Kien decided to empty his writing desk of rubbish on the following day immediately he got up; at present he was working.
On the following day, at six o'clock precisely, in the very middle of a dream, he started up from his divan bed, flung himself on the crammed giant and pulled out every one of its drawers. Screeching filled the air; it shrilled through the entire library, swelling to a heartrending climax. It was as if each drawer had its own voice and each was vying with its neighbour in a piercing scream for help. They were being robbed, tortured, murdered. They could not know who it was who dared to touch them. They had no eyes; their only organ was a shrill voice. Kien sorted the papers. It took him a long time. He disregarded the noise; what he had begun, he would finish. With a pyramid of waste paper in his lean arms, he stalked across into the fourth room. Here, some distance from the screeching, he tore them, cursing, into small pieces. Someone knocked; he ground his teeth. Again that knock; he stamped his feet. The knocking changed to hammering. 'Quiet!' he ordered and swore. He would willingly have dispensed with the unseemly row. But he was sorry on account of the manuscripts. Rage alone had given him strength to destroy them. At last he stood, a huge lonely stork on guard over a mountain of scraps of paper. Embarrassed and timid, he stroked them with his fingers, softly mourning over them. So as not to injure them unnecessarily, he lifted a cautious leg and cleared them. The graveyard behind him, he breathed again. Outside the door he found the housekeeper. With a weary gesture, he indicated the pyre and said: 'Clear it away!' The screeching had died down; he went back to the writing desk and closed the drawers. They were silent. He had wrenched them open too violently. The mechanism had been broken.
Thérèse was in the very act of finding her way into the starched skirt which completed her attire, when the screeching had broken loose. Terrified out of her wits, she fastened her skirt provisionally and glided fast to the door of the study. 'For Heaven's sake,' she wailed, flute-like, "What has happened ?' She knocked, discreetly at first, then louder. Receiving no answer, she tried the door, in vain. She glided from door to door. In the last room she heard him, shouting angrily. Here she hammered on the door with all her strength. 'Quiet!' he shouted in a rage, in such a rage as she had never heard him. Half indignant, half resigned, she let her hard hands drop against her hard skirt, and stood stiff as a wooden doll. "What a calamity!' she murmured, 'what a calamity!' and was still standing there, out of mere habit, when he opened the door.
Slow by nature, this time she grasped in a flash the opportunity which was being offered to her. "With difficulty she said 'At once', and glided away to the kitchen. On the threshold she had an idea: 'Gracious Heaven, he's bolting himself in, just out of habit! Something will happen, at the last minute, that's life! I've no luck, I've no luck!' It was the first time she had said this, for as a rule she regarded herself as a meritorious and therefore as a lucky person. Anxiety made her head jerk to and fro. She sneaked out into the corridor again. She was stooping far forward. Her legs hesitated before she took a step. Her stiff skirt billowed. She would have reached her goal far more quietly by gliding as usual, but that was too ordinary a process. The solemnity of the occasion demanded its own solemnities. The room was open to her: In the middle of the floor the paper was still lying. She pushed a great fold of the carpet between the door and its frame so that it should not be blown to. Then she went back to the kitchen and waited, dustpan and brush in hand, for the familiar rattle of the wash-trolley. She would have preferred to come and fetch it herself, for she had a long time to wait. "When at last she heard it crash against the wall, she forgot herself and called, out of habit, 'Up already?' She pushed it into the kitchen and, stooping even lower than before, crept into the library. She set down dustpan and brush on the floor. Slowly she picked her way across the intervening rooms to the threshold of his bedroom. After every step she stood still, and turned her head the other way about so as to listen with her right ear, the ear which was the less worn-out of the two. The thirty yards which she traversed took her ten minutes; she thought herself foolhardy. Her terror and her curiosity grew at the same rate. A thousand times she had thought out how to behave when she reached her goal. She squeezed herself tightly against the door frame. She remembered the crackling of her newly starched skirt too late. With one eye she tried to survey the situation. As long as the other one was in reserve she felt safe. She must not be seen, and she must see everything. Her right arm, which she liked to hold akimbo and which was constantly doubling itself up, she forced into stillness.
Kien was pacing calmly up and down in front of his books, making incomprehensible noises. Under his arm he carried the empty briefcase. He came to a halt, thought for a moment, then fetched the ladder and climbed up it. From the topmost shelf he extracted a book, turned over the pages and placed it in the brief-case. On the ground again, he continued his pacing up and down, stopped, pulled at a book, which was recalcitrant, wrinkled his forehead, and when he had it at last in his hands, gave it a sharp slap. Then it too disappeared into the briefcase. He selected five volumes. Four small ones and one large one. Suddenly he was in a hurry. Carrying the heavy brief-case he clambered up to the highest rung of the ladder and pushed the first volume back into its place. His long legs encumbered him; he had all but fallen down.
If he fell and hurt himself, there'd be an end of this wickedness. Therese's arm could be controlled no longer; it reached for her ear and tugged vigorously, at it. Both eyes were fixed, gloating, on her imperilled employer. When his feet at length reached the thick carpet, she could breathe again. So the books were a fraud. Now for the truth. She knew every inch of the library, but secret vices are crafty. There's opium, there's morphia, there's cocaine—who could remember them all? You couldn't fool her. Behind the books, that's it. Why for instance did he never walk straight across the room? He stood by the ladder and what he wanted was on the shelf exacdy opposite. He could fetch it as easy as anything, but no, he must always go creeping round by the wall. Carrying that great heavy thing under his arm, he goes all the way round by the wall. Behind the books, that's it. Murderers are drawn to the scene of the crime. Now the brief-case is full. He can't get anything more into it; she knows the brief-case, she dusts it out every day. Now something must happen. It can't be seven yet. If it's seven he'll go out. Where is it seven? It shan't be seven.
Shameless and sure of herself, she stooped forward, pressed her arm to her side, pricked her two large ears and opened her little eyes greedily. He took the brief-case by both ends and laid it firmly on the carpet. His face looked proud. He stooped down and remained stooping. She was running with sweat and trembling in every limb. Tears came into her eyes, under the carpet then, that's it. She'd always said, under the carpet. What a fool! He straightened himself, cracked his joints and spat. Or did he only say 'There!' He took up the brief-case, extracted a volume and slowly replaced it on the shelves. He did the same with all the others.
Thérèse came over faint. No thank you, indeed! There's nothing more worth looking at. So that's your sensible man, with never a smile or a word! She's sensible herself, and hard-working, but would she demean herself? You could cut her hand off, you don't find her mixed up in such things. He acts stupid in front of his own housekeeper. A creature like that to have money! And so much money, heaps and heaps of money! Ought to be put away. The way he wastes his money! Anyone else in her position now, any of that ragtag and bobtail there is these days, they'd have had the last stitch of clothing off his back long ago. Doesn't even sleep in a decent bed. What does he want with all these books and books? He can't be reading all of them at once. If you ask her, he's nothing but a loony, ought to have his money taken away before he wastes it all, and then let him go his own way. She'll teach him! Enticing a respectable woman into his house, indeed. Thinks he can make a fool of anyone, does he? Nobody can make a fool of her. For eight years perhaps, but not a moment longer!
By the time Kien had made his second selection of books for his morning wal
k, Therese's first anger had evaporated. She saw that he was ready to go out, glided in her normal, self-possessed manner back to the heap of paper and inserted the dustpan underneath it with dignity. She 'seemed to herself a more interesting and distinguished person than before.
No, she decided, she would not give up her post. But she's found him out now. Well, that's something to know. If she sees anything, she knows how to make use of it. She doesn't see many things. She hasn't ever been outside the town. She's not one for excursions, a waste of good money. You don't catch her going bathing, it's not respectable. She doesn't care for travelling, you never know where you are. If she didn't have to go shopping, she'd prefer to stay in all day. They all try to do you down. Prices going up all the time, things aren't the same any more.
CHAPTER III
CONFUCIUS THE MATCHMAKER
On the following Sunday Kien came back elated from his morning walk. The streets were empty on Sundays at this early hour. Humankind began each holiday by lying late. Then they fell upon their best clothes. They spent their first wakeful hours in devotions before the looking glass. During the remainder they recovered from their own grimaces by looking at other people's. Each thought himself the finest. To prove it he must go among his fellows. On weekdays: sweat and babble to earn a living. On Sundays: sweat and babble for nothing. The day of rest had been first intended as a day of silence. Kien noted with scorn that this institution, like all others, had degenerated into its exact opposite. He himself had no use for a day of rest. Always he worked and always in silence.
Outside the door of his flat he found the housekeeper. She had evidently been waiting for him some time.
'The Metzger child from the second floor was here. You promised him he could come. He would have it, you were in. The maid saw someone tall coming upstairs. He'll be back in half an hour. He won't disturb you, he's coming for the book.'
Kien had not been listening. Only at the word 'book' did he become attentive and understood in retrospect what the matter was. 'He is lying. I promised nothing. I told him I would show him some pictures from India and China if I ever had time. I have no time. Send him away.'
'Some people have a cheek. Excuse me, such ragtag and bobtail. The father was a common working man. Where they get the money from, I'd like to know. But there you are. Everything for the children, these days. Nobody is strict any more. Cheeky they are; you wouldn't credit it. Playing at their lessons and going for walks with teacher. Excuse me, in my time it was very different. If a child didn't want to learn its parents took it away from school and put it to a trade. With a hard master, so it had to learn. Nothing like that these, days. You don't catch people wanting to work now. Don't know their places any more, that's what it is. Look at young people these days, when they go out on Sundays. Every factory girl has to have a new blouse. I ask you, and what do they do with all their fancy stuff. Go off bathing and take it all off again. With boys, too. Whoever heard of such a thing in my time? Let 'em do a job of work, that'd be more like it. I always say, where does the money come from? Prices going up all the time. Potatoes cost double already. It's not surprising, children have a check. Parents don't check them at all. In my days, it was a couple of good smacks, left and right, and the child had to do as it was told. There's nothing good left in the world. When they're little they don't learn, when they grow up they don't do a hand's turn.
Kien had been irritated at first because she was holding him up with a long discourse, but soon he found himself yielding to a kind of astonished interest in her words. So this uneducated creature set great value on learning. She must have a sound core. Perhaps the result of her daily contact with his books. Other women in her position might not have taken colour from their surroundings. She was more receptive, perhaps she yearned for education.
'You are quite right,' he said, 'I am happy to find you so sensible. Learning is everything.'
They had entered the flat while they were talking. 'Wait a minute!' he commanded and disappeared into the library. He came back with a small book in his left hand. As he turned over the pages, he thrust his thin, hard lips outwards. 'Listen!' he said and signalled her to stand a little further from him. What he was about to utter called for space. With an abundance of feeling, grotesquely unsuited to the simplicity of the text, he read:
'My master commanded me to learn three thousand characters every day and to write down another thousand each evening. In the short winter days the sun went down early and I had not finished my task. I carried my little tablet on to the veranda which faced the west and finished my writing there. Late in the evening, when I was going through what I had written, I could no longer overcome my weariness. So I placed two buckets of water behind me. When I grew too sleepy, I took off my gown and emptied the first bucket over myself. Naked, I sat down to my work again. Gradually I would grow warmer and sleepy again. Then I would use the second bucket. with the help of two shower baths I was nearly always able to complete my task. In that winter I entered my ninth year.'
Moved and ablaze with admiration, he clapped the book to. 'That was the way they used to learn! A fragment from the childhood recollections of the Japanese scholar Arai Hakuseki.'
During the reading, Thérèse had drawn closer. Her head waggled in time to his sentences. Her large left ear seemed to reach out of itself towards the words, as he translated freely from the Japanese original. Unintentionally, he was holding the book a little crooked; doubtless she could see the foreign characters and was astonished at the fluency of his rendering. He was reading as if he had a German book in his hands. 'Well I never!' she said. He had finished; she took a deep breath. Her amazement amused him. Was it too late, he thought, how old can she be; It is never too late to learn. But she would have to begin with simple novels.
The bell rang violently. Thérèse opened the door. The little Metzger boy pushed his head through the crack. 'I may come in!' he shouted, 'the Professor said I could!' 'No books for you!' screamed Thérèse, and slammed the door. Outside the little boy raged up and down. He yelled threats at the door; he was so angry that they could not understand a word he said. 'Excuse me, he takes a whole fistful in one. They'd be dirty in no time. I've seen him eat his piece of bread and butter on the stairs.'
Kien was on the threshold of the library: the boy had not seen him. He nodded approvingly to his housekeeper. He was happy to find the interests of his books so well defended. She deserved thanks: 'Should you ever wish to read anything, you may always apply to me.'
'I make so bold, I often thought of asking.'
How she jumped on her opportunity, when books were in question! She was not usually like this. Until this moment she had behaved herself very modestly. He had no intention of starting a lending library. To gain time he answered: 'Good. I shall look something out foryou to-morrow.'
Then he sat down to his work. His promise made him feel uneasy. It was true that she dusted the books every day and had not yet injured one of them. But dusting and reading are different. Her fingers were coarse and rough. Delicate paper must be delicately handled. A hard binding can naturally stand rougher handling than sensitive pages. And how did he know that she could read? She must be more than fifty, she had not made much use of her time. 'An old man who learnt late', Plato called his opponent, the cynic philosopher Antisthenes. To-day we have old women who learn late. She wanted to quench her thirst at the fountain head. Or was she only ashamed of admitting in my presence that she knew nothing? Charity is all very well, but not at other people's expense. Why should the books have to foot the bill? I pay her high wages. I have a right to, it is my own money. But to hand over books to her would be cowardly. They are defenceless against the uneducated. I cannot sit by her all the time she is reading.
That night he saw a man standing, fast bound, on the terrace of a temple, defending himself with wooden clubs from the savage attacks of two upright jaguars on his left and right. Both animals were decked with strange streamers in all colours. They gnashed their teeth,
roared and rolled their eyes so wildly that it made the blood run cold. The sky was black and narrow, and had hidden his stars in his pocket. Tears of glass trickled out of the eyes of the prisoner and splintered into a thousand pieces as they reached the pavement. But as nothing further happened, the savage combat grew boring and made the spectator yawn. Then by chance his eye fell on the feet of the jaguars. They had human feet. Aha, thought the spectator — a lanky, learned man — these are sacrificial priests of ancient Mexico. They are performing a sacred comedy. The victim knows well that he must die in the end. The priests are disguised as jaguars but I see through them at once.