Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
Fischerle crept swiftly and silently from under the bed, and reared himself on his crooked legs. They'd gone to sleep; he stumbled and clutched at the bedstead. The woman had vanished, all the better, she'd leave him in peace. A lanky stranger was lying alone on the bed, you might think he was asleep. Fischerle tapped him on the shoulder and asked loudly: 'Do you play chess ?' The stranger was really asleep. He must be shaken awake. Fischerle was about to grasp him with both hands by the shoulders when he noticed that he was holding something in his left hand. A little packet, it was in the way, throw it down Fischerle ! He flung his left arm about but his hand refused to let go. What's all this? Will you or won't you? he screamed. His hand clutched fast. It clung to the packet as if it were a conquered queen. He looked at it closer. The packet was a bundle of banknotes. Why should he throw them away? He could do with them, he was only a poor devil. Perhaps they belonged to the stranger? He was still asleep. But they belonged to Fischerle, because he was a millionaire. How did this person get here? A visitor? He might want to challenge him? People should read the notice on the entrance gate. A world champion and he couldn't even go for a quiet spin in his car? The stranger had a familiar look. A visitor from the Stars of Heaven? That wasn't a bad idea. Why, this was the chap in the book racket. What did he want here, book racket, book racket...? He used to be in his service once. First he had to spread out brown paper on the floor and then ...
Fischerle grew even more crooked with laughing. While laughing he woke up completely. He was standing in an hotel bedroom, he ought to be sleeping next door, he had stolen the money. Quickly, off with it. He must get to America. He ran two or three steps in the direction of the door. Why did he laugh so loud? Perhaps he had waked up the book racket. He slipped back to the bed and made sure he was still asleep. The creature would go to the police. He wasn't that mad; he'd go to the police. He took the same steps in the direction of the door; this time he walked instead of running. How was he to get out of the hotel? The room was on the third floor. He was bound to wake the porter. The police would watch him in the morning, even before he could get into a train. Why would they catch him? Because of his hump. His long fingers fondled it with repulsion. He wouldn't be locked up again. Those swine took his chessboard away. He had to touch the pieces or he got no pleasure out of the game. They forced him to play in his head. Flesh and blood couldn't stand that. He must make his fortune. He could do the book racket in. Jews don't do things like that. What would he do him in with? He could force him to give his word not to go to the police. 'Your word or your life!' he'd say to him. The creature was sure to be a coward. He d give his word. But who could rely on such an idiot? Anyone could do what they liked with him. He wouldn't break his word anyway; he'd break it from pure silliness. Silly, Fischerle had got all the money in his hand. America was a wash-out. No, he'd cut and run for it. Let them find him if they could. If they couldn't then he'd become chess champion of the world in America. If they could, he'd hang himself. A pleasure. What the devil... He couldn't make a go of it. He hadn't got a neck. Once he hanged himself by his leg but they cut him down. You didn't catch him hanging himself by the other leg. No!
Between the bed and the door Fischerle racked his brains for a solution. He was in desperation over his rotten luck. He could have cried out loud. But he mustn't for fear of waking the creature. It might be weeks before he got another chance. Weeks, weeks — he'd waited twenty years already! One foot in America and the other in a noose. Then jet a fellow try and make up his mind. The American leg took a step forward, the hanged one a step back. What a filthy trick to play! He beat his hump, sticking the packet of notes between his legs. The hump was the root of all the trouble. Let it be hurt. It deserved to be hurt. If he didn't beat it he'd have to cry out loud. If he cried out loud, America was dead and buried.
Exactly in the middle between bed and door Fischerle stood rooted to a spot and beat his hump. Like whip-handles he raised his arms alternately and brought down his fingers, five double-knotted lashes, over his shoulders on to his hump. It did not budge. A pitiless mountain, it rose above the low foothills of his shoulders, proud in its rocky hardness. It didn't even scream, 'I've had enough!' It was silent. Fischerle got into his stride. He saw the hump could take it. He prepared for a long drawn ordeal. It wasn't a matter of expressing his anger but of seeing that the blows struck home. His long arms were much too short for him. He had to make do with them, though. The blows fell with regularity. Fischerle gasped. He needed music for this. There was a piano at the Stars of Heaven. He'd make his own music. His breath gave out; he sang. His voice sounded sharp and shrill with excitement. 'That'll teach you —that'll teach you! He beat the brute black and blue. Let it go to the police if it liked! Before each blow he thought: 'Come down you carrion!' The carrion didn't budge. Fischerle was running with sweat. His arms ached, his fingers were limp and tired. He persevered, he was patient, he swore, the hump was at its last gasp. Out of sheer spite, it pretended it didn't care. Fischerle knew it of old. He would look it in the face. He twisted his head round so as to leer in scorn at his enemy. So that was it, it was hiding — you coward — you abortion — a knife! a knife! he'd stab it dead, where was a knife? Fischerle frothed at the mouth, big tears gushed out of his eyes, he cried because he had no knife, he cried because the abortion wouldn't even answer him. The strength of his arms forsook him altogether. He crumpled up, an empty sack. It was all over, he'd hang himself. The money rolled to the floor.
Suddenly Fischerle leapt up again and yelled: 'Checkmate!'
Kien was dreaming most of the time about falling books and trying to catch them with his body. He was as thin as a darning needle; to left and right the rarest books were cascading down; now the floor itself gave way and he woke up. Where are they, he whimpered, where are they? Fischerle had beaten the abortion, he picked up the bundle of notes at his feet, went up to the bed and said: 'Tell you what, you can talk of luck!'
'The books, the books!' Kien groaned.
'All of them saved. Here's the money. You've got a treasure in me.'
'Saved — I dreamt '
"Dreaming were you? And I was being beaten up.'
"Then there was someone here!' Kien leapt up. "We must go over the books at once!'
'Don't upset yourself. I heard him at once. He hadn't even got in through the door. I crept into this room under your bed to see what he was up to. What do you think he was after? Money. He puts out his hand. I grab hold of him by it. He hits out at me, I hit back. He begs for mercy, I have none. He wants to go to America, I won't let him go. Do you think he touched one of the books? Not one. He had a head on his shoulders. But he was an ass all the same. In all his bom days he'd never have got to America. Do you know where he'll have got to? Between ourselves, to the police court. He's off now.'
'What did he look like?' asked Kien. He wanted to show his gratitude to the little fellow for so much vigilance. He was not in the least interested in the burglar.
'What shall I say? He was a cripple like me. I could have sworn a good chess player too. A poor devil.'
'Well, let him go,' said Kien, and cast an affectionate—or so he meant it — glance at the dwarf. Then both went back to bed.
CHAPTER III
INFINITE MERCY
The public pawnbroking establishment carries, in memory of a devout and frugal princess who received the poor on one day in every year, the suitable name of
Theresianum
. As for the beggars, they forfeited, even in those days, the last of their possessions: that much-coveted portion of Love which Christ bestowed on them a good two thousand years ago, and the dirt on their feet. While the princess washed off the after, the name of Christian was very near her heart; she earned it every year afresh to add it to her innumerable others. The state pawn-broking establishment stands splendidly and thickly walled about like a true prince's heart, well defended against the world without, proud and of many mansions.
At certain hours it gives audience. It prefers to entertain beggars, or those who are shortly to become such. People throw themselves at its feet and bring in offering as in days of old a tithe, of their possessions, which is only so in name. For it is nothing to the prince s heart but the millionth part; to the beggars, their all. The prince's heart takes all, it is spacious and extensive, has a thousand different rooms and chambers and as many offices to perform. The trembling beggars are graciously permitted to raise themselves, and are given in exchange a small portion of alms, cash down. With that they go out of their minds with joy and out of the building with haste. For the custom of washing their feet the princess, now that she exists merely as an institution, has no further use. She has introduced a new custom to take its place. The beggars pay interest on their alms. The last shall be first, for which reason their interest rate is the highest. A private person who charged so high an interest would be prosecuted for extortion. But an exception can be made for beggars since, after all, only the most beggarly sums are involved. It cannot be denied that these people rejoice over the transaction. They throng to the counters and cannot undertake quickly enough to pay the quarter of the whole sum back again in interest. Those who have nothing make joyful givers. Though there are some to be found among them, miserly skinflints, who refuse to pay back the loan and the interest, and prefer to default on their pledges rather than open their purses. They say, they have none. Even these are allowed to enter in. The great benevolent princely heart, in the midst of the city's roar, has not leisure to test such deceiving purses for their miserliness. It foregoes the alms, it foregoes the interest, and contents itself with pledges five or six times the value of the money. A treasure chest of pennies is gradually being amassed. The beggars bring their rags here; the heart is decked in silks and satins. A staff of loyal officials permanently installed, year in, year out, take in and pay out, all for the sake of a coveted pension. As true liegemen of their mistress they disparage all and everything. It is their duty to radiate disparagement. The more they reduce the alms, the more people are made happy. The heart is large, but not infinite. From time to time it throws away its riches at sacrificial prices to make room for new gifts. The pennies of the beggars are as inexhaustible as was their love for the immortal Empress. When business in all the rest of the land is at a standstill, it is still humming here. Stolen goods, as ought to be hoped in the interests of a livelier circulation of trade, are the subject of transactions only in exceptional cases.
Among the treasure chambers of this lady of infinite mercy, that for jewels, gold and silver takes the place of honour not far from the main entrance. It rests securely on the earth's foundations. The floors are arranged according to the value of the objects pawned. At the very top, higher even than coats, shoes and postage stamps, on the sixth and topmost floor, are the books. They are housed in an annexe, to reach them you climb an ordinary staircase like that of any tenement. The princely grandeur of the main building is wholly lacking here. There is no room for a brain in this abounding heart. Pensive, you stand below on the staircase and are ashamed —for the abandoned creatures who bring their books here out of greed for filthy lucre — for the staircase which is not as clean as it should be for such a function — for the officials who receive the books but do not read them — for the fire-endangered rooms in the attics — for a State which does not go the shortest way to make the pawning of books an offence against the law — for humanity which, now that printing seems natural to them, have altogether forgotten the special sanctity contained in each single rinted letter. Why should not the unimportant trinkets and trappings e huddled together on the sixth floor and the books — since a radical reform of this insult to culture cannot be contemplated — take their place at least in the spacious halls of the ground floor? In case of fire the jewellery could simply be thrown into the street. It is very well packed up, far too well for mere minerals. Stones cannot hurt themselves. But books on the other hand hurled from the sixth floor into the street, would, for sensitive tastes, be already dead. Think only of the pricks of conscience the officials would suffer. The fire spreads on every side; they stand at their posts, but they are powerless. The staircase has fallen in. They must choose between the fire and the eighty foot drop. Their counsels are divided. What one is on the point of dropping from the window, another snatches from him ana throws into the flames. 'Better burnt than crippled!' With these words he hurls his defiance into the face of his colleague. This latter hopes, however, that nets are being held out below so as to catch the poor creatures unhurt. 'They will not be damaged by the friction of the air!' he hisses to his opponent. 'And where is your net, may I askî' 'The fire brigade will be putting it out at once.' 'At present I can hear nothing but the bodies clattering on to die pavement.' 'For pity's sake, say no more!' 'Quick then, into the fire!' 'I can't do it.' He cannot bring himself to do it; in contact with his charges he has acquired humanity. He is like a mother who, for better or for worse, throws her child out of the window; someone will surely take it up; in the fire it would be lost without hope of rescue. The fire-worshipper has more character; the other, more heart. Both are laudable, both carry out their duty to the end, both are lost in the fire, but what does this avail the books?
For an hour Kien had been leaning on the banisters, ashamed. He seemed to himself then as one who had lived in vain. He had known in what barbarous manner humankind use to treat their books. He had often been present at sales by auction; indeed it was to them that he owed certain rare volumes which he had vainly sought among booksellers. Whatever was of a kind to enrich his knowledge, he had always accepted. Many a painful impression had he carried away from the sale-room, deeply graven on his heart. Never would he forget that magnificent edition of Luther's Bible over which speculators from New York, London and Paris had circled like vultures and which, in the outcome, had proved a forgery. The disappointment of those outbidding swindlers was nothing to him, but that treachery and deceit could raise their heads even in this quarter was beyond his understanding. The man-handling of books before the sale, examining them, opening them, closing them, just as if they were slaves, cut him to the heart. This shouting out, bidding, outbidding by creatures who in all their lives had not read a thousand books seemed to him a crying outrage. Each time when, compelled by necessity, he had found himself in the hell of the sale-room, he had a strong desire to take a hundred well-armed mercenaries with him, to give the dealers a thousand lashes apiece, the collectors five hundred, and to take the books, over which they were haggling, into protective custody. But how little did these experiences weigh against the bottomless degradation of this pawning house; Kien's fingers twisted themselves into the ornamental ironwork — as elaborate as it was tasteless — of the stair-rail. They clutched into it, in the secret hope that he might pull down the whole building. The abomination of this idolatry oppressed him. He was ready to let them bury him under all six stories on one condition: that they should never be built up again. But could he rely on the word of barbarians? One of the purposes which had brought him here, he now abandoned: he renounced his inspection of the upper rooms. Hitherto his worst expectations had been far surpassed. The annexe was even more unsightly than he had been told. The width of the staircase, stated by bis guide to be five feet four, was in fact not more than four foot five. Generous people often make such transferences in estimating numbers. The dust was the harvest of three weeks at least and not of a day or two. The lift bell was out of order. The glass doors which led into the annexe were badly oiled. The notice-board which pointed the way to the book section had been daubed by an unskilful hand with bad paint on a piece of shoddy cardboard. Underneath it, carefully printed, hung another notice: Postage stamps on the First Floor. A large window gave on to a small backyard. The colour of the ceiling was undefined. Even in broad daylight you could sense how wretched was the illumination afforded in the evening by the single electric bulb. Kien had conscientiously convinced himself of all this. But he hesitated still to mount the steps of the staircase. Hardly would he be able to endure the shocking spectacle which awaited him at its summit. His health was enfeebled. He dreaded a stroke. He knew that every life was mortal, but so long as he could feel that dearly loved burden within himself, he must spare himself. He bowed his heavy head over the banisters and was asnamed.