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'Don't upset yourself. I heard him at once. He hadn't even got in through the door. I crept into this room under your bed to see what he was up to. What do you think he was after? Money. He puts out his hand. I grab hold of him by it. He hits out at me, I hit back. He begs for mercy, I have none. He wants to go to America, I won't let him go. Do you think he touched one of the books? Not one. He had a head on his shoulders. But he was an ass all the same. In all his bom days he'd never have got to America. Do you know where he'll have got to? Between ourselves, to the police court. He's off now.'

  'What did he look like?' asked Kien. He wanted to show his gratitude to the little fellow for so much vigilance. He was not in the least interested in the burglar.

  'What shall I say? He was a cripple like me. I could have sworn a good chess player too. A poor devil.'

  'Well, let him go,' said Kien, and cast an affectionate—or so he meant it — glance at the dwarf. Then both went back to bed.

  CHAPTER III

  INFINITE MERCY

  The public pawnbroking establishment carries, in memory of a devout and frugal princess who received the poor on one day in every year, the suitable name of Theresianum. As for the beggars, they forfeited, even in those days, the last of their possessions: that much-coveted portion of Love which Christ bestowed on them a good two thousand years ago, and the dirt on their feet. While the princess washed off the after, the name of Christian was very near her heart; she earned it every year afresh to add it to her innumerable others. The state pawn-broking establishment stands splendidly and thickly walled about like a true prince's heart, well defended against the world without, proud and of many mansions.

  At certain hours it gives audience. It prefers to entertain beggars, or those who are shortly to become such. People throw themselves at its feet and bring in offering as in days of old a tithe, of their possessions, which is only so in name. For it is nothing to the prince s heart but the millionth part; to the beggars, their all. The prince's heart takes all, it is spacious and extensive, has a thousand different rooms and chambers and as many offices to perform. The trembling beggars are graciously permitted to raise themselves, and are given in exchange a small portion of alms, cash down. With that they go out of their minds with joy and out of the building with haste. For the custom of washing their feet the princess, now that she exists merely as an institution, has no further use. She has introduced a new custom to take its place. The beggars pay interest on their alms. The last shall be first, for which reason their interest rate is the highest. A private person who charged so high an interest would be prosecuted for extortion. But an exception can be made for beggars since, after all, only the most beggarly sums are involved. It cannot be denied that these people rejoice over the transaction. They throng to the counters and cannot undertake quickly enough to pay the quarter of the whole sum back again in interest. Those who have nothing make joyful givers. Though there are some to be found among them, miserly skinflints, who refuse to pay back the loan and the interest, and prefer to default on their pledges rather than open their purses. They say, they have none. Even these are allowed to enter in. The great benevolent princely heart, in the midst of the city's roar, has not leisure to test such deceiving purses for their miserliness. It foregoes the alms, it foregoes the interest, and contents itself with pledges five or six times the value of the money. A treasure chest of pennies is gradually being amassed. The beggars bring their rags here; the heart is decked in silks and satins. A staff of loyal officials permanently installed, year in, year out, take in and pay out, all for the sake of a coveted pension. As true liegemen of their mistress they disparage all and everything. It is their duty to radiate disparagement. The more they reduce the alms, the more people are made happy. The heart is large, but not infinite. From time to time it throws away its riches at sacrificial prices to make room for new gifts. The pennies of the beggars are as inexhaustible as was their love for the immortal Empress. When business in all the rest of the land is at a standstill, it is still humming here. Stolen goods, as ought to be hoped in the interests of a livelier circulation of trade, are the subject of transactions only in exceptional cases.

  Among the treasure chambers of this lady of infinite mercy, that for jewels, gold and silver takes the place of honour not far from the main entrance. It rests securely on the earth's foundations. The floors are arranged according to the value of the objects pawned. At the very top, higher even than coats, shoes and postage stamps, on the sixth and topmost floor, are the books. They are housed in an annexe, to reach them you climb an ordinary staircase like that of any tenement. The princely grandeur of the main building is wholly lacking here. There is no room for a brain in this abounding heart. Pensive, you stand below on the staircase and are ashamed —for the abandoned creatures who bring their books here out of greed for filthy lucre — for the staircase which is not as clean as it should be for such a function — for the officials who receive the books but do not read them — for the fire-endangered rooms in the attics — for a State which does not go the shortest way to make the pawning of books an offence against the law — for humanity which, now that printing seems natural to them, have altogether forgotten the special sanctity contained in each single rinted letter. Why should not the unimportant trinkets and trappings e huddled together on the sixth floor and the books — since a radical reform of this insult to culture cannot be contemplated — take their place at least in the spacious halls of the ground floor? In case of fire the jewellery could simply be thrown into the street. It is very well packed up, far too well for mere minerals. Stones cannot hurt themselves. But books on the other hand hurled from the sixth floor into the street, would, for sensitive tastes, be already dead. Think only of the pricks of conscience the officials would suffer. The fire spreads on every side; they stand at their posts, but they are powerless. The staircase has fallen in. They must choose between the fire and the eighty foot drop. Their counsels are divided. What one is on the point of dropping from the window, another snatches from him ana throws into the flames. 'Better burnt than crippled!' With these words he hurls his defiance into the face of his colleague. This latter hopes, however, that nets are being held out below so as to catch the poor creatures unhurt. 'They will not be damaged by the friction of the air!' he hisses to his opponent. 'And where is your net, may I askî' 'The fire brigade will be putting it out at once.' 'At present I can hear nothing but the bodies clattering on to die pavement.' 'For pity's sake, say no more!' 'Quick then, into the fire!' 'I can't do it.' He cannot bring himself to do it; in contact with his charges he has acquired humanity. He is like a mother who, for better or for worse, throws her child out of the window; someone will surely take it up; in the fire it would be lost without hope of rescue. The fire-worshipper has more character; the other, more heart. Both are laudable, both carry out their duty to the end, both are lost in the fire, but what does this avail the books?

  For an hour Kien had been leaning on the banisters, ashamed. He seemed to himself then as one who had lived in vain. He had known in what barbarous manner humankind use to treat their books. He had often been present at sales by auction; indeed it was to them that he owed certain rare volumes which he had vainly sought among booksellers. Whatever was of a kind to enrich his knowledge, he had always accepted. Many a painful impression had he carried away from the sale-room, deeply graven on his heart. Never would he forget that magnificent edition of Luther's Bible over which speculators from New York, London and Paris had circled like vultures and which, in the outcome, had proved a forgery. The disappointment of those outbidding swindlers was nothing to him, but that treachery and deceit could raise their heads even in this quarter was beyond his understanding. The man-handling of books before the sale, examining them, opening them, closing them, just as if they were slaves, cut him to the heart. This shouting out, bidding, outbidding by creatures who in all their lives had not read a thousand books seemed to him a crying outrage. Each time when, compelled by necessity, he had found hims
elf in the hell of the sale-room, he had a strong desire to take a hundred well-armed mercenaries with him, to give the dealers a thousand lashes apiece, the collectors five hundred, and to take the books, over which they were haggling, into protective custody. But how little did these experiences weigh against the bottomless degradation of this pawning house; Kien's fingers twisted themselves into the ornamental ironwork — as elaborate as it was tasteless — of the stair-rail. They clutched into it, in the secret hope that he might pull down the whole building. The abomination of this idolatry oppressed him. He was ready to let them bury him under all six stories on one condition: that they should never be built up again. But could he rely on the word of barbarians? One of the purposes which had brought him here, he now abandoned: he renounced his inspection of the upper rooms. Hitherto his worst expectations had been far surpassed. The annexe was even more unsightly than he had been told. The width of the staircase, stated by bis guide to be five feet four, was in fact not more than four foot five. Generous people often make such transferences in estimating numbers. The dust was the harvest of three weeks at least and not of a day or two. The lift bell was out of order. The glass doors which led into the annexe were badly oiled. The notice-board which pointed the way to the book section had been daubed by an unskilful hand with bad paint on a piece of shoddy cardboard. Underneath it, carefully printed, hung another notice: Postage stamps on the First Floor. A large window gave on to a small backyard. The colour of the ceiling was undefined. Even in broad daylight you could sense how wretched was the illumination afforded in the evening by the single electric bulb. Kien had conscientiously convinced himself of all this. But he hesitated still to mount the steps of the staircase. Hardly would he be able to endure the shocking spectacle which awaited him at its summit. His health was enfeebled. He dreaded a stroke. He knew that every life was mortal, but so long as he could feel that dearly loved burden within himself, he must spare himself. He bowed his heavy head over the banisters and was asnamed.

  Fischerle watched him proudly. He stood some little distance from his friend. He knew his way about the public pawnbroking establishment as well as about Heaven. He had come to reclaim a silver cigarette case on which he had never set eyes. He had won the pawn ticket from a crook whom he had beaten at chess two dozen times, and had it still carefully preserved in his pocket when he entered Kien's service. It was generally rumoured that the ticket was good for a brand new solid silver cigarette case, first quality stuff. Often and often Fischerle had managed to sell pawn tickets in the Theresianum to interested persons. Just as often, he had been forced to look on while his own and other people's treasures were redeemed. Besides his chief dream about becoming world chess champion, he carried a lesser one around in his head: He would dream of exchanging a pawn ticket of his very own, of paying down the full sum, interest and all, flat on the counter under the official's indifferent jaws, of waiting for his own property like other people at the redemption counter and of sniffing at and examining it when he had it, as if he had often before had it under his eyes and nose. Being a non-smoker he really had no use for a cigarette case, but one of his hours of fulfilment was at hand, and he asked Kien for a short time off. Although he explained what his reason was, Kien flatly refused it. He had absolute confidence in him, but since he had relieved him of half the library, he would take good care never to let him out of his sight. Scholars of the highest character have been known to become criminals for the sake of books. How great then must be the temptation for an intelligent being with a thirst for learning, who found himself for the first time under the pressure of books with all their fascination!

  The division of the burden had happened in this way. When Fischerle began packing up the books in the morning, Kien could not understand now he had managed hitherto to carry them all. The meticulousness of his servant made him aware of the potential dangers through which he had come. Up to this time he had simply got up in the morning and sallied forth ready packed. It had not occurred to him to ask himself how the books, so carefully unloaded on the >revious evening, had found their way back into his head. He felt limself full, and set off. But Fischerle s incursion altered all that at a jlow. On the morning after the unsuccessful robbery, he crept towards Kien's bed like one on stilts, fervently urged him to exercise all possible care in getting up, and asked if he was to begin packing up again. As his manner was, he waited for no answer; ne dexterously lifted up the nearest pile and approached it to Kien's head as he still lay in bed. 'In with them!'he said. While Kien washed and dressed himself, the little fellow, who set no great store on washing, worked industriously away. Within half an hour he had emptied the first room. Kien purposely loitered over his dressing. He was turning over in his mind how he had usually managed his packing. But he couldn't remember. Strange, his memory seemed to be failing. As long as it only affected external things of this kind, it was of no consequence. But he must keep a close watch lest this loss of memory should extend into the scholastic sphere. That would be unthinkable. His memory was no less than a heaven-sent gift, a phenomenon; even as a schoolboy he had been examined by famous psychologists on the state of his memory. In one minute he had memorized it to sixty-five decimal places. The learned gentlemen — all and sundry — shook their heads. Perhaps he had overburdened his own head. Look only at the work in progress — pile after pile, parcel after parcel was loaded in; yet surely he ought to spare his head a little. You cannot replace a head; it can be developed as his had been developed, only once; any part of it destroyed is destroyed for ever. He sighed deeply and said: 'Yours is a light task, my dear Fischerle!' 'Tell you what,' the little fellow at once saw what he meant, 'I'll carry what s in the next room myself, Fischerle's got a head too. Or hasn't he?' 'Yes, but... ' "What, but... tell you what, you've hurt my feelings!' After long hesitation, Kien gave his consent. Fischerle had to swear honour bright that he had never stolen yet. Further, he lamented his innocence and said over and over again: 'But, mister, with this hump! How could a fellow steal?' For a moment, Kien dwelt on the idea of demanding a guarantee. But as not the strongest guarantee in the world would have availed anything in his own case against his inclination to books, he gave up the plan. He added, however, the statement: 'You are no doubt a fast runner?' Fischcrle saw through the trap and answered: "What would be the point of lying? When you take a step, I take half a one. At school I was always the worst runner.' He thought up the name of a school lest Kien should ask him: in fact he had never been to one. But Kien was wrestling with weightier problems. He was about to make the greatest gesture of trust of his entire life. 'I believe you !' he said simply. Fischerle was jubilant. 'See now, that's just what I mean!' The book pact was confirmed. As Kien's servant, the little man took the heavier naif. In the street he walked ahead, but never further than two small steps. The hump, which was there anyway, prevented the stooping pose, which he had put on for the occasion, from making its full effect. But his dragging footsteps spoke volumes.

  Kien felt himself relieved. Head held high, he followed the man who had his confidence and turned his eyes neither to right nor to left. They remained fixed on the hump which, like that ofa camel, not so slowly but just as rhythmically, swayed up and down. From time to time he stretched out his arm to make sure that the tips of his fingers could still touch the hump. If this was no longer the case he hastened his step. In the event of any attempt to escape, he had laid his plans. He would grasp the hump in a grip of iron and hurl his body full length upon that of the criminal; he must however take especial care not to endanger the creature's head. When the experiment of stretching out his arm worked exactly — so exactly that he did not need either to hasten or slacken his pace — Kien would be suffused by a prickling sensation, exquisite and uplifting, such as is only given to men who can permit themselves the luxury of an absolute confidence in having ensured themselves against every disaster.

  For two whole days he let things go on in this way, under the pretext of taking a rest after his recent e
xertions, of preparing himself for future efforts, of making a last investigation of the city for any undiscovered booksellers. His thoughts were free and joyful; he watched step by step the restoration of his memory; this first voluntary holiday which he had allowed himself since his university days was being passed in the company of a devoted creature, a friend, who prized highly the value or Intellect' — as he was in the habit of calling Education — who was willing to carry a respectable library about with him and yet would not of his own volition open a single one of those volumes, to read which he was inwardly burning; a creature malformed and on his own confession a poor runner, yet sturdy and muscular enough to justify himself as a porter. Almost Kien was tempted to believe in happiness, that contemptible life-goal of illiterates. If it came of itself, without being hunted for, if you did not hold it fast by force and treated it with a certain condescension, it was permissible to endure its presence for a few days.

  When the third day of happiness broke; Fischerle asked for an hour's leave of absence. Kien liftecf his hand in order to strike his forehead. In other circumstances he would have done it. But, knowing the world as he did, he decided to keep silence and by diis means to unmask the treacherous plans of the dwarf— if he should have any. The story of the silver cigarette case he took for an impudent He. After he had uttered his 'no , first in numerous disguises, but gradually more and more clearly and angrily, he declared suddenly: 'Good, I shall accompany you!' The wretched deformity must be made to confess his vile design. He would go with him to the very counter and see with his own eyes this alleged pawn ticket and alleged cigarette case. Since neither existed, die rogue would fall on his knees, there before all the world, and implore him with tears for forgiveness. Fischerle noticed the suspicion and felt his honour insulted. Did he think him crazy; stealing books — and what books! Because he wants to go to America and he s working hard for his passage money, is he to be treated like a creature without a head on his shoulders?