sieur Pierre and Cincinnatus were seated side by side at the head of a dazzling table, and everyone began to glance, with restraint at first, then with benevolent curiosity—which in some began to turn into surreptitious tenderness—at the pair, identically clad in Elsinore jackets; then, as a lambent smile gradually appeared on M’sieur Pierre’s lips and he began to talk, the eyes of the guests turned more and more openly toward him and Cincinnatus, who was unhurriedly, diligently and intently—as if seeking the solution to a problem—balancing his fish knife in various ways, now on the salt shaker, now on the incurvation of the fork, now leaning it against the slender crystal vase with a white rose that distinctly adorned his place.