I
When Brewster confided to me his singular ambition, I restrained myself from making the obvious, banal reply. Instead, I reminded him, in a sober manner, of the practicalities: "The world today does not (thank Heavens!) permit such barbarity."
This is not strictly accurate, as the reader will no doubt object. But Brewster did not pick up the point. He was too eager to explain how such an ambition had come to take hold of him.
"My sympathies always lay there," he told me (meaning, with the condemned on the scaffold), "But this was not just a humane response to the enormity of their fate. When you sympathise with another, it is equally natural to try to imagine his sufferings. Of course, if these are the symptoms of some prolonged illness, they are too commonplace to afford either pleasure or profit; but here there is something to be learned. The process can be one of cruel, clumsy butchery. I read, for instance, that at the execution of Cinq-Mars in 1642, even the usually bloodthirsty spectators called for mercy as an inexpert headsman hacked away ineffectually at the young man's neck with a blunt axe. When the head was at last held aloft (as formal evidence that the execution had taken place), it must have been scarcely recognisable as human. But even when an execution went smoothly, we are told little more about the appearance of the head than a description of the look on its face; whether resigned, defiant, noble, surprised, serene, or frightful, and so on. Of these, only the expressions of surprise interest me. The beheading itself (a fate that they must have long brooded on) could hardly have come as a surprise to the condemned: they must therefore have experienced something they had not foreseen. But is there any more information to be had? It appeared not to be the case, and that my curiosity must remain forever unsatisfied. Then, browsing in the catalogues of the antiquarian book-trade, I made the discovery that has transformed my life...."
Here Brewster paused, probably quite unconsciously, but with the air of someone taking a step backwards from what he had been about to say.
"....I had wondered what it is like to have one's head cut off: how could I have failed to see that only one person can tell us? Yet the conditions for such a narrative do not seem favourable. The severed head has no air from the lungs, no blood from the heart, no vocal chords (depending on where the cut comes), and no supporting musculature. Not least, the dying brain has more important tasks claiming its attention, such as how to manage the loss of the rest of the body...."
"....I was at first delighted to find that Montaigne has an Essay On Decapitation. But on perusal it proved to be disappointing. After observing (wittily enough) that decapitation is the only mode of execution he knows of in which the condemned man can continue his defiance of authority even after the sentence has been carried out, he goes on to say:
I had it of a gentleman of Toulouse of my acquaintance, concerning the beheading of a fine rogue, that as the head flew from the axe, it was heard to cry, "Thou hast to be under this sentence to know how it goeth."
From which he concludes only that, as it is blessed to know of one's end, such a one was to be envied above all men."
"Another author by whom I hated to be disappointed was my beloved Sir Thomas Browne:
What Plutarch delivereth in vita Artaxerxis concerning the death of Mithridates, may not be doubted of such a savage race as the Persians for mere want of testimonie, that after seventeen days between the Hulls the body of Mithridates was so consumed by wormes that his head only still had life, though void of all sense.
And that's all! What a topic it would have made for an extended meditation in the manner of his Urne-Buriall! If only I could write it myself! (I have tried, heaven knows). Plutarch, by the way, says also that the head was in such torment from the consumption of its body that it could say nothing rational, but raved, groaned, and screamed."
Brewster had recited these passages as though in a light trance, with the relevant volumes open in front of him, but with his eyes fixed on me, looking away only when he resumed his own words. Now, he looked away from me altogether, and fixed his eyes on the books. I felt that he was about to reach some kind of conclusion. Indicating that he wished to show me something, he excused himself and went out of the room. He returned a few moments later with what I can only describe as a ridiculously old book - the kind that is bound in full calf, and has a handwritten label affixed to the spine in lieu of gilt lettering - though of quite small size, duodecimo I would guess. Without a word, he opened the book at the title page and handed it to me. It read:
THE BOOK OF SKULLS,
or, Lively Oracles of the Decapitated,
Collected and written down by a person of quality.
And underneath, in italics, the inevitable Latin motto.
Opposite the title page, an engraved frontispiece depicted an execution scene. The severed head of the victim had fallen to the ground, and lay on its side with eyes open and blood gushing from the base of the neck. The executioner looked pleased with his work, but was not taking any particular interest in the head itself. Several onlookers stood watching the head, or pointing at it and turning to their companions to remark on what was happening to it. The object of the latter's interest was another man who was crouching down beside the head and leaning over it, at the same time writing with one hand on a paper held in the other. The background to the scene was more conventional than plausible: not a city-square, where such an event would have taken place, but a vista of an Arcadian landscape with a range of wooded hills in the distance.
After all this, it seemed unnecessary to enquire what was the nature of its contents.
"This 'person of quality' must have spent a great deal of time travelling to executions," I observed. "But what did you learn from the Oracles he collected?"
For the first time, Brewster's attitude became a trifle defensive.
"I was concerned to study, before I tried to interpret....But I learned, first of all, that in ideal conditions a severed head can enjoy some moments, perhaps as much as a minute, of heightened consciousness - "
" - Oh horror," I interjected.
Brewster frowned, but otherwise ignored the interruption, and continued, " - A fact that is proved by considering almost any one of the Oracles - "
" - Please don't," I interjected again.
Brewster received this second interruption less equably.
"I can't make my point without quoting at least one of them," he said. "Believe me, they are not the morbid variations on memento mori that you obviously fear. They are the voices of prophets, not death's-heads. But, like all Oracles, they are enigmatic, and rightly so, for no-one values wisdom that is obtained easily. 'Obscurity is the sure treasure-house of knowledge', as Boethius says....Consider this: a young man beheaded for a crime of lèse-majesté (he had rebuffed the unnatural advances of his monarch) was seen to roll his eyes in wonderment before uttering the couplet,
Ah! this is an embrace I shall not live to regret,
But one shall come with a deadly kiss to rival his love.
"Hmmm....quite the Nostradamus," I commented. "But even I can infer that he seems inter alia to be expressing his satisfaction at not having defiled himself. The eloquence, I grant you, is astonishing in the circumstances; but is it necessary to go to quite such lengths in order to make an epigram? Besides, I admit to being suspicious of such eloquence. How much are they really 'Lively Oracles of the Decapitated', and how much the labour of the study? Further, I have learned from my work with the deaf that lip-reading is at least fifty percent guesswork."
Brewster looked less dismayed by this remark than I had expected.
"Why do you think I have chosen someone as sceptical as yourself to be my assistant in this grand experiment?"
It was my turn not to look dismayed. I confess that at one time during the previous few minutes the thought had flashed on me (my mind had been previously fixed on the notion of Brewster as self-destructive) that perhaps he intended to decapitate me, and take down my 'Lively Oracles'. So Brewster needed me! Excellent: it meant that I could put an end to his fantasy whenever I wished. However, I sensed that now was not the right time to end it. He might have become overbearingly argumentative. Instead, I made a pretence of explaining to him what I conceived as the major objection to the whole enterprise: that the 'grand experiment', on himself, at least, could be performed only once.
"Can you imagine the frustration of your head if your chosen assistant asked you whether you wouldn't mind repeating what you had just said? I quote: 'In ideal conditions, a severed head can enjoy some moments, perhaps as much as a minute, of heightened consciousness.'"
Brewster's face tightened. Just as I had hoped, he failed to find the solution - a solution that would have had me participating in endless rehearsals with his still intact head, something that I was determined to avoid. After this, though we talked of other, lighter matters, the atmosphere became strained, and I thought it best to excuse myself and leave.
(The rest is wanting)
