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  For his better convenience he divided the people as they appeared outside the glass door into three groups. To the first of these their heavy brief-cases were a burden, to the second a bargain, to the third a blessing. The first group held their books fast in both arms, without grace, without love, just as they would have carried any heavy parcel. They pushed the door open with them. They would have shoved the books along the banisters — had they been allowed to get so far. As they wanted to be quickly rid of their burden they did not think of hiding it and held it always in front of their chests or their stomachs. They agreed readily to his offers, were content with whatever sum he suggested, did not bargain and left the building just as they had entered it, only a little more weighed down, for they carried with them money and a doubt or two as to the legality of their having received it. Kien found this group unpleasing, they would learn too slowly; in order to effect an ultimate reform he would have needed to spend some hours on each one.

  But he felt a real hatred for the second group. The members of this group hid the books behind their backs. At best they revealed only the tips of them between their arms and ribs so as to whet the greed of a possible buyer. They received the most brilliant offers with suspicion. They refused to open their parcels or satchels. They haggled up to the last moment and oehaved at the end as if they had been outwitted. There were some among them who pocketed the money and still wanted to go up to Hell. At this Kien found that he was striking chords which were an astonishment even to him. He placed himself in their path and spoke to them as they deserved: he demanded the money back at once. When they heard that, they turned and ran. The little money in hand was dearer to them than the thousands under the roof. Kien was convinced that there, above, gigantic sums were paid out. The more money he gave away, the less he had left, so much the more oppressive became the thought of the foul competition of the devils on high.

  Of the third group he had seen none as yet. But he knew that it existed. He awaited its representative whose characteristics were as familiar to him as a catechism, with patient longing. Once, at last, that man must come to whom the carrying of books is a blessing, whose road to hell is paved with anguish, who would indeed collapse altogether did not those friends, whom he carried with him, ceaselessly re-imbue him with strength. His step is that of a sleepwalker. Behind the glass door his silhouette appears, he hesitates, how is he to push it open without in the least degree giving pain to one of his friends? He does so. Love is the author of invention. At sight of Kien, his own conscience in the flesh, he glows fiery red. With a colossal effort of will he pulls himself together and takes a step forward. His head is on his breast. In front of Kien — before ever he is spoken to — he stops as at some inner command. Hé guesses what his conscience has to say to him. The fearful word 'Money' falls. He shrinks back, the executioner's axe is towards him; he sobs aloud: 'Not that! Not that!' He will riot take money. Rather he will hang himself. He would flee the place, but his strength forsakes him and, moreover, to prevent any risk to his friends, violent exercise is to be avoided. His conscience takes him in his arms and speaks kindly to him. There is more rejoicing in heaven, he cries, for one sinner reclaimed than for ninety and nine just men. Perhaps he will bequeathe him his library. When this man comes, he will forsake his post for an hour; this one who takes nothing, outweighs the thousands who ask for more. While he waits for him, he will give the thousands all he has. Perhaps one of the first group will bethink himself when he gets home. For the second he entertains no hope at all. But all the victims he can save. For that and not for his private satisfaction, he takes his stand.

  At Kien's head, to his right, hung a notice, prohibiting loitering on the stairways and in the corridors and by the heating pipes. Fischerle warned his deadly enemy of this on the very first day. 'People will think you've no coal in the house,' he said. 'Only people who've got no coal stand about here. And they aren't allowed to. They turn them out. The heating's for the cats. Clients might cool off on the way upstairs. Anyone who's really cold has to clear out quick. He might get warm here. Anyone who isn't cold can stay. As for you, everyone would think you were cold!'

  'The hot pipes are on the first landing, fifteen steps higher,' answered Kien.

  'You don't get any heating for nothing, it's all one how little it is. Tell you what, here, where you're standing, I've stood too in my time, and been moved on, just the same.' This was not a lie.

  Kien bethought himself that his competitors had an interest in driving him out and gratefully accepted the little fellow's offer to keep a sharp look out. His passion for that half of the library which he had entrusted to him had paled. Greater dangers threatened. Now that they had bound themselves by the same oath to die same task, he thought any treachery was out of the question. When they took up their positions on the following day, Fischerle said: 'Tell you what, you go in first! We don't know each other. I'll stand about outside somewhere. Better not disturb me. I won't tell you where I am. If they once see we're together, all our work'U be for nothing. In emergency, I'll pass by you and wink at you. First you run, then I'll run. We won t both run together. Behind the yellow church we'll have a meeting place. You wait there till I come. Got that?' He would have been genuinely astonished if his suggestion had been rejected. Since he had an interest in Kien, he was not going to let him go. How could anyone think that he would cut and run for a reward, for a mere tip, when he had the whole lot pretty near in his hand? That swindler, that book racket, that cunning dog, saw through the honest part of his plan and agreed.

  CHAPTER IV

  FOUR AND THEIR FUTURE

  Scarcely had Kien vanished into the building, when Fischerle walked slowly back to the next street corner, turned into a side street and began to run for dear life. Only when he got to the Stars of Heaven, did he allow his sweating, panting, trembling body a moment's rest, then he walked in. At this time of the day most of the denizens of Heaven were usually asleep. He had counted on this; he had no use just now for dangerous or violent people. Present were: the lanky waiter; a hawker, who derived at least one advantage from the insomnia from which he suffered, and could keep on his rounds twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four; a blind ex-service man who, sitting over the cheap cup of morning coffee, which he took here before starting on his day's work, was still making use of his eyes; an old newspaper woman, known as the 'Fishwife', because she looked rather like Fischerle and — as everyone realised — was secretly and hopelessly in love with him; and a sewerman whose custom it was to recover from his night's work and the foul air of the sewers in the equally foul air of the Stars of Heaven. He was regarded as the most respectable of the clients, because he gave three-quarters of his weekly wages to his wife, by whom, in a very happy marriage, he had had three children. The remaining quarter found its way in the course of a day or a night into the cashbox of the proprietress of Heaven.

  The Fishwife held out a paper to her beloved as he came in and said: 'There you are, dearie! Where've you been all this time?' When the police were worrying him, Fischerle often disappeared for a day or two. He's gone to America,' they would say, laugh every time at the joke— how would such a cocksparrow manage in the gigantic land of skyscrapers? —and forgot him until he turned up again. The love of his wife, the Capitalist, was not so deep as to give her any anxiety on his behalf. She only loved him when he was near her, and knew that he was used to police courts and lock-ups. When the American joke came up she thought how nice it would be to have all her money to herself for once. For a long time she had been wanting to buy a picture of the Holy Virgin for her little room. A capitalist ought to have a picture of the Holy Virgin. As soon as he ventured out of his hiding place — where, though completely innocent, he frequently took refuge because the police made a habit of holding him days for questioning, and would take his chessboard away — he went at once to tht café and in a few minutes he was her mummy's darling again. But the Fishwife was the only person who asked after him daily, and hazarded every
kind of guess as to his whereabouts. He was allowed to read her papers without paying for them. Before she began her rounds, she hobbled hurriedly into the Stars of Heaven, handed him the top copy of the packet fresh from the printer, and waited patiently, her heavy burden under her arm, until he had finished with it. He was allowed to open the paper, crumple it up and fold it up crooked; the others were only allowed to look over his shoulder. When he was in a bad temper he delayed her purposely a long time and she suffered heavy losses. When people teased her about her incomprehensible stupidity, she would shrug her shoulders, shake her hump — which rivalled Fischerle's in size and expressiveness — and say: 'He s all I've got in the world!' Possibly she loved Fischerle for the pleasure of this plaintive phrase. She would cry it out with a jangling voice, and it sounded as though she was crying two newspapers: He's all and The World.

  To-day Fischerle had not a glance for her paper. She quite understood, the paper wasn't fresh any more, but she had meant well and thought that maybe he hadn't read anything for days; who could say where he'd come from? Fischerle took her by the shoulders — she was as small as him — shook her and croaked: 'Come here everyone, I've got something for you!' All of them — except the consumptive waiter who wouldn t be ordered about by a Jew, was interested in nothing and stood stock still by the bar — the three therefore, drew close up to him, almost squashing him in their enthusiasm. 'Twenty schillings a day if you work for me! For three days at least.' 'Sixteen pounds of toilet soap,' calculated the unsleeping hawker hurriedly. The blind man looked Fischerle doubtfully in the eye. 'Give us a shove!' boomed the sewerman. The Fishwife noticed only 'if you work for me', and did not hear the sum.

  'I've started my own business. Sign up that you'll hand over everything to the chief— that's me — and I'll take you on.' They would rather have found out first what it was all about. But Fischerle took good care not to give away business secrets. The thing's a racket, he admitted, further than that he would not go: this he stated categorically. In return each employee would get five schillings advance on the first day. They sat up to that. 'The undersigned guarantees and immediately pays cash down every penny taken to the firm of Siegfried Fischer. The undersigned agrees to keep mum and take the consequences in the event of a misfortune.' In an instant Fischerle had written down these sentences on four sheets of a scribbling pad presented to him by the hawker. As the only genuine businessman among those present he hoped for a share in the business and the more important commissions, and wanted to set on the right side of the chief. The sewerman, the father of a family and the stupidest of them all, signed first; Fischerle was annoyed because the signature was as large as his own, and he piqued himself on having the biggest. 'Too big for your boots!' he scolded, at which the hawker contented himself with a remote corner of the paper and a tiny name. 'I can't read that!' declared Fischerle, and forced the man, who was already seeing himself as the official representative of the firm, to write in less modest characters. The blind man would not lift a finger until he had his money. He had to look on patiently while people threw buttons into his hat, and when he was in civvies trusted no one further than he could see him. "What's this,' Fischerle protested, disgusted: 'Have I ever done anyone?' He drew a few bundied-up notes out of his armpit, flicked a five schilling note into each man's hand and made them sign for it at once 'on account'. 'Now you're talking,' said the blind man. 'Promising's one thing, performing's another. For a man like you I'd go out and beg, if it's got to be!' The hawker would have gone through fire for such a chief, the sewerman through thick and thin. Only the Fishwife was a softy. 'He don't need no signature from me,' she declared, 'I wouldn't steal from him. He's all I've got in the world.' Fischerle regarded her subjection so much as an accepted thing that, since their first greeting, he had turned his back on her. His hump gave her courage; his backview filled her with love indeed, but not with respect. As the capitalist wasn't in the café she felt almost like the wife of the new chief. Scarcely had he heard this impertinence than he turned round, forced the pen into her hand and ordered: "Write, you've nothing to say here!' She obeyed the look in his black eyes — her own were grey — and even signed for the five schillings on account which she hadn't yet received. 'That's that!' Fischerle carefully folded away the four slips of paper and sighed. 'And what do I get out of a business life? Nothing but worry! Believe me, I'd rather be the insignificant person I was before. You've got all the luck!' He knew that superior people always talk to their employees in this way, whether they have worries or not; he had a few. 'Let's go!' he said next, waved to the waiter — a tiny benefactor — from far below, and, accompanied by his new staff, left the cafe.

  In the street he explained to each of them their duties. He took each of his employees in turn and ordered the remaining three to follow at some distance as if they had nothing to do with him. It seemed to him necessary to treat these people each according to the measure of his intellect. As he was in a hurry and took the sewerman for the most reliable of them, he selected him, to the great indignation of the hawker for his first confidence.

  'You're a good father,' he said, 'so I thought of you right away. A man who hands over seventy-five per cent ofhis net wages to his wife is worth his weight in gold. So, mind what I'm saying and don't trip yourself up. It would be a shame for those nice kids.' He would give him a parcel, the parcel was to be called 'Art'. 'Repeat it: Art!''There now, d'you think I don't know what artful is, because I give the old woman so much!' It was usual, under die Stars of Heaven, to despise the sewerman for his family affairs, which diey envied him. By countless prods to his thick-skinned pride, Fischerle prized out what small measure ot intellect the creature had. Three times over he told him what to do in the utmost detail. The sewerman had never yet crossed the threshold of the Theresianum. Necessary visits were undertaken by his wife. Fischerle's partner would be standing just behind the glass doors, by the window. He was long and lean. You go slowly past him and say not a word, not a single word, and wait until he speaks to you. Then you shout loudly: 'Art, sir! Not a penny less than 200 schillings! High class Art!' Next Fischerle ordered the sewerman to halt in front of a bookshop. Inside he bought the necessary wares. Ten cheap novels at two schillings each were made up into an impressive parcel. Three times he repeated his previous instructions; presumably even this bone-head had understood everything. If Fischerle's partner were to try and pull the paper off the books, he must grip them firmly to himself and shout: 'No! No!' Then he must make his way back, money, parcel and all to a rendezvous behind the church. There he would be paid off. On condition that he told not a soul, not even his fellow employees what he had done, he might report again behind the church at nine sharp the next day. He, Fischerle, had a heart for honest sewermen, not everyone came of a business family. With these words the respectable father of a family was released.

  While the sewerman was waiting outside the booksellers, the three others, obedient to their chief's command, had gone on, without taking the slightest notice of the friendly shouts of their colleague who, in the effort of learning his new orders, had quite forgotten the old ones. Fischerle had counted on this, and the sewerman had turned into a side street carrying his parcel as if it were the precious infant of wealthy parents, before the others could even have noticed it. Fischerle whistled, overtook the other three, and selected the Fishwife next. The hawker realized that he was being kept for higher things. 'You'll see,' he said to the blind man, 'he'll send for me last!'

  The dwarf made short work of the Fishwife. 'I'm all you've got in the world' ; he reminded her of her love and her lovely sentence. 'Anyone can say that, I'm for proofs. If you keep back a ha'penny it's all over between us, believe me. I'll never touch another of your papers and you can whistle for a new man just the same shape as yourself!' The rest of his explanation was easy. The Fishwife hung on his lips; to see him speaking she made herself even smaller than she was; kiss he could not, on account of his nose, and she was the only one short enough to see his mout
h. The Theresianum was her second home. Now she was to go on ahead and wait for the chief behind the church. There she would be given a parcel for which she was to ask 250 schillings, and then go back to the rendezvous with the money and the Earcel. 'Off with you!' he shouted at the end. She was repulsive to im, because she never left offloving him.

  At the next corner he halted until the blind man and the hawker came up with him. The latter made way for the former, and nodded briefly and meaningly to the chief. 'I'm disgusted!' Fischerle declared, and cast a respectful glance at the blind man who, in spite of his ragged working clothes, was peering round at every woman and distrustfully sizing them up. He would have loved to know what effect the new cut of his moustache was making on them. He hated young girls, because they objected to his profession. 'A man like you,' Fischerle went on, 'to have to put up with all this cheating!' The blind man pricked up his ears. 'Someone throws a button into your hat. You've told me so yourself. You see it's a button and say thank-you. If you don't say thank-you, you give the show away and your clients smell a rat. So you agree to be cheated. A man like you! Might as well hang yourself. Swindling's a filthy trick. Am I right?' Tears came into the eyes of the blind beggar, grown man though he was, with three years' war service at the front behind him. This daily trick practised on him, which he saw through at once, was his greatest grief. Simply because he had to work so hard for his living, every guttersnipe could make a fool of him. He often thought long and seriously of making an end of himself. If he were not now and then still lucky with women it would have come to that long ago. Under the Stars of Heaven he told everyone who got into conversation with him about the button-trick and ended with the threat to do in one of the swine and then himself. As this had been going on for years, no one took him seriously any more, and his suspicions were furiously growing. 'Yes!' he cried and gesticulated with is arm round Fischerle's hump, 'a child of three knows if it's got a button or a penny in its hand! But I'm not to know! I'm not to know! I'm not blind!' 'Just what I say,' Fischerle finished for him, 'it all comes of swindling. Why must people do each other? They might say "I haven't a penny to-day, my dear sir, to-morrow I'll give you two." But no, they'd sooner do you, and you have to swallow a button. You ought to try another trade, my dear sir! For a long time I've been thinking over what I might do for you. Tell you what, if you do well these three days, I'll take you on for longer. Don't say a word to the others, strictly confidential, I'll sack the Tot; between ourselves I only took them on out of charity for a day or two. You're different, you can't stand cheating, I can't stand cheating, you're a better-class person, I'm a better-class person, you'll admit, we suit each other allright. Just to show you how highly I respect you, I'll give you your whole commission for to-day in advance. The others won't get a penny.' The blind man was in fact presented with the remaining fifteen schillings due to him. First of all he hadn't believed his ears, now he had the same experience with his eyes. 'Suicide be hanged!' he shouted. For the joy of the moment he would have forgone ten women — he reckoned in women. What Fischcrlc next explained to him he accepted with enthusiasm, and therefore with ease. He laughed at the idea of the tall partner, because he felt so happy. 'Does he bite?' he asked. He was thinking of his long, lean dog which lead him to his place of business in the morning and took him home at night. 'Let him try!' Fischerle spoke threateningly. For one moment he hesitated whether he should not entrust him with a higher sum than the 300 schillings he had in mind; the man seemed genuinely enthusiastic. Fiscberle haggled with himself; he would dearly have loved to make five hundred at a stroke. But he saw that the risk was too great; such a loss might well ruin him and he forced his desires down to four hundred. The blind man was to go the square in front of the church and there to wait for him.