Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
'You dare! Because I'm good enough to let him use the passage, he thinks the rooms are his too. I've got it in writing. Black on white. He mustn't even touch the door handle. He can't get in anyway, I've got the key. I'm not giving it up. The handle belongs to the door. The door belongs to the room. Handle and door belong to me. I won't have him touching my handle!'
He fended off her words with an awkward movement of his arm and unintentionally touched her skirt. She began to scream loud and desperately as if for help.
'I won't have him touching my skirt! The skirt's mine! He didn't buy it! I bought it! He didn t starch it and iron it! I starch it and iron it! Are the keys in my skirt? The very idea. I'm not giving up the keys. Not if you were to bite it. The keys aren't in it. A woman gives her everything to a man. Not my skirt! Not my skirt!'
Kien passed his hand over his forehead. 'I'm in a madhouse!' he said, so low that she couldn't hear him. One glance at the books convinced him that he was not." He remembered the purpose for which he had got up. He had not the courage to carry it out. How was he to get into the next room? Over her dead body? What was the use of her dead body if he had no keys? She was crafty enough to have hidden the keys. As soon as he had the keys he would unlock the doors. He was not in the least afraid of her. Let him but have the keys in his hand and he would strike her out of his path like a mere nothing.
A struggle at this moment would have served no purpose whatever, so he withdrew to the writing desk. Thérèse kept watch on her door for another quarter of an hour. She went on screaming undeterred. That he was sitting at his desk again, the hypocrite, didn t impress her at all. She only stopped when her voice began to give out; then she gradually subsided behind the Spanish screen.
Until the evening she was not again to be seen. Now and again he heard broken sounds from her; they sounded like fragments of a dream. Then she became quiet, he breathed more freely, but only for a short time. Across the refreshing silence and space there suddenly rang out unmistakable sounds. 'Hanging's too good for that kind. First they promise to marry you, then they don't make a will. Excuse me, Mr. Puda, more haste, less speed. The very idea, not to have enough money to make a will.' She's not talking at all, he told himself, these are the after effects of my own overheated hearing, echoes one might call them. As she was now quiet again, he reassured himself with this explanation. He even managed to turn over the pages of the papers in front of him. As he was reading his first sentence, the echoes disturbed him once more, 'Am I a criminal? Judas is the one. Books are wordi something too. Things aren't what they were. Always such a nice-tempered gentleman, Mr. John was. A dirty old dolly-mop my old mum. Wait and see. There's keys and keys. People aren t like that. Nobody made me a present of the keys. All that good money for nothing. Anyone can beg. Anyone can knock you about. Not my skirt.'
It was precisely this sentence, the first one which registered in his ears as an echo of her earlier screechings, which convinced him that she was really talking. Impressions which he thought forgotten re-emerged in all their strength, radiating even a glow of happiness. He was ill again and lay in bed six long weeks condemned to hear her litany. At that time she repeated herself over and over again; he learnt her words by heart and was thus, in the truest sense, her master. At that time he knew in advance what sentence, what word would come next. At that time the caretaker used to come and strike her dead every day. That was a wonderful time. How long ago that was. He calculated it out and arrived at a bewildering conclusion. He had only got up for the first time a week ago. He searched for some reason to explain the chasm which had opened between that golden time and these grey days. He might have discovered it, but Thérèse suddenly began to talk again. What she said was incomprehensible, and therefore held despotic sway over him. It could not oe learnt by heart, and who could guess what would come next? He was chained down and could not tell by what.
In the evening hunger released him. He took good care not to ask Thérèse whether there was anything to eat. Secretly, as he thought, and noiselessly, he left the room. Not until he reached a restaurant did he look about him to see if she had followed him. No, she was not standing on the threshold. Let her dare, he said and boldly took his seat in one of the inner rooms, among couples who were evidently none of them married. So I too, in my mature years, have sunk to the underworld, he sighed, and was astonished not to see champagne flowing over the tables and to notice that the people, instead of behaving outrageously, were consuming cutlets and steak with coldblooded greed. He might have been sorry for the men since they had let themselves be caught by women. But he forbade himself any emotion of this kind on account of their greed, possibly because he was himself so hungry. He insisted that the waiter spare him the perusal of the menu and bring him whatever he — as an expert — should think good. The expert at once revised his opinion of this shabbily dressed person and, recognizing the secret connoisseur concealed within this long, lean gentleman, served him immediately with the most expensive dishes. Hardly was he served than the eyes of all the loving couples were drawn towards his plate. The recipient of these luxuries noticed their attraction, and, although the food tasted delicious, he consumed it with evident repulsion. 'To consume' seemed to him the most unimpassioncd and therefore the most suitable expression for the process of taking in nourishment. He stubbornly pursued his thoughts about this matter, expounding it in length and breadth for the benefit of his slowly reviving spirit. Emphasis on this peculiarity gave him back something of his self-respect. With joy he recognized that he still had a substantial share of integrity, and told himself that Thérèse deserved only his pity.
On the homeward journey he dwelt on the thought of letting her feel his pity. Briskly he unlocked the door of the flat. He knew already in the corridor that there was no light in his bedroom. The idea that she was already asleep filled him with a wild joy. Stealthily and softly, afraid lest his bony fingers should strike a noise from the handle, he opened the door. His intention of showing her his pity he recalled at a most unfortunate moment. Yes, he said to himself, so be it. Out of my great pity for her, I will not wake her up. He managed to wear his strength of character yet a little longer. He did not turn on the light, but crept on tiptoe to his bed. Undressing, he was exasperated at having a waistcoat under his coat and a shirt under his waistcoat. Each one of these garments gave rise to its own rustling. The familiar chair was no longer next to the bed. He decided not to look for it but laid his clothes on the floor. To keep Thérèse asleep, he would almost have crawled under the bed. He considered what was the quietest way of getting into it. Since his head was the heaviest part of him, and his feet were the furthest from his head, he decided that these, being the lightest part, should be placed on the bed first. One foot was already on the edge of the bedstead, the second was to join it immediately in one skilful movement. His head and body swayed for a moment in mid air, and then precipitated themselves, against his will, catching for support at anything, in the direction of the pillows. Then Kien felt something unexpected and soft, thought 'A burglar!' and closed his eyes as quickly as he could.
Although he was now lying on top of the burglar, he did not dare to move. Despite his fear, he could feel that the burglar was of the female sex. A fugitive and remote satisfaction crossed his mind that this sex, and the times, had sunk to such depth. The suggestion that he should defend himself, made in a far and murderous corner of his heart, he immediately repudiated. If the she-burglar, as at first appeared, were really asleep, he would withdraw quietly after giving the thing a longish trial, taking his clothes in his hand; he would leave the flat door open and dress again in the neighbourhood of the caretaker's little room. He would not fetch him up at once; he would wait a long, a very long time. Only when he heard steps coming from above would he beat a tattoo on the caretaker's door. In the meantime the she-burglar would have murdered Thérèse. She would certainly murder her, for Thérèse would defend herself. Thérèse would not let herself be robbed without defending herself. She is already murdered. Behind the Spanish screen Thérèse lies in her blood. If only the she-burglar had struck home ... Perhaps she will still be alive when the police come, and will put the blame on him. To make really sure perhaps another blow ... No, not necessary. The she-burglar has fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion. She-burglars are not easily exhausted. A fearful struggle must have taken place. A remarkably strong woman. A heroine. He took his hat off to her. He would never have succeeded so well. Thérèse would have enveloped him in her skirt and suffocated him. The mere thought of it made him choke. She must have had some intention of this kind, certainly she had meant to murder him. Every woman wants to murder her husband. She had been waiting for that will. Had he made one, he would be dead in her place. So much malice can lodge in the human soul, no he must be just, in the female soul. He hated her still. He would divorce her. He would divorce her even though she was dead. He would not have her buried under his name. Not in any circumstances. No one must know that he had been married to her. He would give hush-money to the caretaker whatever sum he should ask. A marriage of this kind might injure his reputation. A true scholar would not have allowed himself so false a step. Of course she had been unfaithful. All women are unfaithful.
De mortuis nil nisi bene
. Ah, but they must be dead first, they must be dead first! He must go and look. Perhaps she was only in a trance. The strongest murderer may make a mistake. History knows countless examples. History is a shabby story. History makes you afraid. If she's alive, he'll beat her to pulp He has a right to do so. She has cheated him of the new library. He would have his vengeance on her. Then in comes a stranger and murders her. He should have cast the first stone. He had been robbed of it. He will cast the last stone at her. He will strike her. Dead or alive. He will spit on her! He will stamp on her, he will strike her!
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!'