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  The fist had no more terrors for him. Before him sat a familiar historical figure. He knew what it would do and what it would not do. Its hair-raising stupidity went without saying. It behaved itself as was suitable for a landsknecht. Unhappy, late-born creature, who had come into the world a landsknecht in the twentieth century, and must crouch all day in its dark hole, without even a book, utterly alone, shut out from the epoch for which it had been created, stranded in another to which it would always remain a stranger! In the innocuous remoteness of the early sixteenth century the caretaker dwindled to nothing, let him brag as he would! To master a fellow-creature, it suffices to find his place in history.

  Punctually at eleven o'clock the landsknecht got up. As far as punctuality was concerned he was heart and soul with the Professor. He repeated the ritual of his arrival and cast a pitying glance at the chair, what not broken?' he asserted, and proved it by taking it in his right hand and battering it on the floor, which sustained the assault with patience. 'Nothing to pay !' he completed his sentence, and bellowed with laughter at the idea of paying the Professor anything for a chair he had sat through.

  'Keep your hand, Professor! I'd squash it to a pulp. Good-bye. Don't kill the old woman! I can't stand the old starch box.' He threw a bellicose glance into the neighbouring room although he knew she was not over there. 'I'm for the young ones. See here, my poor daughter, God rest her, she was the one for me! Why not? Because she was my daughter? Young she was, and a woman, and I could do what I liked with her, being her dad. Well, she's dead and gone. That tough old starch box keeps on living.'

  Shaking his head he left the room. At no time and place was he so much affected by the injustice of the world as when he visited the Professor. At his post in his little room, he had no time for contemplation. But as soon as he stepped out of his coffin into Kien's lofty rooms, thoughts of death swelled up within him. He remembered his daughter, the dead Professor lay before him, his fists were out of work and he felt that he was insufficiently feared.

  He seemed absurd to Kien as he took his leave. Landsknecht's costume suited him well, but times had changed. He regretted the fact that his historical method could not always be applied. As far as he was familiar with the history of all cultures and barbarisms, there was not one into which Thérèse would have fitted.

  The routine of these visits continued day after day in exactly the same order. Kien was too clever to shorten it. Before Thérèse was struck down, while the fist still had a legitimate and useful purpose, he could have no fear of it. Before his terrors had grown so violent that the secret catalogue of his pains stirred, landsknechts did not enter his mind, and the caretaker had not yet become one. When the man crossed the threshold at ten o'clock Kien would say to himself, filled with joy: a dangerous man, he will smash her in pieces. Daily he rejoiced in Therese's destruction, and raised a silent hymn of praise to life; he had always known about life, but never before had he seen reason to praise it. He omitted neither the Last Judgment nor the incidental mockery of the Sistine trumpeters; every day, as an obligatory part of his curriculum he carefully registered their discomfiture and duly dealt with them. Perhaps he only managed to endure the bleakness, rigidity and pressure of these long weeks while his wife was in the ascendant, because a daily discovery gave him strength and courage. In his life as. a scholar discoveries were numbered among the great, the central events of existence. Now he lay idle, he missed his work; so he forced himself daily to re-discover what the caretaker was: a landsknecht. He needed him more than a crust of bread — of which he ate little. He needed him as a crust of work.

  Thérèse was busy during visiting hours. The caretaker, that common person (whose conversation she had overheard on the first occasion) she only allowed into her flat because she needed the time. She was making an inventory of the library. It had made her think, her husband's turning the books round like that. Besides she feared the arrival of the new brother, who might even take away the most valuable pieces with him. So as to know what was really there, so as to prevent anyone from doing her down, one fine day, while the caretaker was with the patient abusing womankind, she began her important job in the dining-room.

  First she cut the narrow empty margins from old newspapers, and thus armed, took up her stand before the books. She grasped one in her hand, read the name, spoke it out loud and wrote it down on one of the long paper strips. At every letter she repeated the whole name, so as not to forget it. The more letters there were, the more often she said the whole word, and the more strangely did it become transformed in her mouth. Blunt consonants at the beginning of a name, B, D, or G became sharp and sharper. She had a preference for anything sharp, and it gave her great pains not to tear the newspaper strips with her sharp pencil. Her wooden fingers could produce only capital letters. She became indignant with long scientific titles, because there was no room for them from one end to the other of her strips. One book, one line: that was her rule, so that the strips could be the more easily counted and would look more beautiful. She would break off clean in the middle of a name if she reached the end of the paper, and send the rest, which she did not want, to the devil.

  Her favourite letter was O. From her schooldays she had retained some practice in writing Os. (You must all close up your Os as nicely as Thérèse, teacher used to say. Thérèse makes the best Os. Three years she stuck in the same class, but that was no fault of hers. It was teacher's fault. She never could stand her, because in the end she made her Os better even than her. All the children had to copy her Os. Not one of them wanted to copy teacher's Os any more.) So she could make an O as small as she liked. The neat regular circles were dwarfed by their neighbours, three times their size. If a long title had a great number of Os she would count first, how many, then write them all down quickly at the end of the line and use what room there was left at the beginning of it for the title itself, duly deprived of its Os.

  When she had completed a strip she drew a line, counted up the books, made a note of the sum in her head — she had a good memory for figures — and wrote it down as soon as she had added it up three times to the same figure.

  Her letters grew smaller week by week, the circles along with them. When ten strips were completed they were neatly sewn together at the top and became another piece of her hard-earned possessions — an inventory of 603 books, hidden away in the pocket of her clean skirt together with her keys.

  After about three weeks she fell upon the name of Buddha, which she had to write out countless times. Its gentle sound moved her. This was the name for the superior young man, not Brute. She closed her eyes, standing on the top of the ladder, and breathed as softly as she could, 'Mr.' Puda'. Thus her original form of the word, Puta, became Mr. Puda. She felt herself to be known by him and was proud because there was no end to his books. How beautifully he talked, and now he had written all these books too. She would have liked to take a peep inside. But she simply hadn't time.

  His presence spurred her to haste. She saw that she was progressing too slowly. An hour a day was too little. She decided to sacrifice her sleep. She passed sleepless nights on the library steps, read and copied. She forgot that respectable people go to bea at nine. In the fourth week she had done with the dining-room. Her success gave her a taste for night life and she now felt happy only when she was wasting electricity. Her behaviour towards Kien gained in assurance. The old phrases acquired new intonations. She spoke on the whole more slowly, but with emphasis and a certain dignity. He had handed over the three rooms to her voluntarily. She was earning the books in them herself.

  When she resumed the job in her bedroom she had overcome the last vestiges of fear. In broad daylight — with her husband lying awake in the neighbouring room — she climbed the steps, drew out a strip of paper and fulfilled her duty towards the books. In order to be quiet, she ground her teeth together. She had no time to talk, she must keep her head, otherwise a title might go wrong and she'd have to start all over again. The will, the most impo
rtant thing of all, she had not forgotten, and she continued to nurse her husband with care and devotion. When the caretaker came, she interrupted her task and went into the kitchen. Anyway, he'd only disturb her at her work, the rowdy fellow.

  In the sixth and last week of his sickness, Kien began to breathe more freely. His precise premonitions no longer came true. In the midst o( her speech she would break off suddenly and fall silent. At a careful reckoning she now only spoke for about half the day. She said, as always, the same things; but he was prepared for surprises, and waited with beating heart for the great event. As soon as she was silent, he closed his eyes and went to sleep in earnest.

  CHAPTER X

  YOUNG LOVE

  The moment the doctor had said: 'To-morrow you can get up!' Kien felt well again. But he did not at once leap from his bed. It was evening, he intended to begin life as a healthy man in orderly fashion at six o'clock in the morning.

  The following day he began it. For many years he had not felt so young and strong. While he was washing it seemed to him suddenly that he even had biceps. The enforced rest had suited him well. He closed the doors into the adjoining room and sat down bolt uptight at the writing desk. His papers had been disarranged, cautiously, but he did not fail to notice it. He rejoiced at putting them in order; the touch of the manuscripts was pleasant to him. An endless perspective of work stretched before him. The woman had searched here for his will, immediately after his fall, when fever had robbed him of his senses. Among the varying moods of his sick-bed, one principle had remained constant: he would not make a will since she set so much store upon it. He decided to attack her sharply as soon as he saw her; to order her back, swiftly and effectually, within her ancient limits.

  She brought him his breakfast and wanted to say: 'The door must be kept open.' But she had planned a smiling campaign to win the will from him, and since she did not know his temper now that he was again on his feet, she mastered herself so as not to irritate him too soon. She merely stooped and pushed a small wedge under the door so that it could not simply be closed again. She was in a reconciling mood and willing to go roundabout to get her own way. He shot to his full height, looked her boldly in the face and declared with acid emphasis:

  'Among my manuscripts I find an unholy disorder reigning. I cannot forbear to ask: how came the key into hands which had no right to it? I have found it again in my left trouser pocket. I am regretfully compelled to assume that it has been illegally removed, misused and subsequently replaced.'

  'That would be a fine thing.'

  'I demand for the first, and also for die last time; who has been tampering with my writing desk?'

  'Think of that!'

  'I insist on knowing!'

  'I ask you, I haven't stolen anything!'

  'I demand enlightenment.'

  'Enlightenment, that's easy.'

  'What is the meaning of this?'

  'The things people do.'

  'What people?'

  'Time will tell.'

  'The writing desk ..."

  'I always say . ..'

  'What?'

  'You've made your own bed, now you must lie in it.'

  'I am not interested.'

  'He said they were good beds.'

  'What beds?'

  'The double beds are a picture.'

  'Double beds?'

  'That's what they say.'

  'I am not interested in matrimony.'

  'Maybe you think I married for love?'

  'I need peace!'

  'A respectable person goes to bed at nine ...'

  'In future this door remains closed.'

  'Man proposes, God disposes.'

  'I have lost six full weeks owing to my illness.'

  'Work, work, work, morning, noon and night.'

  'This shall go no further.'

  'And what has a husband done for his wife?'

  'My time is valuable.'

  'At the registry office both parties ought..."

  'I shall make no will.'

  'Who would think of poisoning?'

  'A man of forty ... '

  'A woman of thirty.'

  'Fifty-seven.'

  'Nobody ever called me that.'

  'It can be plainly read on your birth certificate.'

  'Reading! Anyone can read.'

  'Well!'

  'A woman must have it in writing. Where are the joys of life? Three rooms belong to the wife, one belongs to the husband, I've got that in black and white. A woman gives a man her everything and there she is — landed. Why was she such a fool? In black and white, that's the only way. Words don't count. One fine day the husband drops down in a fit. I don't even know which bank. A wife ought to know the name of the bank. If she doesn't know which bank, ' No", she says. I ask you, am I right or not? What's the use of a husband without a bank; Her husband won't tell her which bank. What a man, he won't even tell her the bank. That's not a man at all. A man ought to tell her which bank.'

  'Get out!'

  'Anyone can get out. What does a wife get out of that? A husband should make a will. A woman never knows. A man isn't the only person in the world. His wife's human too. In the street all the men stare at me. Wonderful hips make all the difference. Get out won't do at all. The room must be kept open. I have the keys. He's got to get the keys first of all, then he can lock up. He can whistle for the keys, the keys are here!' she tapped her skirt — 'You don't want to get there, do you? You do, but you daren't!'

  'Get out!'

  'First a wife saves her husband's life, then she's told to get out. The man was dead. Who fetched the caretaker? He did, didn't he? He was lying under the ladder. I ask you, why didn't he call the caretaker himself? He couldn't move a finger. First he was dead, and now he frudges his wife the least little bit. That new brother would never ave known. The bank must tell me. A woman wants to marry again. What did I get out of my husband? All of a sudden I may be forty and the men won't stare at me any more. A woman's human too. I ask you, a woman has a heart!'

  From nagging she had fallen to sobbing. The heart, the heart a woman has, sounded on her lips like a broken one. There she stood propped up against the door jamb, her body for once as crooked as her head, presenting a piteous spectacle. She was determined not to move from her place, and quite expected a physical attack. Her left hand she held protectively over her skirt, in the very place where, in spite of its stiffness, it bulged with the keys and the catalogue of the books. The moment she had made sure of her property, she repeated: 'A heart! A heart!' and, overwhelmed by the strangeness and beauty of this word, fell once more to sobbing.

  The scales fell from Kien's eyes; the hated will was forgotten. He saw her, wretched, begging for love; she wanted to seduce him, he had not seen her like this before. He had married her for the books, she loved him. Her sobs filled him with a great fear. I will leave her alone, he thought, alone it will be easier for her to calm herself. Hurriedly he left the room, the flat and the house.

  So her touching solicitude for The Trousers of Herr von Bredow had been addressed to him, not to the book. She lay down on the divan only for love of him. Women are sensitive to the mood of their beloved. She had understood his embarrassment. His thoughts, as he left the registry office with her, she had read from his forehead as from an open book. She had wanted to help him. Women who love become weak. She had wanted to say: Come! but she had been ashamed and instead had swept the books to the floor. Translated into words this meant: As little as I care for books, so much do I care for you. This was love. Since then she had wooed him ceaselessly. She had forced her company on him at meals, she had forced the new furniture on him. She stroked him, as often as she possibly could, with the stiff skirt. Because she wanted the opportunity to talk about a bed, he had been given a bed instead of the divan. She had changed her bedroom and bought a new suite of furniture for two. Her harping on the will during his illness, was but a pretext for speaking to him, What was it she always said: Where there's a will t
here's a way. Poor, blinded creature! Months have passed since the wedding, and still she hopes for his love ! She is sixteen years older than he, she knows that she will die before him, yet she insists that both of them must make wills. Surely she must have some savings which she would like to give to him. So that he shouldn't refuse them, she demands a will from him. What advantage could she gain from it since she would die so much earlier than he? On the other hand he would benefit by hers. She proves her love with money. There are old maids who will part with the savings of a lifetime, the savings of long decades, the best fragments of those very days, which in order to save, they had never fully lived — they will part with it all, in one fell swoop, to a man. How could she rise above her domestic sphere? Among illiterates money is regarded as the measuring rod for all things: for friendship, goodness, education, power, love. With a woman this simple state of affairs is complicated by her weakness. Merely because she wanted to give him her savings, she had to torture him six long weeks with the same words. She could not tell him simply to his face: I love you, you can have my money. She hides the key of the communicating door. He cannot find it and she may breathe his air. More he cannot have to do with her, she must content herself with his breath alone. He might not have asked himself, whether the bank where he houses his money, is safe. She trembles fearing he may lose his money. Her own savings are too scanty to keep him above water for long. In a roundabout manner, as if she herself were anxious, she asks him ceaselessly the name of his bank. She longs to rescue him from a possible disaster. Women are anxious for the future of their beloved. She has only a few years left to her. Her last efforts are to ensure his safety after her death. In her despair during his illness she had searched through his writing desk hoping for more precise data. In order not to upset him, she had not left the key in the lock; she had put it back where she had found it. She had, uneducated as she was, no conception of his precision or his powers of memory. She was indeed so uneducated that at the mere recollection of her speech he felt a slight nausea. He could not however give her any help. A person was not born into the world for love. He had not married for love. He had wanted to safeguard the future of his books, and she had seemed a suitable person for this purpose.