Read Online Invitation to a Beheading by Vladimir Nabokov - Free Book Online
Authors: Vladimir Nabokov
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uncorked, and all the contents would run out. His bones were light and thin; his meek toe nails (you dear ones, you innocent ones) gazed up at him with childlike attention; and, as he sat thus on the cot—naked, his entire skinny back, from coccyx to cervical vertebrae, exposed, to the observers on the other side of the door (he could hear whispers, rustling movements, a discussion of something or other—but never mind, let them look), Cincinnatus might have passed for a sickly youth—even the back of his head, with its hollowed nape and tuft of wet hair, was boyish—and exceptionally handy. From the same valise Cincinnatus took a small mirror and a vial of depilatory water which always reminded him of that marvelously hirsute mole which Marthe had on her side. He rubbed it into his prickly cheeks, removing the prickliness and carefully avoiding the mustache.
Nice and clean now. He heaved a sigh and put on the cool nightshirt, still smelling of home washing.
It grew dark. He lay in bed and kept floating. At the customary hour Rodion turned on the light and removed thebucket and the tub. The spider lowered itself to him on a thread and settled on the finger which Rodion offered to the furry beastie, chatting with it as with a canary. Meanwhile the door to the corridor remained ajar, and all at once something stirred there … for an instant the twining tips of pale curls drooped, and then disappeared when Rodion moved as he gazed up at the tiny black aerialist receding up under the circus dome. The door still remained a quarter of the way open. Heavy Rodion, with his leather apron and his crinky red beard, lumbered about the cell, and, when the clock (closer now because of the direct communication) began its hoarse rattle prior to striking, he produced a thick watch from a recess in his belt and checked the time. Then, supposing Cincinnatus to be asleep, he watched him for a rather long time, leaning on his broom as on a halberd. Having reached who knows what conclusions he moved again … Just then, silently and not very fast, a red-and-blue ball rolled in through the door, followed one leg of a right triangle straight under the cot, disappeared for an instant, thumped against the chamber pot, and rolled out along the other cathetus—that is, toward Rodion, who all without noticing it, happened to kick it as he took a step; then, following the hypotenuse, the ball departed into the same chink through which it had entered. Shouldering the broom, Rodion left the cell. The light went out.
Cincinnatus did not sleep, did not sleep, did not sleep—no, he was asleep, but with a moan scrambled out again—and now again he did not sleep, slept, did not sleep, and everything was jumbled—
Marthe, the executioner’s block, her velvet—and how willit turn out … which will it be? A beheading or a tryst? Everything merged totally, but he did open his eyes for just one more wink when the light went on and Rodion entered on tiptoe, took the catalogue in its black binding from the table, went out, and it became dark.
Six
What was it—through everything terrible, nocturnal, unwieldy—what was that thing? It had been last to move aside, reluctantly yielding to the huge, heavy wagons of sleep, and now it was first to hurry back—so pleasant, so very pleasant—swelling, growing more distinct, suffusing his heart with warmth: Marthe is coming today!
Just then Rodion brought a lilac letter on a salver as they do in plays. Cincinnatus perched on the bed and read the following: “A million apologies! An inexcusable blunder! Upon consulting the text of the law it was discovered that an interview is granted only upon expiration of one week following the trial. Hence we shall postpone it until tomorrow. Best of health, old boy, regards. Everything thesame here, one worry after another, the paint sent for the sentry boxes again turned out to be worthless, about which I had already written, but without results.”
Rodion,
Nice and clean now. He heaved a sigh and put on the cool nightshirt, still smelling of home washing.
It grew dark. He lay in bed and kept floating. At the customary hour Rodion turned on the light and removed thebucket and the tub. The spider lowered itself to him on a thread and settled on the finger which Rodion offered to the furry beastie, chatting with it as with a canary. Meanwhile the door to the corridor remained ajar, and all at once something stirred there … for an instant the twining tips of pale curls drooped, and then disappeared when Rodion moved as he gazed up at the tiny black aerialist receding up under the circus dome. The door still remained a quarter of the way open. Heavy Rodion, with his leather apron and his crinky red beard, lumbered about the cell, and, when the clock (closer now because of the direct communication) began its hoarse rattle prior to striking, he produced a thick watch from a recess in his belt and checked the time. Then, supposing Cincinnatus to be asleep, he watched him for a rather long time, leaning on his broom as on a halberd. Having reached who knows what conclusions he moved again … Just then, silently and not very fast, a red-and-blue ball rolled in through the door, followed one leg of a right triangle straight under the cot, disappeared for an instant, thumped against the chamber pot, and rolled out along the other cathetus—that is, toward Rodion, who all without noticing it, happened to kick it as he took a step; then, following the hypotenuse, the ball departed into the same chink through which it had entered. Shouldering the broom, Rodion left the cell. The light went out.
Cincinnatus did not sleep, did not sleep, did not sleep—no, he was asleep, but with a moan scrambled out again—and now again he did not sleep, slept, did not sleep, and everything was jumbled—
Marthe, the executioner’s block, her velvet—and how willit turn out … which will it be? A beheading or a tryst? Everything merged totally, but he did open his eyes for just one more wink when the light went on and Rodion entered on tiptoe, took the catalogue in its black binding from the table, went out, and it became dark.
Six
What was it—through everything terrible, nocturnal, unwieldy—what was that thing? It had been last to move aside, reluctantly yielding to the huge, heavy wagons of sleep, and now it was first to hurry back—so pleasant, so very pleasant—swelling, growing more distinct, suffusing his heart with warmth: Marthe is coming today!
Just then Rodion brought a lilac letter on a salver as they do in plays. Cincinnatus perched on the bed and read the following: “A million apologies! An inexcusable blunder! Upon consulting the text of the law it was discovered that an interview is granted only upon expiration of one week following the trial. Hence we shall postpone it until tomorrow. Best of health, old boy, regards. Everything thesame here, one worry after another, the paint sent for the sentry boxes again turned out to be worthless, about which I had already written, but without results.”
Rodion,
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