(Here, unfortunately, the light in the cell went out—Rodion always turned it off exactly at ten.)
Nine
And again the day began with a din of voices. Rodion was gloomily giving instructions, and three other attendants were assisting him. The entire family of Marthe had arrived for the interview, bringing with them all their furniture. Not thus, not thus had he imagined this long-awaited meeting … How they lumbered in! Marthels aged father, with his huge bald head, and bags under his eyes, and the rubbery tap of his black cane; Marthe’s brothers, identical twins except that one had a golden mustache and the other a pitch-black one; Marthe’s maternal grandparents, so old that one could already see through them; three vivacious female cousins, who, however, were not admitted for some reason at the last minute; Marthe’s children—lame Diomedon and obese little Pauline; at last Marthe herself, wearing her best black dress, with a velvet ribbon around her cold white neck, and holding a hand mirror; a very proper young man with a flawless profile was constantly at her side.
The father-in-law, leaning on his stick, seated himself in a leather armchair that had arrived with him, with an effort put a fat suede foot up on a stool and, angrily shaking his head, fixed his gaze, from beneath heavy eyelids, on Cincinnatus, who felt the familiar dull sensation at the sight of the frogs ornamenting the father-in-law’s warm jacket, the folds around his mouth that seemed to express eternal disgust, and the purple blotch of a birthmark on his corded temple, with a swelling resembling a big raisin right on the vein.
The grandfather and grandmother (the one all shaky and shriveled, in patched trousers, the other with her white hair bobbed, and so slim that she might have encased herself in a silk umbrella sheath) settled side by side in two identical high-backed chairs; the grandfather tightly clutched in his small hirsute hands a bulky portrait, in a gilt frame, of his mother, a misty young woman, in turn holding a portrait.
Meanwhile, furniture, household utensils, even individual sections of walls continued to arrive. There came a mirrored wardrobe, bringing with it its own private reflection (namely, a corner of the connubial bedroom with a stripe of sunlight across the floor, a dropped glove, and an open door in the distance.) A cheerless little tricycle with orthopedic attachments was rolled in. It was followed by the inlaid table which had supported a flat garnet flacon and a hairpin for the last ten years. Marthe sat down on her black couch, embroidered with roses.
“Woe, woe!” proclaimed the father-in-law, striking the floor with his cane. Frightened little smiles appeared on the faces of the oldsters. “Don’t, daddy, we’ve been through it a thousand times,” Marthe said quietly, and shrugged a chilly shoulder. Her young man offered her a fringed shawl but she, forming the rudiment of a tender smile with one corner of her thin lips, waved away his sensitive hand. (“The first thing I look at in a man is his hands.”) He was dressed in the smart black uniform of a telegraph employee and perfumed with violet scent.
“Woe!” repeated the father-in-law forcefully and began to curse Cincinnatus in detail and with relish. Cincinnatus’s gaze was drawn to Pauline’s green polka-dotted dress: red-haired, cross-eyed, bespectacled, arousing not laughter but sadness with those polka dots and that plumpness, dully moving her fat legs in brown wool stockings and button shoes, she would approach those present and study each, gazing gravely and silently with her small dark eyes, which seemed to meet behind the bridge of her nose. The poor thing had a napkin tied around her neck—evidently they had forgotten to take it off after breakfast.
The father-in-law paused to regain breath, then struck another blow with his cane, whereupon Cincinnatus said, “Yes, I am listening.”
“Silence, insolent fellow,” shouted the former, “I am entitled to expect from you—if only today, when you stand at death’s door—a little respect. How you managed to get yourself on the block … I want an explanation from you—how you could … how you dared …”
Marthe asked her young man something in a low voice; he was carefully rummaging around, probing all around himself and under himself on the couch; “no, no, it’s all right,” he answered just as softly, “I must have dropped it on the way … Don’t worry, it’ll turn up … But tell me, are you sure you’re not cold?” Shaking her head negatively, Marthe lowered her soft palm onto his wrist; and, taking her hand away immediately, she straightened her dress across the knees and in a harsh whisper called her son, who was bothering his uncles, who in turn kept pushing him away—he was preventing them from listening. Diomedon, in a gray blouse with an elastic at the hips, twisting his whole body in a rhythmic distortion, nevertheless quite rapidly covered the distance between them and his mother. His left leg was healthy and rosy; the right one resembled a rifle in its complicated harness: barrel, straps, sling. His round hazel eyes and sparse eyebrows were his mother’s, but the lower half of his face, with its bulldog jowls—this, of course, was someone else’s. “Sit here,” whispered Marthe and, with a quick slap arrested the hand mirror which was trickling off the couch.
“You tell me,” the father-in-law was continuing, “how you dared, you, a happy family man—splendid furniture, wonderful children, a loving wife—how you dared not consider all this, you villain? It seems to me sometimes that I am no more than an old moron and understand nothing, because otherwise I must allow for such loathsomeness … Silence!” he roared, and again the oldsters started and smiled.
A black cat stretched, straining back one hind paw, rubbed itself against Cincinnatus’s leg, then was suddenly on the sideboard, and from there noiselessly leaped onto the shoulder of the lawyer who, having just tiptoed in, was sitting in a corner on a plush hassock—he had a bad cold and, over a handkerchief held ready for use, was inspecting the assembled company and the various household items that made the cell look like the site of an auction; the cat startled him, and he threw it off with a convulsive movement.
The father-in-law was thundering on, multiplying curses and already beginning to grow hoarse. Marthe placed her hand over her eyes; her young man, tensing his jaw muscles, was watching her. On a settee with a curved back sat Marthe’s brothers; the dark one, in a tawny suit and open shirt collar, was holding music paper rolled into a tube and as yet bearing no music—he was one of the city’s foremost singers; his twin, in sky-blue plus-fours, a dandy and a wit, had brought a present for his brother-in-law—a bowl of bright fruit made of wax. He had also fixed a crepe arm band on his sleeve and kept indicating it with his finger as he tried to catch Cincinnatus’s eye.
At the peak of his eloquence the father-in-law suddenly choked and gave his chair such a wrench that quiet little Pauline, who had been standing by him and looking at his mouth, toppled backwards behind the chair, where she lay still, hoping that nobody noticed. With a crackle the father-in-law began opening a cigarette box. Everyone was quiet.
The various trampled sounds began to straighten up. Marthe’s brother, the brunet, cleared his throat and softly began to sing “Mali é trono t’amesti.…” He stopped short and looked at his brother, who made terrible eyes at him. The lawyer, smiling at something, again applied himself to his handkerchief. On the couch, Marthe was talking in a whisper with her escort, who was pleading with her to throw the shawl over herself—the prison air was a little damp. When they spoke they used the formal second person plural, but with what a cargo of tenderness this second person plural was laden as it sailed along the horizon of their barely audible conversation … The little old man, trembling awfully, got up from his chair, handed the portrait to his old woman and, shielding the flame that was trembling like himself, went up to Cincinnatus’s father-in-law, and was going to light his … But the flame went out, and the latter frowned angrily.
“You have really become a nuisance with your stupid lighter,” said he glumly, but already without wrath; then the atmosphere really grew animated, and everybody began talking simultaneously. “Mali é trono t’amesti!” Marthe’s brother sang full voice; “Diomedon, leave the cat alone this instant,” s
aid Marthe. “You already strangled one the other day, one every day is too much. Take it away from him, please, Victor, dear.” Availing herself of the general animation, Pauline crawled out from behind the chair and quietly got up. The lawyer walked over to Cincinnatus’s father-in-law and gave him a light.
“Take the word ‘anxiety,’ ” Cincinnatus’s brother-in-law, the wit, was saying to him. “Now take away the word ‘tiny’, Eh? Comes out funny, doesn’t it? Yes, friend, you’ve really got yourself in a mess. In truth, what made you do such a thing?”
Meanwhile the door opened imperceptibly. M’sieur Pierre and the director stood on the threshold, hands clasped identically behind their backs, and quietly, delicately moving only their eyeballs, were examining the assemblage. They stood and looked like this for more than a minute before leaving.
“Listen to me,” the brother-in-law was saying, breathing hotly. “I’m your old pal. Do as I say. Repent, my little Cincinnatus. Come on, do me this favor. You don’t know, they might still let you off. Eh? Think how unpleasant it is to have your chump lopped off. What do you have to lose? Come on—don’t be a blockhead.”
“Greetings, greetings, greetings,” said the lawyer, coming over to Cincinnatus. “Don’t embrace me, I still have a bad cold. What is the conversation about? How can I be of service?”
“Let me pass,” murmured Cincinnatus, “I have to say a couple of words to my wife …”
“Now, my dearest, let us discuss the question of property,” said the father-in-law, refreshed, and extended his cane in such a way that Cincinnatus stumbled over it. “Wait, wait a minute, I am speaking to you!”
Cincinnatus kept going; he had to get around a large table, set for ten persons, and then squeeze between the screen and the wardrobe in order to reach Marthe, who reclined on the couch. The young man had covered her feet with the shawl. Cincinnatus almost made it, but just then there was an angry shriek from Diomedon. He turned around and saw Emmie, who had entered in some unknown way and was now teasing the boy: imitating his lameness, she was dragging one leg with various complicated contortions. Cincinnatus caught her by the arm, but she broke loose and ran off. Pauline waddled after her in a silent ecstasy of curiosity.
Marthe turned to him. The young man very correctly stood up. “Marthe, just a couple of words, I beg you,” said Cincinnatus rapidly; he tripped over the cushion on the floor and sat down awkwardly on the edge of the couch, at the same time wrapping his ash-smeared dressing gown around himself. “A slight migraine,” said the young man. “What can you expect? Such excitement is bad for her.” “You are right,” said Cincinnatus. “Yes, you are right. I should like to ask you … I must—in private—” “Beg pardon, sir,” said the voice of Rodion close to him. Cincinnatus stood up; Rodion and another employee, looking each other in the eye, grasped the couch on which Marthe was reclining, grunted, picked it up and carried it toward the door. “Good-by, good-by,” Marthe called childishly, swaying in time with the step of the porters, but suddenly she closed her eyes and covered her face. Her escort walked solicitously behind, carrying the black shawl he had picked up from the floor, a bouquet, his uniform cap, and a solitary glove. There was commotion all around. The brothers were packing the dishes in a trunk. Their father, breathing asthmatically, was overcoming the multisegmented screen. The lawyer was offering everyone a vast sheet of wrapping paper obtained by him from some unknown source; he was seen unsuccessfully attempting to wrap in it a bowl containing a pale-orange little fish in clouded water. Amid the commotion the ample wardrobe with its private reflection stood like a pregnant woman, carefully holding and turning aside its glass belly so no one would brush against it. It was tilted backward and, in a reeling hug, carried away. People were coming up to Cincinnatus to say good-by. “Well, let’s let bygones be bygones,” said the father-in-law and, with cold politeness, kissed Cincinnatus’s hand as custom demanded. The blond brother sat the dark one on his shoulders and in that position they took leave of Cincinnatus and departed, like a live mountain. The grandparents were shivering, bowing and holding up the hazy portrait. The employees kept carrying out the furniture. The children approached: Solemn Pauline raised up her face; Diomedon, on the contrary, gazed down at the floor. The lawyer led them away by their respective hands. The last to fly up to him was Emmie, pale, tear-stained, her nose pink and her mouth wet and quivering; she was silent, but suddenly, with a slight crackle, she rose on her toes, twined her hot arms around his neck, whispered incoherently and uttered a loud sob. Rodion seized her by the wrist—judging by his grumbling he had been calling her for a long time; now he dragged her firmly toward the exit. Arching back her body, turning toward Cincinnatus her head with its streaming hair and extending to him, palm upturned, her lovely arm (with the appearance of a ballet captive but with the shadow of genuine despair), Emmie unwillingly followed Rodion as he dragged her; her eyes kept rolling back, her shoulder strap slipped off, and now, with a swinging motion, as though he were emptying a water bucket, he splashed her out into the corridor. Then, still muttering, he returned with a dustpan to pick up the corpse of the cat that lay flat under a chair. The door slammed with a crash. It was now hard to believe that in this cell, only a moment ago—
Invitation to a Beheading Page 8
