‘I know you, Mr Zhemailo, as a man of honour, and that is the only reason I have agreed to meet you.’ Thus did my mysterious companion begin the conversation. I bowed and promised once again that the ‘Lovers of Death’ need not fear any indiscretion or foul play on my part.
My reward for this promise was an extensive lecture, delivered by the Doge with such exceptional eloquence that I was enthralled even against my own will. I shall try here to convey the content of this eccentric sermon in my own words.
The venerable Doge asserts that man’s true native land is not the planet Earth or the condition which we call life, but in fact the absolute opposite: Death, Blackness, Non-existence. This is the true homeland of all of us. That is where we formerly dwelt, and where we shall soon return. For a brief, insubstantial moment, we are doomed to dwell in the light, in life, in existence. Precisely doomed, that is, punished, expelled from the bosom of Death.
All of the living, without exception, are winnowed chaff, dross, criminals condemned to the daily torment of life for some crime that we have forgotten, but which must be extremely grave. Some of us are less guilty and therefore condemned only to a short sentence. Such individuals return to Death when they are still infants. Others, who are guiltier, are condemned to hard labour for seventy, eighty or even a hundred years. Those who live to extreme old age are the most evil of wrong-doers and unworthy of any indulgence. But nonetheless, sooner or later, Death in its infinite mercy forgives everyone.
At this point your humble servant, unable to restrain himself, interrupted the orator.
‘A curious assertion. And so the length of our lives is not set by God, but by Death?’
‘Let it be God – use whatever name you wish. Only the judge whom people have called God is by no means the Lord Almighty, but merely an acolyte in the service of Death.’
‘What an appalling image!’ I exclaimed.
‘Not at all,’ the Doge reassured me. ‘God is stern, but Death is merciful. Out of benevolence Death has endowed us with the instinct of self-preservation, so that we will not feel oppressed by the walls of our prison and will fear any attempt to escape from them. And Death has also granted us the gift of oblivion. We have no memory of our true homeland, of our lost Eden. Otherwise not one of us would be willing to bear the torment of imprisonment and there would be a genuine orgy of suicides.’
‘What is so bad about that, from your point of view? After all, surely you actually exhort the members of your circle to commit suicide?’
‘Unauthorised suicide is an escape from prison, a crime that is punishable by a new term of imprisonment. No, it is not permissible to flee from this life. But it is possible to earn pardon – that is, a reduction in the sentence.’
‘In what way, if I might enquire?’
‘Through love. One must love Death with all one’s soul. Entice and summon her to you, like your own dearly beloved. And wait, wait meekly for her Sign. When the Sign is manifested, you not only may, but should, die by your own hand.’
‘You speak of Death as “she”, as your dearly beloved, but there are both men and women among your followers.’
‘In Russian, Death is a feminine noun, but that is a convention of grammar. In German, as we know, the word is masculine – der Tod. For a man Death is the Eternal Bride. For a woman he is the Eternal Bridegroom.’
Then I asked the question that had been bothering me from the very beginning of this strange dialogue: ‘When you talk it is clear that you have unshakeable confidence in the truth of what you say. How do you know all this, if Death has denied man any memory of his previous existence, that is – I beg your pardon – Non-existence?’
The Doge replied with a triumphant air.
‘There are some people – rare individuals – from whom Death has decided to take away the gift of forgetting, so that they are able to perceive both worlds, Being and Non-being. I am one of these people. After all, a prison administration needs a steward from among the prisoners in the cell. It is the steward’s duty to keep an eye on those in his care, to instruct them and recommend those who deserve leniency to the Governor. That is all, no more questions. I have nothing more to say.’
‘Just one. The very last!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you have many wards in your “cell”?’
‘Twelve. I know from the newspapers that many times that number would like to join us, but our club only opens its doors to the select few. To become a Lover of Death is a precious lot, the highest possible reward for anyone alive . . .’
I was blindfolded from behind and led towards the door. The conversation with the Doge, the high priest of the suicide sect, was over.
As I was plunged into darkness, I could not help shuddering at the thought that I was descending forever into the Blackness so dear to the ‘lovers’.
No, gentlemen, I thought to myself when I was back in the bright sunshine under the blue sky, I may be a condemned criminal, but I do not desire any leniency – I prefer to serve my ‘sentence’ to the end.
But what would you prefer, dear reader?
Lavr Zhemailo
Moscow Courier, 29 August
(11 September) 1900, p.2
II. From Columbine’s Diary
Her slippers barely even touch the ground
Poor Columbine, brainless puppet, dangling in mid-air. Her satin slippers barely even touch the ground, and if the deft puppet-master pulls on the slim strings, the puppet throws up its arms or doubles over in a bow: sometimes crying, sometimes laughing.
I think about one and the same thing all the time now: the meaning of the words that he spoke; the tone in which he said them; the way he looked at me; why he didn’t look at me at all. Oh, my life is so full of strong feelings and experiences!
For example, yesterday he said: ‘You have the eyes of a cruel child.’ For a long time afterwards, I wondered if that was good or bad – a cruel child. From his point of view, probably good. Or bad?
I have read that old men (and he’s very old, he knew Karakozov, who was hanged thirty-five years ago) feel a burning passion for young girls. But he’s not lascivious at all. He’s cold and indifferent. Since that first, tempestuous union, when the trees outside the windows were bowing before the hurricane’s onslaught, he has only told me to stay once. That was the day before yesterday.
Without a single word, with only gestures, he ordered me to throw off my clothes, lie on the bearskin and not move. He covered my face with a white Venetian mask – a dead, stiff disguise. All I could see through the narrow eye-slits was the ceiling, looking light-coloured in the twilight.
I lay there for a long time without moving. It was very quiet, all I could hear was the quiet crackling of the candle flames. I thought: He’s looking at me, defenceless, with no covering, without even a face. This is not me, this is nameless female flesh, simply a rubber doll.
What did I feel?