The footmen, recruited from among the town’s most adroit dandies—the best representatives of its purple youth—briskly served the food (sometimes even leaping across the table with a dish), and everyone noticed the polite solicitude with which M’sieur Pierre took care of Cincinnatus, immediately switching from a conversational smile to momentary seriousness, while he carefully placed a choice morsel on Cincinnatus’s plate; whereupon, with the former playful twinkle on his pink, hairless face, he would resume his witty conversation, directed to the whole table—and suddenly, leaning over just a little, grabbing the gravy boat or the pepper shaker, he would glance interrogatively at Cincinnatus; the latter, however, did not touch any of the food, but continued, just as silently, attentively and diligently, to shift the knife about.
“Your remark,” M’sieur Pierre said gaily, turning to the city traffic chief, who had managed to get a word in and was now pleasurably anticipating a scintillating reply, “your remark reminds me of the well-known anecdote about the Hippocratic oath.”
“Tell it, we don’t know it, do tell it,” voices begged him from all sides.
“I comply with your wish,” said M’sieur Pierre. “To a gynecologist comes this—”
“Scuse the intermission,” said the lion-tamer (gray-haired and mustachioed, with a crimson ribbon across his chest), “but is the gent convicted that the anecdotus is wholesomely for the ears of …?” He emphatically indicated Cincinnatus with his eyes.
“Quite, quite,” M’sieur Pierre replied sternly, “I would never allow myself the slightest impropriety in the presence of … As I was saying, to a gynecologist comes this little old lady” (M’sieur Pierre stuck out his lower lip slightly). “She says, ‘I’ve got quite a serious illness and I’m afraid it’ll be the death of me.’ ‘What are the symptoms?’ asks the doctor. ‘Oh doctor, my head shakes …’ ” and M’sieur Pierre, mumbling and shaking, mimicked the old woman.
The guests roared. At the other end of the table the deaf judge, his face in agonized contortions as if constipated with laughter, was thrusting his large, humid ear in the face of his guffawing, selfish neighbor, and, tugging at his sleeve, implored him to repeat the story of M’sieur Pierre, who, meanwhile, was jealously following the fate of his anecdote across the whole length of the table, and was satisfied only when somebody had assuaged the sufferer’s curiosity.
“Your remarkable aphorism that life is a medical secret,” said the custodian of fountains, creating such a spray of fine saliva that a rainbow formed near his mouth, “might very well be applied to the odd thing that happened the other day in my secretary’s family. Can you imagine …”
“Well, my little Cincinnatus, are you afraid?” one of the glittering footmen asked Cincinnatus as he poured him wine; Cincinnatus looked up, it was his waggish brother-in-law. “Afraid, aren’t you? Here, have a drink on the brink.”
“What’s going on here?” M’sieur Pierre coldly said, putting the babbler in his place, and the latter promptly stepped away, and now he was bending over with his bottle at the elbow of the next guest.
“Gentlemen!” exclaimed the host, rising from his chair and holding his glass containing an icy pale-yellow drink at the level of his starched chest. “I propose a toast to …”
“Bitter, bitter, sweeten it with a kiss,” said a recent best man, and the rest of the guests joined in the chanting.
“Let us … a bruderschaft … I implore you—” M’sieur Pierre said to Cincinnatus in a changed voice, his face twisted in supplication, “do not refuse me this, I implore you, this is the way it is done always, always …”
Cincinnatus was fiddling with the curled petal tips of the moist white rose, which he had absently pulled out of the overturned vase.
“… I have the right, finally, to demand,” M’sieur Pierre whispered convulsively, and suddenly, with a gasp of forced laugh, he poured a drop of wine from his glass on top of Cincinnatus’s head, and then sprinkled himself also.
Cries of “Bravo!” were heard from all sides, and neighbor would turn to neighbor, expressing in dramatic pantomime his wonder and delight, and the unbreakable glasses clinked, and heaps of apples each as big as a child’s head shone among the dusty-blue bunches of grapes on a silver ship breasting the air, and the table seemed to slope up like a diamond mountain, and the many-armed chandelier journeyed through the mists of plafond art, shedding tears, shedding beams, in vain search of a landing.
“I am touched, touched,” M’sieur Pierre was saying, as they took turns coming up to him to congratulate him. As they did so, some of them stumbled, and a few sang. The father of the city firemen was disgracefully drunk; two of the servants were trying stealthily to haul him away, but he sacrificed his coattails like a lizard does its tail, and remained. The respectable woman, who supervised the schools, flushing blotchily, was silently and tensely leaning away as she defended herself from the supply director, who was playfully aiming at her with his finger, which resembled a carrot, as though he were about to transfix her or tickle her, all the while repeating, “tee-tee-tee!”
“Friends, let us go out on the terrace,” announced the host, whereupon Marthe’s brother and the son of the late Dr. Sineokov pulled open a drapery with a rattle of wooden rings; the swaying light of painted lanterns revealed a stone veranda, bordered further by the tenpinlike uprights of a balustrade, between which showed black the hourglasses of night.
The sated guests, their bellies gurgling, settled themselves in low armchairs. Some lounged by the columns, others near the balustrade. Near it, too, stood Cincinnatus, twirling in his fingers the mummy of a cigar, and beside him, not turning to him but incessantly touching him either with his back, or with his side, M’sieur Pierre was saying to the accompaniment of approving exclamations from his listeners:
“Photography and fishing—those are my two chief passions. It may seem odd to you, but fame and honor are nothing to me compared with rural quiet. I see you are smiling skeptically, kind sir” (he said in passing to one of the guests who at once repudiated his smile), “but I swear to you that this is so, and I do not swear idly. The love of nature was bequeathed to me by my father, who never lied either. Many of you, of course, remember him and can confirm this, even in writing, if it should become necessary.”
Standing by the balustrade, Cincinnatus peered vaguely into the darkness, and just then, as if by request, the darkness paled enticingly, as the moon, now clear and high, glided out from behind the black fleece of cloudlets, varnished the shrubs, and let its light trill in the ponds. Suddenly, with an abrupt start of the soul, Cincinnatus realized that he was in the very thick of the Tamara Gardens which he remembered so well and which had seemed so inaccessible to him; he realized that he had walked here with Marthe many times, past this very house in which he was now and which had then appeared to him as a white villa with boarded-up windows, glimpsed through the foliage on the hillock … Now, exploring the surroundings with a diligent eye, he easily removed the murky film of night from the familiar lawns and also erased from them the superfluous lunar dusting, so as to make them exactly as they were in his memory. As he restored the painting smudged by the soot of night, he saw groves, paths, brooks taking shape where they used to be … In the distance, pressing against the metallic sky, the charmed hills stood still, glossed with blue and folded in gloom.…
“A porch, moon’s torch, and he, and she,” recited M’sieur Pierre smiling at Cincinnatus, who noticed that everyone was looking at him with tender, expectant sympathy.
“Admiring the landscape?” said the park superintendent to him with a confidential air, hands clasped behind his back. “You …” He stopped short and, as if somewhat embarrassed, turned to M’sieur Pierre: “Excuse me … do I have your permission? After all I haven’t been introduced …”
“Please, please, you don’t have to ask my permission,” M’sieur Pierre replied courteously and, touching Cincinnatus’s elbow said in a low voice, “This gentleman would like to chat with yo
u, my dear.”
The park superintendent cleared his throat into his fist and repeated, “The landscape … Admiring the landscape? Right now you can’t see very much. But just you wait, exactly at midnight—so our chief engineer has promised me … Nikita Lukich! Over here, Nikita Lukich.”
“Coming,” Nikita Lukich responded in a jaunty bass, and obligingly stepped forward, cheerfully turning now to one, now to the other, his youthful, fleshy face with the white brush of a mustache, and placing a hand comfortably on the shoulder of the park superintendent and on that of M’sieur Pierre.
“I was just telling him, Nikita Lukich, that you promised, exactly at midnight, in honor of …”
“Why of course,” the chief engineer interrupted. “We shall have the surprise without fail. Don’t you worry about that. By the way, what time is it, boys?”
He relieved the others’ shoulders of the pressure of his broad hands and, with a preoccupied mien, went inside.
“Well, in eight hours or so we shall already be in the square,” said M’sieur Pierre, squeezing shut the lid of his watch. “We shan’t be getting much sleep. You aren’t cold, are you, my dear? The nice man said there would be a surprise. I must say they are spoiling us. That fish we had for dinner was without equal.”
“… Stop it, leave me alone,” said the husky voice of the lady administrator, whose massive back and gray bun were coming straight at M’sieur Pierre as she retreated from the supply director’s index finger. “Tee-tee,” he squeaked playfully, “tee-tee.”
“Take it easy, madam,” croaked M’sieur Pierre. “My corns aren’t state property.”
“Bewitching woman,” the supply director remarked in passing, totally without expression and, capering, headed toward a group of men standing by the columns; then his shadow was lost among their shadows, and a breeze made the Japanese lanterns sway, and in the dark there would be revealed now a hand pompously preening a mustache, now a cup raised to senile, fish lips that were trying to get the sugar from the bottom.
“Attention!” the host shouted, passing like a whirlwind among the guests.
And, first in the garden, then beyond it, then still further, along the walks, in groves, in glades and on lawns, singly and in clusters, ruby, sapphire, and topaz lamps lit up, gradually inlaying the night with gems. The guests began to “oh!” and “ah!” M’sieur Pierre inhaled sharply and grabbed Cincinnatus by the wrist. The lights covered an ever-increasing area: now they stretched out along a distant valley, now they were on the other side of it, in the form of an elongated brooch, now they already studded the first slopes; once there they passed on from hill to hill, nestling in the most secret folds, groping their way to the summits, crossing over them! “Oh, how beautiful,” whispered M’sieur Pierre, for an instant pressing his cheek against the cheek of Cincinnatus.
The guests applauded. For three minutes a good million light bulbs of diverse colors burned, artfully planted in the grass, in branches, on cliffs, and all arranged in such a way as to embrace the whole nocturnal landscape with a grandiose monogram of “P” and “C,” which, however, had not quite come off. Thereupon the lights went out all at once and solid darkness reached up to the terrace.
When engineer Nikita Lukich reappeared they surrounded him and wanted to toss him. It was time, however, to begin thinking about a well deserved rest. Before the guests left, the host offered to photograph M’sieur Pierre and Cincinnatus by the balustrade. M’sieur Pierre, even though he was the one who was being photographed, nevertheless directed this operation. A burst of light illumined the white profile of Cincinnatus and the eyeless face beside him. The host himself handed them their capes and went out to see them off. In the vestibule morose soldiers were clattering sleepily as they sorted out their halberds.
“I am ineffably flattered by your visit,” the host said to Cincinnatus in parting. “Tomorrow—or rather this morning—I shall be there, of course, and not only in an official capacity but also in a personal one. My nephew tells me that a large gathering is expected.
“Well, good luck to you,” said he to M’sieur Pierre in between the traditional three kisses on the cheeks.
Cincinnatus and M’sieur Pierre, with their escort of soldiers, plunged into the lane.
“On the whole you are a good fellow,” said M’sieur Pierre when they had gone a little distance, “only why do you always.… Your shyness makes an extremely unfavorable impression on new people. I don’t know about you,” he added, “but although I am delighted with the illumination and so forth, I have heartburn and a suspicion that not all the cooking was done with creamery butter.”
They walked a long time. It was very dark and foggy.
A blunt knock-knock-knock came from somewhere off to the left as they were descending Steep Avenue. Knock-knock-knock.
“The scoundrels,” muttered M’sieur Pierre. “Didn’t they swear it was all done?”
At last they crossed the bridge and started uphill. The moon had already been removed and the dark towers of the fortress blended with the clouds.
At the third gate, Rodrig Ivanovich was waiting in dressing gown and nightcap.
“Well, how was it?” he asked impatiently.
“Nobody missed you,” M’sieur Pierre said dryly.
Eighteen
“Tried to sleep, could not, only got chilled all through, and now it is dawn” (Cincinnatus wrote rapidly, illegibly, leaving words unfinished, as a running man leaves an incomplete footprint), “now the air is pale, and I am so frozen that it seems to me that the abstract concept of ‘cold’ must have as its concrete form the shape of my body, and they are going to come for me any time now. It makes me ashamed to be afraid, but I am desperately afraid—fear, never halting, rushes through me with an ominous roar, like a torrent, and my body vibrates like a bridge over a waterfall, and one has to speak very loud to hear oneself above the roar. I am ashamed, my soul has disgraced itself—for this ought not to be, ne dolzhno bïlo bï bït’—only on the bark of the Russian language could such a fungus bunch of verbs have sprouted—oh, how ashamed I am that my attention is occupied, my soul blocked by such dithering details, they push through, with lips wet, to say farewell, all kinds of memories come to say farewell: I, a child, am sitting with a book in the hot sun on the bank of a dinning stream, and the water throws its wavering reflection on the lines of an old, old poem,—‘Love at the sloping of our years’—but I know I should not yield—‘Becomes more tender and superstitious’—neither to memories, nor to fear, nor to this passionate syncope: ‘… and superstitious’—and I had hoped so much that everything would be orderly, all simple and neat. For I know that the horror of death is nothing really, a harmless convulsion—perhaps even healthful for the soul—the choking wail of a newborn child or a furious refusal to release a toy—and that there once lived, in caverns where there is the tinkle of a perpetual stillicide, and stalactites, sages who rejoiced at death and who—blunderers for the most part, it is true—yet who in their own way, mastered—and even though I know all this, and know yet another main, paramount thing that no one here knows—nevertheless, look, dummies, how afraid I am, how everything in me trembles, and dins, and rushes—and any moment now they will come for me, and I am not ready, I am ashamed …”
Cincinnatus got up, made a running start and smashed headlong into the wall—the real Cincinnatus, however, remained sitting at the table, staring at the wall, chewing his pencil, and presently shuffled his feet under the table and continued to write, a little less rapidly:
“Save these jottings—I do not know whom I ask, but save these jottings—I assure you that such a law exists, look it up, you will see!—let them lie around for a while-how can that hurt you?—and I ask you so earnestly—my last wish—how can you not grant it? I must have at least the theoretical possibility of having a reader, otherwise, really, I might as well tear it all up. There, that is what I needed to say. Now it is time to get ready.”
He paused again. It had already grown
quite light in the cell, and Cincinnatus knew by the position of the light that half-past five was about to strike. He waited until he heard the distant ringing, and went on writing, but now quite slowly and haltingly, just as if he had spent all his strength on some initial exclamation.
“My words all mill about in one spot,” wrote Cincinnatus. “Envious of poets. How wonderful it must be to speed along a page and, right from the page, where only a shadow continues to run, to take off into the blue. The untidiness, sloppiness of an execution, of all the manipulations, before and after. How cold the blade, how smooth the ax’s grip. With emery paper. I suppose the pain of parting will be red and loud. The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express it, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before. It is hard to imagine that this very morning, in an hour or two …”
But two hours passed, and more, and, just as always, Rodion brought breakfast, tidied the cell, sharpened the pencil, removed the close-stool, fed the spider. Cincinnatus did not ask him anything, but, when Rodion had left, and time dragged on at its customary trot, he realized that once again he had been duped, that he had strained his soul to no purpose, and that everything had remained just as uncertain, viscous and senseless as before.
Invitation to a Beheading Page 15
