Kien threw down the paper on the pile. He must cancel his regular order for papers at once. He left the hateful room. But it's night already, he said aloud, in the passage. How can I cancel my order? So as to go on reading, he took out his watch. All it offered was a dial. He could not make out the time. Murder and Arson were more forthcoming. In the library opposite there was light. He burned to know the time. He went into his study.
It was just eleven. No church bell was striking. Once it had been broad daylight. The yellow church was opposite. Across the little square people passed and repassed, excited. The hunchbacked dwarf was called Fischerle. He cried to soften a heart of stone. Paving stones jumped up and lay down again. There was a cordon of police round the Theresianum. Operations in charge of a major. He carried the warrant for arrest in his pocket. The dwarf had seen through it himself. Enemies had hidden under the stairs. Up above the hog was in charge. Books delivered over helpless to conscienceless beasts! The hog had composed a cookery book with a hundred and three recipes. It was said of his stomach — it had corners. Then why was Kien a criminal? Because he helped the poorest of the poor. For the police had drawn up a warrant even before they heard about the corpse. Against him all this gigantic levy. Forces on horse and on foot. Brand new revolvers, rifles, machine guns, barbed wire and tanks — but all is vain against him, they can't hang him till they've got him! Through their legs, they escape into the roses, he and his loyal dwarf. And now the enemy are on his heels, he hears grunting and panting, and the bloodhound at his throat. But ah, there is worse to come. On the sixth floor of the Theresianum the beasts arc bidding each other good night; there they keep thousands of books unjustly in durance, tens of thousands, against their free will, guiltless, what can-they do against the hog, cut off from terra firma, close under the Broiling attic roof, starving, condemned, condemned to the devouring Flames.
Kien heard cries for help. Despairing, he pulled at the cord which was attached to the skylight and the windows flew open. He listened. The cries redoubled. His mistrusted them. He hurried into the neighbouring room and here too pulled at the cord. In here the cries were fainter. The third room echoed shrilly. In the fourth they could hardly be heard. He went back through all the rooms. He walked and listened. The cries rose and fell in waves. He pressed his hands against his ears and took them quickly away again. Pressed them and took them away. It sounded just the same as above. Ah, his ears were confusing him. He pushed the ladder, despite its resistant rails, into the middle of the study and climbed to its highest level. The upper part of his body overtopped the roof; he held fast on to the panes. Then he heard the despairing cries; they were the books screaming. In the direction of the Theresianum he was aware of a reddish glow. Hesitantly it spread across the black gaping heavens. The smell of oil was in his nose. The glow of fire, screams, the smell; the Theresianum is Burning.
Dazzled, he closed his eyes. He lowered his burning skull. Drops of water splashed on his neck. It was raining. He Hung his head back and offered bis face to the rain. How cool — the strange water! Even die clouds were merciful. Perhaps they would put out the fire. Then an icy blow struck him on the eyelid. He was cold. Someone tweaked at him. They stripped him stark naked. They went through his all pockets. They left him his shirt. In the little mirror he saw himself. He was very thin. Red fruits, thick and bloated, grew all around him. The caretaker was one of them. The corpse attempted to talk. He would not listen to her. She was always saying: I ask you. He stopped up his ears. She tapped on her blue skirt. He turned his back on her. In front of him was seated a uniform without a nose. 'Your name?' 'Dr. Peter Kien.' 'Professions' 'The greatest living sinologist.' 'Impossible!' 'I swear it.' 'Perjury!' 'No!' 'Criminal!' 'I am in my right mind. I confess. In full possession of my senses. I killed her. I am perfectly sane. My brother knows nothing of it. Spare him! He is a famous man. I lied to him.' "Where is the money?' 'Money?' 'You stole it.' 'I'm not a thief!' 'Thief and murderer!' 'Murderer!' 'Thief and murderer!' 'Murderer!' 'You are under arrest. You will stay here!' 'But my brother's coming. Leave me free until then! He must know nothing. I implore you!' And the caretaker steps forward, he is still his friend, and procures him a few days of liberty. He brings him home and keeps guard over him, he does not let him out of the little room. That was where George found him, in misery but not a criminal. Now he is on his train already, if only he had stayed here! He would have helped him at his trial! A murderer must give himself up? But he won't. He will stay here. He must watch the burning Theresianum.
Slowly he lifted his lids. The rain had stopped. The reddish glow had paled, the fire brigade must have arrived at last. The sky no longer rang with cries. Kien climbed down from the ladder. In every room the cries for help were stilled. So as not to miss them if they began again, he left the skylights wide open. In the middle of the room the ladder was placed ready. If the disaster should grow to a climax, it would help his flight. Whither.? To the Theresianum. The hog lay, a charred corpse, under the beams. There, unknown among the crowd, there was much he could do. Leave the house! Take care! Tanks arc patrolling the streets. All the king's horses. They think they have caught him. The Lord will smite them; and he, the murderer, will escape. But first he will efface all traces.
He kneels before the writing desk. He passes his hand over the carpet. That was where the corpse lay. Is the blood still visible? It is not visible. He pushed his fingers far into his nostrils, but they only smell a little of dust. No blood. He must look more closely. The light is bad. It hangs too high. The flex of the table lamp does not reach so far. On the writing desk is a box of matches. He strikes six at once, six months, and lies down on the carpet. From very close he holds the light to the carpet, looking for bloodstains. Those, red stripes are part of the pattern. They were always here. They must be got rid of. The police will take them for blood. They must be burnt out. He presses the matches into the carpet. They go out. He throws them away. He strikes six new ones. Softly he passes them over one of the red stripes, then delicately pokes them in. They leave a brown mark behind them. Soon they go out. He strikes new ones. He uses a whole box. The carpet remains cool. It is marked all over with brownish scars. Glowing patches are here and there. Now nothing can be proved against him. Why did he confess? Before thirteen witnesses. The corpse was there too, and the ginger cat which can sec at night. The murderer with wife and child. A knock. The police at the door. A knock.
Kien will not open. He stops his ears. He hides behind a book. It is on the writing-table. He wants to read it. The letters dance up and down. Not a word can he make out. Quiet please! Before his eyes it flickers, fiery red. This is the aftermath of his terrible shock, on account of the fire, who would not have been frightened; when the Theresianum burns numberless numbers of books go up in flames. He stands up. How can he possibly read now. The book lies too far off. Sit ! He sits again. Trapped. No, his home, the writing desk, the library. All are loyal to him. Nothing has been burnt. He can read when he wants to. But the book is not even open. He had forgotten to open it. Stupidity must be punished. He opens it. He strikes his hand on it. It strikes twelve. Now I've got you! Read! Stop! No. Get out! Oh! A letter detaches itself from the first line and hits him a blow on the ear. Letters are lead. It hurts. Strike him! Strike him! Another. And another. A footnote kicks him. More and more. He totters. Linesand whole pages come clattering on to him. They shake and beat him, they worry him, they toss him about among themselves. Blood, Let me go! Damnable mob! Help! George! Help! Help! George!
But George has gone. Peter leaps up. With formidable strength he grasps the book and snaps it to. So, he has taken the letters prisoner, all of them, and will not let them go again. Never! He is free. He stands up. He stands alone. George has gone. He has outwitted him. What does he know of the murder? A mental specialist. An ass. A wide-open soul. Yet he would gladly steal the books. He would want him dead soon. Then he'd have the library. He won't get it. Patience! 'What do you want upstairs?' ']ust to look round!' 'Just to g
et round me!' That's what you'd like. Shoemaker stick to your idiots. He's coming again. In six months. Better luck next time. A will? Not necessary. The only heir will get everything he wants. A special train to Paris. The Kien library. Who collected it? The psychiatrist Georges Kien, who else? And his brother, the sinologist? Quite a mistake, there wasn't a brother, two of the same name, no connection, a murderer, he murdered his wife, Murder and Fire in all the papers, sentenced to imprisonment for life — for life — for death — the dance of death — the golden calf— an inheritance of a million — none but the brave — wave — parting — no — till death us do part — death by Fire — loss loss by Fire — burnt burnt by Fire — Fire Fire Fire.
Kien seizes the book on the table and threatens his brother with it. He is trying to rob him; everyone is out for a will, everyone counts on the death of his nearest. A brother is good enough to die, thieves kitchen of a world, men devour and steal books. All want something, and all are gone, and no one .can wait. Earlier they burnt a man's possessions with him, a will was nowhere to be found and there was nothing left, nothing but bones. The letters rattle inside the book. They are prisoners, they can't come out. They've beaten him bloody. He threatens them with death by fire. That is how he will avenge himself on all his enemies ! He has murdered his wife, the hog is a charred skeleton, George will get no books. And the police won't get him. Powerless, the letters are knocking to be let out. Outside the police knock against the door. 'Open the door!' 'Never more.' 'In the name of the law!' 'Pshaw!' 'Let us in!' 'Din.' 'At once.' 'Dunce.' 'You'll be shot.' 'Pot.' 'We'll smoke you out!' 'Lout!' They are trying to break down his door. They won't do that easily. His door is strong and fiery. Bang. Bang. Bang. The blows grow heavier. He can hear them where he is. His door is bolted with iron. But if the rust has eaten into the bolts? No metal is all-powerful. Bang. Bang. Hogs are herded before his door, ramming it with stomachs, with corners. The wood will crack for certain. It looks so old and worn. They seized the enemy trenches. Entrenched. Ready, steady, crash. Ready, steady, crash! The bell. At eleven all the bells ring. The Theresianum. The hunchback. March off, pulling long noses. Am I right or am I not? Ready, steady — am I right — ready, steady.
The books cascade offthe shelves on to the floor. He takes them up in his long arms. Very quietly, so that they can't hear him outside, he carries pile after pile into the hall. He builds them up high against the iron door. And while the frantic din tears his brain to fragments, he builds a mighty bulwark out of books. The hall is filled with volume upon volume. He fetches the ladder to help him. Soon he has reached the ceiling. He goes back to his room. The shelves gape at him. In front of the writing desk the carpet is ablaze. He goes into the bedroom next to the kitchen and drags out all the old newspapers. He pulls the pages apart, and crumples them, he rolls them into balls, and throws them into all the corners. He places the ladder in the middle of the room where it stood before. He climbs up to the sixth step, looks down on the fire and waits.
When the flames reached him at last, he laughed out loud, louder than he had ever laughed in all his life.
Elias Canetti, Auto-Da-Fé
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