Chapter 2 Chapter One

As required by law, the death sentence was announced in a low voice to Cincinnatus C.Everyone present stood up and exchanged smiles.The white-haired judge put his mouth close to his ear, panted heavily, finished his announcement, and walked away slowly, as if reluctant to leave.Cincinnatus was then escorted back to the fort.The road wound up around the stony foothills of the keep and disappeared under the gate like a snake in a crack.He is very calm, but he has to be supported when he walks on the promenade, because he falters, like a child who has just learned to walk, or like a person who dreams that he is walking on the water, and suddenly doubts when his foot is in the air : You have been walking well, why did you fall down?It took a long time for the jailer Rodion to open the door of Cincinnatus' cell - he took the wrong key - and it usually took a lot of trouble.The door finally opened.The lawyer was already waiting for him inside.The lawyer sat on the bed, deep in thought, without his tuxedo (forgot it on the courtroom chair—it was a hot day, and it had been a depressing day).The prisoner had just been brought in, and he couldn't wait to jump up immediately.But Cincinnatus was in a bad mood and did not want to talk.Though then he had to be alone in this cell, which had a peephole like a hole in a boat—he didn't care, insisting on being left alone, so after they bowed to him, then left.

At this point, our story seems to be coming to an end.When we are happy to read a novel, we tend to lightly touch the unfinished part on the right hand side to mechanically determine whether there is much left (if our fingers feel the real thickness, we are always very happy) happy), but now the rest of it is suddenly thin for no reason: hurry up and watch it in a few minutes, already wrapping up - oh, it sucks!What we thought was a large pile of black and reddish smooth cherries suddenly turned into a few scattered ones: the scarred one was a bit rotten, this one was withered, and the skin and core were left (the last one must have been rotten). It's raw and hard), oh, it's terrible!Cincinnatus took off his silk coat and put on his dressing gown, stamped his feet so they wouldn't tremble, and began pacing up and down the cell.On the table gleamed a clean sheet of white paper on which stood sharply sharpened a pencil as long as any man's life but Cincinnatus, with six sides Shine with an ebony sheen.It is a civilized descendant of the index finger.Cincinnatus wrote: "Despite what I've come to, I'm relatively alive. After all, I've had a premonition, a premonition of this ending." Rodion stood outside the door like a captain Like, peeping seriously through the peephole.Cincinnatus felt a chill go down the back of his head.He crossed out what he had written and began to lightly blacken it; an unformed idea gradually took shape, curling into a horn.Oh, that sucks!Rodion gazed through the blue porthole at the rising and falling horizon.Who got seasick?It was Cincinnatus.He was suddenly sweating all over, everything went black, and he could feel the tiny roots of every hair.The clock struck--four or five--with vibrations and vibrations and reverberations worthy of a prison.A spider - the prisoner's official friend - scrambles down a thread with its feet from the ceiling.But no one knocked on the wall, because so far only one prisoner, Cincinnatus, has been held in the huge prison!

After a while, the jailer Rodion came in and asked him to dance a waltz together.Cincinnatus agreed.They start spinning.The chain of keys on Rodion's belt jingled; he reeked of sweat, smoke, and garlic; he hummed, breathing into his red beard; It's gone, man - now he's fat and short of breath).They jumped from the cell into the corridor.Cincinnatus was much shorter than his partner.Cincinnatus is as light as a leaf.The wind from the waltz made the ends of his long thinning beard quiver, and his large clear eyes squinted, as timid dancers do.For a grown man, he was indeed short.Marthe often complained that his shoes were too small for her.At the corner of the corridor stood another guard, unknown, armed with a rifle and wearing a dog-like mask with a tulle over his nose and mouth.They circled around him and jumped all the way back to the cell.Cincinnatus regretted that the ecstatic embrace was so brief.

The dull and dull bell struck again.Time advances in arithmetic increments: it is eight o'clock.The setting sun shone through the ugly little window, and a flaming parallelogram appeared on the side wall.The cell was filled with the colors of dusk right up to the ceiling, including some very strange pigments.One wonders, then, whether it was due to some sloppy colorist painting to the right of the door, or was it due to another ornate window which no longer exists? (It is actually a parchment hanging on the wall, with the "Prisoner's Rules" written in two columns at length; one corner folded, the title in scarlet lettering, little curlicues, the old seal of the city—namely, the protruding fires on either side -provides the necessary materials for the rich colors of dusk.) The cell's ration furniture is a table, a chair, and a bed.The dinner on a zinc plate (convicts sentenced to death are entitled to the same meals as the jailers) had been sitting on the table for a long time and was already cold.It was getting dark.Suddenly, a highly concentrated golden electric light illuminated the cell.

Cincinnatus put his feet off the bed and suddenly felt like a bowling ball was rolling in his head, rolling diagonally from the nape of his neck to his temples, pausing and rolling back again.Just then, the door opened and the warden walked in. As usual, he was wearing a frock coat, standing upright, chest out, one hand tucked into the front of his skirt, the other behind his back.He wore a fine jet-black wig, waxed and parted.An extremely cruel and ruthless face, dark sallow cheeks, a slightly outdated wrinkle system, only the two protruding eyes, in a sense, let it show a little life.Moving steadily on his columned trouser legs, he strode from the wall to the table, almost to the bed—and, despite his dignified steadiness, he calmly disappeared without a trace.A few minutes later, however, the door opened again, this time with the familiar harsh sound.He was wearing the same frock coat, with his chest out, and it was the same person who entered.

"From reliable sources, your fate appears to be sealed," he began in a mellow bass. "It is my duty, my dear sir..." Cincinnatus said, "Okay. You. True." (Word order subject to adjustment.) "It's very kind of you," the other Cincinnatus cleared his throat. "Relieved," cried the warden, ignoring the impropriety of the word. "Relieved! Don't think of anything else. Responsibility. I always do. But I would venture to ask, why don't you eat?" The warden opened the lid, picked up the bowl of solidified stew, and put it under his sensitive nose to smell it.He picked up a piece of potato between two fingers and began to bite hard, his eyes fixed on something on the other plate.

"I don't see what better food you want," he said sullenly, dropping the handcuffs and sitting down at the table to enjoy the rice pudding more comfortably. "I wonder if it's a long time," Cincinnatus said. "Hot custard is delicious! Wondering if it's a long time. I don't know myself. I always get notified at the last minute. I have commented many times for this, if you are interested , I can show you all the correspondence on the subject." "Tomorrow morning, then?" asked Cincinnatus. "If you want to know," said the warden, "... yes, it tastes so good and so satisfying, that's what I'm going to tell you. Well, to understand better, allow me to ask you to smoke Cigarette. Don't be afraid, it's only the second last one at most," he added wryly.

"I didn't ask out of curiosity," said Cincinnatus. "It's true that cowards always ask this and that. But I can assure you... even if I can't control my fears and other emotions." —That doesn't make me cowardly either. The knight is not to blame for the trembling of the horse. The reason why I want to know is that the compensation for the death sentence should be to let the prisoner know the exact moment of execution. It is a luxury, but it should be Yes. However, I am ignorant of the time of my own death, which only a man who lives free can tolerate. Besides, I have many plans in my mind that have been started and interrupted at various times... If I There isn't enough time left before execution to complete these plans in an orderly manner, and I shouldn't even have started them. That's why..."

"Oh, stop mumbling," said the warden angrily. "First, it's against the rules; second—I'll tell you now, in simple Russian, and for the second time—I don't know. All I can tell you is that the Friend of Fate may come at any moment; Here, after resting and getting used to the environment here, he still has to try the torture device. Of course, this is assuming that he did not bring the torture device himself, and this situation is entirely possible. How is the smoke strength? Not too much Is it thick?" "No," replied Cincinnatus, looking absently at his cigarette. "But I think that by law...you don't necessarily know, but the mayor...should..."

"We've talked and that's it," the warden said. "Actually, I didn't come here to get advice, but..." He blinked, fumbled first in one pocket, then in the other, and finally took out a strip of paper from his inner breast pocket. The gridded paper was obviously torn from a notebook used in school. "There's no ashtray here," he said, gesturing with a cigarette in his hand; "let's snuff it out in this little sauce that's left . . . …Oh, it’s okay, let’s make do with it.” He opened the paper, put his horn-rimmed spectacles on instead of his eyes, and began to read clearly:

"'Prisoner! At this solemn hour, the eyes of all' . . . I think we'd better stand up," he interrupted himself with concern, rising from his chair.Cincinnatus also stood up. "'Prisoner, in this solemn hour, when all eyes are on you, and your judges are exuberant, as you prepare for the involuntary bodily movements that immediately follow the severed head, I have a farewell I want to say something to you. It is my mission - and I will never forget it - to provide you with every possible comfort during your stay in prison within the limits of the law. Therefore, if you have any gratitude to express, the most Well put in writing on one side of this paper, I am happy to give it the utmost attention and weight.'” "Okay," said the warden, folding up his glasses. "Business is over. I won't take up any more of your time. If you need anything, just let me know." He sat down at the table and began to write something quickly to show that the official audience was over.Cincinnatus came out of the cell. On the corridor wall cast Rodion's dozing shadow, crouched on the shadow of a stool, with only the outline of a reddish beard visible.At the corner of the wall farther away, another guard had already taken off his standard mask and was wiping his face with his sleeve.Cincinnatus began to walk down the steps.The stone steps are narrow and slippery, and the spiral handrail is as invisible as a ghost.At the bottom, he continued walking along the corridor.One door was open, and the sign "Office" above it was reversed in a mirror.The moonlight shone on the inkwell, the rattling of the wastebasket under the table and the rattling of the window: a mouse must have fallen in.Through many more doors, Cincinnatus stumbled and jumped, and came into a small courtyard full of broken little patches of moonlight.The password tonight is silence, and the soldiers at the gate responded to Cincinnatus' silence with silence, and let him go through, and he passed through the other gates as well.After leaving the misty prison, he began to slide down the dewy turf on the steep slope, stepped on a gray path between the cliffs, and crossed the bend of the main road twice and three times. The shadows, appearing straighter and smoother—Cincinnatus crossed a bridge over a dry creek to the city.He climbed to the top of a steep slope, turned left on Garden Street, and passed rapidly through shrubs with pale gray flowers.Somewhere a window flickered with a light.Behind a fence a dog shook its chain but didn't bark.The breeze blew steadily, cooling the fugitive's bare neck.From time to time, bursts of fragrance waft from Tamara Park.How well he knew the park!Marth was frightened by frogs and beetles there when he was a bride... Whenever life becomes unbearable, people can go there to wander, chewing lilac flowers in their mouths, with firefly tears in their eyes... The larch park with its green turf, its tender pond, the bang of the band in the distance... He turned the corner on Mattfat Street, passing the ruins of an old factory that had once been the center of the town. Pride, past the rustling linden groves, past the merry white cottages of the Telegraph employees (who were constantly celebrating someone's birthday) came to Telegraph Street.There a narrow path leads to the top of the hill, and the linden woods are rustling again.In a park, two men, probably sitting on a stool, were talking quietly in the dark. "I think he was wrong," said one of them.The other made a very unwise answer, and they both let out a sigh that mingled naturally with the rustling of the leaves.Cincinnatus ran to a circular square, and the moonlight shone on the familiar statue of the poet, looking like a snowman with a square head, legs together, and after a few quick steps, he had come to his own on the street.To the right, moonlight casts disparate patterns of foliage on the walls of similar houses, so that Cincinnatus can only recognize his own house by the shape of its shadow and the crossed bars between two windows.The top-floor windows where Marthe lived were unlit, but open.The children must have fallen asleep on the hook-nosed balcony—there's something white over there.Cincinnatus ran up the front steps, opened the door, and entered his lighted cell.He turned around, but he was already locked inside.Oh, that sucks!Pencils glitter on the table.The spider is lying on the yellow wall. "Turn off the lights!" Cincinnatus yelled. The jailer, peering through the peephole, turned off the light.Darkness and silence began to mingle, but the clock interrupted, struck eleven, thought for a moment, and struck again.Lying on his back, Cincinnatus stared into the darkness before him, in which the scattered bright spots faded away.Darkness and silence completely merged into one.Now, and only now (that is, after midnight, lying on his back in his cell cot after a day of horror beyond description) did Cincinnatus become clear about his situation. evaluation of. First, against a background of black velvet on the underside of the eyelids at night, Marthe's face appears, as if in a souvenir box.Ruddy as a doll, her childlike protruding forehead gleamed; above her round hazel eyes, sparse eyebrows slanted upward.She began to blink, turned her head, a black velvet belt was tied around her smooth, delicate, snow-white and soft neck, and the hem of the velvet dress flared out, blending with the darkness.This is how he saw her in the audience, when he was led to the freshly painted dock, he dared not sit, but stood aside (but his hands were still stained with emerald green paint, Newspaper reporters photographed the imprints of his fingers behind the bench with keen interest).He could see their taut foreheads, the gaudy narrow trousers of dandies, the little mirrors and iridescent scarves of fashionable women, but their faces were all indistinct—among all the spectators , he only remembers the almond-eyed Masi.Defense attorneys and prosecutors, both wearing make-up and looking alike (the law requires them to be half-brothers, but such people can't always be found, have resorted to make-up), speak at the speed of experts. of five thousand words.They took turns speaking, and the judge kept turning his head from side to side to keep up with the rotation, as did everyone else.Only Marthe sat with his head half on one side, motionless like a child full of wonder, his eyes fixed on Cincinnatus, who was standing next to the shiny green special bench.Defense attorneys, advocates of the traditional beheading law, had no trouble convincing the creative prosecutors, and the judge then summed up the case. Words like "translucent" and "opaque" are mixed in these fragments of speech, and they form and burst like bubbles, which are still roaring in Cincinnatus' ears, and the rush of blood turns into applause However, Marth's face, which seemed to be placed in a souvenir box, remained in his field of vision until it was disturbed by the judge and gradually faded away.The judge came close to him, and he could even see the enlarged pores on his big dark nose, and a single long hair grew out of one of the pores on the tip of his nose."With the permission of the audience, we will put a red top hat on you," the judge announced in a mournful low voice—a symbolic word devised by the court whose meaning even schoolchildren understand. "But I'm a man who's been painstakingly made," thought Cincinnatus as he wept in the dark. "The curvature of my spine has been calculated with great precision and is very mysterious. I think my calves are still strong and I can still run a lot of miles in my life. My bag is very comfortable..." The clock struck half the hour, but I didn't know what time it was.