Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
The bankbook was in his pocket. He hugged it happily though it was only a bankbook. She had no idea what had escaped her together with the beggar. I ask you, can you imagine a thief who always carries his crime around with him?
PART TWO
HEADLESS WORLD
CHAPTER I
THE STARS OF HEAVEN
Since Kien had been thrown out of his flat, he had been overwhelmed with work. From morning to night with a measured and persistent tread he walked through the town. Already at dawn his long legs were in motion. At midday he didn't permit himself either rest or food. So as to husband his strength, he divided the scene of his activities into sections to which he kept rigorously. In his brief-case he carried a vast plan of the town, scale 1 : 5,000, on which the book stores were designated by cheerful red circles.
He entered a book shop and demanded the proprietor himself. If he was away or out at lunch he contented himself with the head assistant. 'I urgendy require, for a work of scholarship, the following books,' he said, and from a non-existent paper read out a long catalogue. To avoid repeating himself he pronounced the authors' names with perhaps exaggerated distinctness and deliberation. For he was concerned with rare works and the ignorance of such people is hardly to be conceived. Despite reading he could spare a watchful side-glance for the listening faces. Between one tide and the next he introduced brief pauses. He delighted in hurling the next title rapidly at the listener, who had as yet not fully recovered from the preceding one. The bewildered expressions amused him. Some asked for 'One moment, please!' Others clutched at their forehead or temples, but he continued to read unperturbed. His paper included between two and three dozen volumes. At home he had them all. But here he acquired each afresh. These duplicates, at present oppressive to him, he planned to exchange or sell later on. For the rest, his new activity cost him not a penny. In the street he prepared his lists. In each new book shop he read out a new one. When he had finished he folded up his piece of paper with a few assured movements, replaced it with the others in his note case, bowed contemptuously low and left the shop. He waited for no answer. What could these numbskulls have answered? If he involved himself in discussions about the required books it would only be a waste of time. Already he had lost three whole weeks in the strangest circumstances, stiff and stark at his writing desk. To make up for the loss he walked all day, so cleverly, persistently, industriously that, without a suspicion of self-complacency, he could feel pleased with himself, as he was.
The people with whom his profession brought him into contact behaved, according to their mood and temperament, in different ways. A few felt affronted at not being given time to answer, the majority were glad enough to listen. His gigantic learning could be both seen and heard. One of his sentences outweighed the contents of a well-fdled shop. His full importance was rarely recognized. Else the poor fools would have left their work, crowded about him, pricked up their ears and harkened until their eardrums split. Would they ever again encounter such a prodigy of learning? But mostly a lone assistant took advantage of the opportunity of hearing him. He was shunned, as all great men are, he was too strange and remote, and their embarrassment, which he had determined not to notice, smote him to his inmost core. As soon as he turned his back on them, for the rest of the day, they would talk of nothing but him and his lists. Stricdy speaking, proprietors and staff functioned as his own private servants. He would not grudge them the honour of a collective mention in his biography. After all, they did not behave themselves ill, admired him and provided him with everything of which he had need. They divined who he was, and at least had the strength to be silent in his presence. For he never entered a book store twice. When he did so once in error, they threw him out. He was too much for them, his appearance oppressed them and they freed themselves of it. He sympathized with their humiliation and on that occasion bought the plan of the town with the red circles. In the circles denoting book shops he had already dealt with, he made a small cross; for him they were dead.
Besides, his activity had a pressing purpose. From the first moment when he found himself in the street his sole interest was for his theses at home. He was determined to complete them: without a library this was impossible. He therefore considered and compiled lists of the specialized books he needed. These lists came into being by necessity; caprice and desire were excluded, he only permitted himself to buy books indispensable to his work. Circumstances forced him to shut up his library at home for the time being. He apparently submitted to his fate, but in fact he outwitted it. He would not yield an inch of ground in this matter of learning. He bought what he needed and in a few weeks would resume his work; his plan of campaign was largely conceived and well-adapted to die peculiar circumstances, he was not to be subdued; in freedom he spread his wise wings; with each glorious day of independence he grew in stature, and this interim collection of a small new library comprising a few thousand volumes was reward enough for his pains. He was even afraid that the collection might grow too big. Every night he slept in a different hotel. How was he to carry away the increasing burden; But he had an indestructible memory and could carry the entire new library in his head. The briefcase remained empty.
In the evenings after closing time he became aware of his fatigue, and sought, the moment he had left the last book shop, the nearest hotel. Without luggage as he was, and in his shabby suit, he aroused the porters' suspicions. Pleased in advance at the way in which they would send him packing, they allowed him to speak his three or four sentences. He required a large, quiet room for the night. If none was to be had except in the vicinity of women, children or common people, he requested them to tell him so at once, since in that case he would be compelled to refuse it. At the phrase 'common people' every porter was disarmed. Before his room was allotted to him, he pulled out his wallet and declared his intention of paying in advance. He had drawn his remaining capital out of the bank; the wallet was crammed with highly respectable banknotes. For love of these the porters laid bare regions of their eyeballs which no one, not even titled travellers or Americans, had ever seen before. In his precise, tall, angular writing Kien filled in the usual form. His profession he declared to be: 'Owner of a library.' He would not state whether married or single; he was neither married nor single nor divorced and he indicated this by a crooked penstroke. He gave the porters fantastic tips, about 50 per cent on the price of the room. Every time he paid he rejoiced that his bankbook had escaped Thérèse. Their enthusiastic bows placed a coronet on his head; he remained unmoved, an English lord. Contrary to his custom — technical simplifications were odious to him — he made use of the lift, for in the evening, tired as he was, the library in his head weighed heavy. He had his dinner brought up to his room: it was the only meal in the day. Relaxing for a short while he set down his library, and then looking round decided whether there was enough room for it.
At first, when his liberty was yet young, he was not concerned with the kind of room he had taken; it was after all only a matter of sleeping and the sofa could hold his books. Later he used the wardrobe as well. Soon the library had outgrown both. The dirty carpet had to be used so he rang for the maid and asked for ten clean sheets of brown paper. He spread them out on the carpet and over the whole floor; if any were left over he covered the sofa with them and lined the wardrobe. Thus for a time it became his habit to order paper every evening as well as food; he left it behind every morning. The books built themselves up higher and higher, but even if they fell they would not be soiled for everything was covered with paper. Sometimes at night when he awoke, filled with anxiety, it was hecause he had most certainly heard a noise as of falling books.
One evening the piles of books were too high even for him; he had already acquired an amazing number of new ones. He asked for a pair of steps. Questioned why he wanted it, he replied, cuttingly, 'That is not your business!' The maid was of a rather timid nature. A burglary, which had recently occurred, had all but cost her her place. She ran to the porter and told him, excitedly, what the gentleman in No. 39 wanted. The porter, a character and man of the world, knew what he owed to his tip, although it was safe in his pocket.
'Go and get some sleep, sweetie,' he grinned at her, 'I'll deal with the murderer!'
She didn't move. 'Strange, isn't he,' she said shyly. 'Looks like a flagpole. First he asked for paper and now he wants a pair of steps. The floor's covered with paper.'
'Paper?' he asked; this information made an excellent impression on him. Only the most remarkable people carry precautions to that length.
'Yes, what do you think?' she said proudly; he had listened to her.
'Do you know who the gentleman is? he asked. Even talking to the maid he didn't say he; he said 'the gentleman'. 'Proprietor of the Royal Library, that's what he is!' Each syllable of this glorious profession he launched into the air like an article of faith. To shut the girl up he added 'Royal' on his own account. And he realized how very refined the gentleman upstairs was since he had omitted 'Royal' when filling in the form.
'There aren't any Royal now, anyway.'
'But there's a Royal Library! Clever, aren't you? What do you think they did with the books, swallowed them?'
The girl was silent. She loved to make him angry because he was so strong. He only noticed her when he was furious. She came running to him with every little thing. For a couple of minutes he bore with her. Once he was enraged, you had to look out for yourself. His fury gave her strength. She gladly carried the steps to Kien. She could have asked the boots to do it, but she did it herself; she wanted to obey the porter. She asked the gentleman proprietor of the Royal library if she could help him.
He said: 'Yes, by leaving this room at once!' Then he locked the door — for he mistrusted the officious creature — stopped up the keyhole with paper, placed the steps cautiously between the piles of books and climbed up. One parcel after another, arranged according to the lists, he lifted out of his head, filling the entire room with them up to the ceiling. Despite the heavy weight he managed to keep his balance on the steps; he felt like an acrobat. Now, his own master again, he overcame difficulties easily. He had just finished when there was an obsequious knock at the door. He was annoyed at being disturbed. Since his experiences with Thérèse he was in mortal terror of any uninitiate looking at his books. It was the maid (who out of devotion to the porter) timidly asked him for the steps back again.
'Please sir, excuse me, sir, you won't want to be sleeping with the steps in the room!' Her zeal was genuine; she stared at the strange flagpole with curiosity, love and envy and wished that the porter would take as much interest in her.
Her language reminded Kien of Thérèse. Had she been Thérèse he would have been afraid. But as she only reminded him of her he shouted: 'The steps remain here ! I shall sleep with the steps !'
Gracious heavens, this is a fine gentleman, thought the young thing and disappeared, frightened. She had not realized that he was so very refined that you couldn't address a single word to him.
He drew his own conclusions from this experience. Women, whether housekeepers, wives or maids had to be avoided at all costs. From then onwards he asked for bedrooms so large that a pair of steps would have been senseless and superfluous, and he carried his own paper in his brief-case. The waiter, for whom he rang to order his meal, was, happily, a man.
As soon as his head felt relieved of the weight, he lay down on the bed. Before going to sleep he compared his previous circumstances with his present situation. In any case, towards the evening his thoughts reverted to Thérèse with pleasure, because he paid his expenses with the money he had rescued from her by his personal valour. Money matters promptly conjured up her picture. All day he had nothing to do with money, not only did he refuse himselflunch but also trams, and with good reason. The serious and glorious undertaking on which he was now engaged was not to be smirched with any Thérèse. Thérèse was the penny soiled by a thousand hands. Thérèse was the word in the mouth of an illiterate. Thérèse was the weight on the spirit of man. Thérèse was madness incarnate.
Imprisoned for months with a lunatic, he had in the end been unable longer to resist the evil influence of her disease and had himself been infected. Grasping to excess, she had imparted a portion of her greed to him. A devouring lust for other books had estranged him from his own. He had almost robbed her of the million which he believed her to possess. His character, perpetually in close and violent contact with hers, had been all but dashed to pieces on this rock of money. But it had sustained the shock. His body invented a defence. Had he continued to move about the flat freely for much longer he would have succumbed irremediably to her disease. For that reason he had played that trick of the statue. Naturally he could not transform himself into concrete stone. It was enough that she had taken him for that. She was frightened by the statue and made a wide circle round it. His ingenuity in sitting rigidly on a chair for weeks, had perplexed her. She had been perplexed already. But after this adroit ruse she no longer knew who he was. This gave him time to free himself from her. Gradually his wounds healed. Her power over him was broken. As soon as he was strong enough he resolved on a plan of escape. It was essential to escape from her, and yet to keep her in custody. So that his escape should be successful, she had to believe that it was she who had thrown him out. Thus he hid his bankbook. For many a long week she searched the flat for it. This indeed was the nature of her disease, she must always look for money. Nowhere did she find the bankbook. Finally she ventured as far as the writing desk. But here she collided with him. Her disappointment provoked her to fury. He irritated her more and more, until, beside herself with rage, she threw him out of his own flat. There he stood outside, redeemed. She thought herself the victor. He locked her into the flat. She could never escape, and now he was completely safe from her attack. True he had sacrificed his flat, but what will not a man do to save his life, if that life belongs to the sacred cause of Learning?
He stretched himself out under the blanket and touched with his body as much as possible of the linen sheet. He begged the books not to fall down, he was tired and at last would like to rest. Half asleep, he mumbled, 'Good night'.