Kien rose up in flaming wrath. At the same moment he felt a terrific box on the ear. He had almost cried out 'Hush!' to the murderess on account of the corpse, which after all might not be a corpse yet. The she-burglar began to shout. She had Therese's voice. After three words he knew that murderess and corpse were one flesh. Conscious of his guilt he said not a word and let her beat him cruelly.
As soon as he was out of the house Thérèse had changed the beds, pushed away the Spanish screen, and set all the other furniture at sixes and sevens. During this work, which she performed in radiant mood, she said the same phrase over and over again: Let it kill him! Let it kill him! When he was not back at nine o'clock, she lay in her bed as all respectable people do, and waited for the moment when he switched on the light so as to ease herself of the store of abuse she had hoarded during his absence. If he should not put on the light but come straight to bed to her, she would put off her abuse until he had got it over. However, as a respectable woman, she reckoned more on the first probability. When he undressed himself with perfect self-possession next to her, her heart was in her mouth. So as not to forget her anger, she decided to repeat to herself, all the time their matrimonial bliss lasted,'Is this a man? This isn't aman!' When he suddenly fell on top of her, she made not a sound, she was afraid he might go away again. He lay on top of her for only a few moments; to her they felt like days. He did not move and was as light as a feather; she scarcely drew breath. Little by little her expectation gave way to bitterness. When he got up, she knew that he was escaping her. Like a creature possessed, she hit out at him, while she poured down upon him the foulest abuse.
Blows arc balm to a moral character which has been on the brink of committing a crime. As long as it did not hurt too much, Kien smote himself with Therese's hands and waited patiently for the ugly name which he had deserved. For what was he, when he thought the matter over carefully? A desecrater of the dead. He was astonished at the mildness of her reproaches; he would have expected very different words and, above all, the foul name which he had merited. Was she sparing him, or keeping it for the last? He had no particular objection to the more general terms which she used. As soon as she called him a desecrator of the dead, he would bow his head and fully confess his fault, an act which for a man of his distinction was of infinitely greater importance than a few blows.
But the few blows did not end; he began to find them superfluous. His bones ached and with so many commonplace dirty words she seemed to find no time for the right one. She was standing up now and belabouring him alternately with her fists and elbows. She was a tough creature; only after a few minutes did she notice a slight weariness in her arms, interrupted her screeching, which had hitherto consisted entirely of substantives, with a complete sentence — 'I won't have it !' — and pushed him off the bed, taking care however to grab hold of his hair so that he should not escape her. Sitting on the edge of the bed she continued to trample on him with her feet until her arms had a little recovered. Then she seated herself astride his body, interrupted herself again, this time with —'There's more to come!' —and cuffed his head alternately left and right. Gradually Kien lost consciousness. Long before, he had forgotten the trespass which he had committed against her. He regretted his length. Thin and small, he murmured, thin and small. Then there would have been so much less to hit. He shrank together. She hit wide. Was she still cursing? She hit the floor, she hit the bed, he heard the hard blows. She could hardly find him any more, he had made himself so small; that was why she was cursing. 'Abortion!' she cried. What a good thing he was! He was visibly dwindling; uncanny how fast. Already he had to search for himself; she'd never find him; he had grown so small, he couldn't see himself any more.
She went on striking hard and accurately. Then, pausing for breath, she said: 'Excuse me, I must have a rest,' sat up on the bed again and left the job to her feet, which performed it with less conscientiousness. Gradually they slowed down and at last stopped of their own accord. As soon as all her limbs had come to rest, Thérèse could not think of another word to say. She was silent. He did not move. She felt utterly exhausted. Behind his silence she scented new tricks. To protect herself from his attack, she began to threaten him: 'I'll have the law on you. I won't have it. A man mustn't assault his wife. I'm respectable, I'm a woman. You'll get ten years. The papers call it rape. I've got my proofs. I read the papers. Don't you dare move. Anyone can tell lies. I ask you, what are you after here? Another word and I'll fetch the caretaker to you. He'll have to protect me. A poor lone woman. Violence isn't everything. I'll have a divorce. The flat belongs to me. Criminals get nothing. Excuse me, I won't have a scene. I'm not asking for anything, am I? Ache in every limb, I do. Ought to be ashamed of yourself. Frightening a woman like that. I might be dead. Then you'd be in a mess. He hasn't even a night-shirt. It's no affair of mine. He sleeps without a night-shirt. That's telling. I've only to open my mouth and everyone'll believe me. I'm not going to jail. I ve got Mr. Puda. You can look out for yourself. You'll have Mr. Puda to reckon with. You won't get the better of him. I'll tell him straight. And this is what comes of love!'
Kien remained obstinately silent. Thérèse said: 'Now he's dead.' No sooner had she spoken the word than she knew how deeply she had loved him. She knelt down beside him and sought the marks made by her kicks and blows. Then she noticed that it was dark, got up and switched on the light. Three paces off she saw the fearful condition of his body. 'Poor fellow,' she said, 'what a shame!' Her voice betrayed compassion. She took the sheet off her own bed — she'd almost have given the linen off her back — and carefully wrapped him up. 'Nothing to be seen,' she said, and took him up in her arms as gently as a child. She carried him to his own bed and tucked him in warm and soothingly. She even let him keep her sheet, 'So that he shan't take cold'. She wanted to sit down by the bed and nurse him. But she refused herself tliis gratification as he was sleeping so quietly, switched out the light and went to bed again. She did not grudge her husband the missing sheet.
CHAPTER XIV
PETRIFACTION
Two days passed in silence, and half-consciousness. As soon as he had come to himself again, he dared in secret to think over the immensity of his misfortune. Many blows were necessary to force his mind into submission. But he had received even more. Ten minutes less beating and he would have been ready for any vengeance. Possibly Thérèse had suspected this danger and had for that reason gone on striking to the bitter end. In his weakness he wanted nothing and feared one thing only: more beating. When she came near to his bed, he cowered, a whipped dog.
She put down a plate of food on the chair by the bed and immediately turned away. He needn't think there'd be more food for him. As long as he was ill she would be fool enough to feed him. He dragged himself towards it and with difficulty began to lap up a part of the alms she had bestowed on him. She heard the smacking of his greedy lips and was tempted to ask: 'How do you like it?* But she renounced this pleasure and comforted herself by thinking of a beggar to whom she had once given something fourteen years ago. He had no arms and no legs, excuse me, it's not human. All the same, he had a look of Mr. John. She wouldn't have given him anything; those people are all crooks; first they're cripples; when they get home they're as well as you and me. But then the creature said: 'How's your husband to-day?' That was a clever thing to say! He got a beautiful penny. She threw it into his hat herself. He was such a poor thing. Not that she liked giving money away; she'd never done such a thing before. But she could make an exception. So her husband got his plate of food.
Kien, the beggar, was in great pain, but he took care not to groan. Instead of turning towards the wall, he kept Thérèse in view and followed her actions with dread and suspicion. She was quiet and, in spite of her bulk, flexible. Or was it something to do with the room, that she so suddenly appeared and vanished? Her eyes had an evil glitter; they were cat's eyes. When she wanted to say something, but interrupted herself before she could get it out, it sounded like a cat
spitting.
A bloodthirsty tiger lusting for men once disguised itself in the skin and dress of a young maiden. Weeping, it stood at a street corner and was so beautiful that a learned man came along. She lied to him cunningly, and out of pity he took her to his house, as one of his many wives. He was a very brave man and loved to sleep with her. One night she threw ofFher maiden's skin and tore open his breast. She ate his heart and vanished through the window. She left her shining white skin on the floor behind her. Both were found by one of the other wives who screamed her throat sore asking for an elixir of life. She went down to the most powerful man of the country, a madman who lived in the filth of the market-place, and for long hours rolled about at his feet. He spat into her hand for all the world to see, and she had to drink it. She wept and sorrowed day after day, for she loved the dead man though he had no heart. From the shame she had drunk for him, there grew a new heart out of the warm soil of her bosom. She gave it to the man and he came back to her.
In China there are women who know how to love. In Kien's library there was only a tiger. It was not even young and beautiful, and, instead of a shining skin, it wore a starched skirt. It was less concerned with the heart of a Chinese scholar than with his bones. The foulest Chinese spirit had better manners than the corporeal Thérèse. Ah, if only she were a spirit she could not hit him! He would gladly have left his own skin behind for her to beat to her heart's content. His bones needed rest, his bones needed to recover themselves, without bones even learning comes to an end. Had she dealt with her own bed over there as she had dealt with him? The floor had not caved in under her fists. This house had experienced much. It was old, and like all old things, strong and well made. She herself was. another example. He must look at her dispassionately. Being a tiger, her physical force was naturally greater than that of any ordinary woman. She could probably take on the caretaker.
Sometimes in his dreams he beat against her skirt until she fell down. He pulled it off over her feet. Suddenly he had a pair of scissors in his hand and cut it up into tiny pieces. It took him a long time to do it. When he had cut up the skirt, the pieces seemed too big to him; she might sew them all together again. Without lifting his eyes he started all over again: he cut each piece into four. Then he emptied out a whole sack of little blue rags over Thérèse. How had all these rags got into the sack? The wind blew them away from her and on to him; they settled on him, he felt them, blue bruises, all over his body, and moaned out loud.
Thérèse sneaked up to him and asked: 'I won't have this moaning; what's the matter?' She was blue again. Some of the bruises must have settled on her. Strange, it seemed to him that he was carrying them all. But he did not moan again. She was satisfied with this answer. Suddenly she remembered the dog in her last place. He shushed before ever you said a word to him. That's how it ought to be.
In the course of a few days Kien was as tired of her care, which consisted in a plate of food to last him from morning to night, as he was of the pains of his bruised body. He scented the distrust of the woman when she came near to him. Already on the fourth day she had no desire to feed him any more. Anyone can lie in bed. She examined his body, for simplicity's sake, through the bed-coverings, and decided that he would soon be well. He did not cringe. People who don't cringe don't feel anything. He could get up, she needn't cook for him any longer. She might simply have ordered 'Get up!' But a certain fear warned her that he might leap up suddenly, tear the coverings and sheets off his body and leave nothing on it but a mass of blue marks, as though it were her fault. To prevent this she was silent, and on the following day brought him his plate only half full. Moreover, she had cooked badly on purpose. Kien noticed, not the difference in the food, but in her. He misinterpreted her searching glances and feared more blows. In bed he was defenceless. Stretched out to his full length, there he lay at her mercy; wherever she struck, higher or lower, there would be something to hit. She mignt make a mistake breadthways, that was all; this gave him no sense of security.
Two full days and nights went by before his fear had strengthened his will to get up; at last he made an attempt to do so. His sense of time had never failed him; he still always knew how late it was, and to re-establish order once and for all at a single stroke, he rose from his bed one morning punctually at six o'clock. His head crackled like dried twigs. His frame seemed to be out of joint, and would not balance properly. By skilfully leaning first in one direction, then in the other, he succeeded in avoiding a fall. Little by little he juggled himself into his clothes, which he dragged out from under the bed. Every new encasement he greeted with joy, an additional armour, an important defence. His movements to preserve his balance were like a mysterious dance. Tormented by pains, small devils, he had yet escaped their chief, death, and he danced his way to the writing table. There, dazed a little by excitement, he took his place, his legs and arms wobbling until, returning to their old obedience, they came to rest.
Since she had no more work to do, Thérèse had taken to sleeping until nine. She was the lady of the house, such people lie even later. Servants have to be up by six. But sleep would not stay with her so long, and as soon as she woke, her yearning for her possessions left her no more peace. She had to get up and dress herself so as to feel the pressure of the hard keys against her flesh. But a happy solution occurred to her since her husband had been beaten and was in bed. She went to bed at nine with the keys between her breasts. Until two in the morning she took good care to remain wide awake. At two o'clock she got up and hid the keys again in her skirt. No one could find them there. Then she went to sleep. She was so tired with her long vigil that she didn't wake up again until nine o'clock, just like a lady. That's the way it should be, and servants can do the rest.
So it was that Kien carried out his plan unnoticed by her. From the writing desk he could see her bed. He watched over her sleep as if it had been his dearest possession, and in the course of three hours was frightened to death a hundred times. She had the fortunate gift of letting herself go when she slept. When she had eaten something good in her dreams, she belched and broke wind. At the same time she said: 'The very idea!' and meant something of which she alone was aware. Kien applied it to himself. Her adventures tossed her from side to side; the bed groaned aloud, Kien groaned with it. Often she grinned with her eyes closed; Kien was near to tears. When she grinned yet more widely, she looked as though she were crying; then Kien nearly laughed. Had he not learnt caution, he would have laughed out loud. With amazement, he heard her calling on Buddha. He doubted his ears, but she repeated it: 'Puda! Puda! just as she burst into tears, and he understood what Puda meant in her language.
When she drew her hand from under the coverlet, he winced. But she did not hit out, only clenched her fist. Why, what have I done, he asked himself, and gave his own answer: she must know. He had respect for her fine judgment. His crime, for which she had so cruelly punished him, was atoned for, but not forgotten. Thérèse clutched at the place where the keys were usually hidden. She took the thick coverlet for her skirt ana found the keys although they were not there. She let her hand fall heavily on them, tickled them, played with them, took them one by one in her fingers, and in the excess of her pleasure covered them with great, shining drops of sweat. Kicn blushed, he did not know why. Her thick arm was stuck into a narrow, tightly-stretched sleeve. The lace with which it was trimmed in front was directed at her husband, who slept in the same room. It looked crushed to Kien. Very softly he said this word which lay heavy on his heart. He heard — 'Crushed'. Who had spoken? Quick as lightning he lifted his head and turned his eyes on Thérèse. Who else could know how crushed he was? She was asleep. He mistrusted her closed eyes and waited, holding his breath, for a second remark. 'How can I be so foolhardy?' he thought, 'she is awake and I am looking her boldly in the face.' He forbade himself the only means of discovering the proximity of his danger and, lowered his eyes, a shame-faced child. With ears wide open — so it seemed to him — he waited a fearful scoldi
ng. Instead, he heard only regular breathing. So she was asleep again. After a quarter of an hour he spied out the ground again all round her with his eyes, ready to take flight at any moment. He thought himself wily enough, and allowed himself one proud idea. He was David watching the sleeping Goliath; on the whole Goliath was a fool. In the first round David did not win: but he had escaped Goliath's deadly designs and who could tell what lay in the future?
The future, the future, how was he ever to get into the future? Let the present be past, then it could do no more harm to him. Ah, if only the present could be crossed out! The sorrows of the world are, because we live too little in the future. What would it matter in a hundred years if he were beaten to-day? Let the present be the past and we shall not notice the bruises. The present is alone responsible for all pain. He longed for the future, because then there would be more past in the world. The past is kind, it does no one any harm. For twenty years he had moved in it freely, he was happy. Who is happy in the present? If we had no senses, then we might find the present endurable. We could then live through our memories — that is, in the past. In the beginning was the Word, but it was, therefore the past existed before the Word. He bowed before the supremacy of the past. The Catholic Church would have much to be said for it, but it allowed too little past. Two thousand years, a part of it only recorded, what does that matter compared to traditions of double or treble that space of years? A Catholic priest is surpassed by any Egyptian mummy. Because the mummy is dead, he may think himself superior. But the pyramids are no more dead than St. Peter's, on the contrary they are much more alive, for they are older. These Romans think they have all time in their pockets. They refuse to revere their ancestors. That is blasphemy. God is the past. He believes in God. A time will come when men will beat their senses into recollections, and all time into the past. A time will come when a single past will embrace all men, when there will be nothing except the past, when everyone will have one faith — the past.