First of all he prolonged his blindness beyond his getting up. Next he made his way, blind, to his writing desk. When he was at work he could forget the objects standing behind him, all the more quickly if he had not seen them at all. In front of the desk he could give his eyes the run of all there was to see. They rejoiced in being open; their agility increased. Perhaps they gathered strength in the periods of rest he so generously allowed them. He protected them against sudden shocks. He used them only where they could be fruitful: for reading and writing. Books, when he wanted them, he now fetched blind. At first he laughed to himself at these extraordinary tricks. Often he selected the wrong place and came back to his writing desk all unknowing, his eyes still closed. Then he noticed that he had been three volumes too far to the right, one too far to the left, or on occasion had even reached too low, missing his aim by an entire shelf. It worried him not at all — he had patience — and a second time he set out. Often enough he was overcome by the desire to peep at the title, to spy out the back of the book, before lie actually reached the shelves. Then he blinked: in certain conditions he might give a quick look and then turn away. More often he was master of himself and waited until he was back at his writing desk, and there was no more danger in opening his eyes.
Practice in walking blind soon made him a master of this art. In three or four weeks he could find, in the shortest possible time, and without any cheating or self-deception, any book he wanted, with his eyes really and truly shut; a bandage would not more effectually have blinded him. Even mounted on the steps, he retained his instinct. He set them up exactly where he needed them. With long, eager fingers he grasped hold of each side and clambered, blind, up the rungs. Even at the top or climbing down, he easily kept his balance. Difficulties which, in the days of unrestricted sight, he had never fully overcome, because they were a matter of indifference to him, were swept aside by the new process. He learnt even to manage his legs like a blind man. Earlier they had hindered his every movement; they were far too thin for their length. Now they moved firmly, with calculated steps. They seemed to have acquired muscles and flesh; he trusted himself to them and they supported him. They saw for the blind; and he, the blind, had given the halt strong new legs.
While he was still uncertain of the new weapon, which his eyes were forging for him, he abandoned some of his peculiarities. He no longer took the brief-case full of books with him on his morning walk. If he stood an hour irresolute before the shelves, how easily might his glance fall on that evil trinity — as he called the three pieces of furniture — which vanished but slowly, alas, from his conscious mind. Later success made him audacious. Bold and blind, he would fill his briefcase. Should its contents suddenly displease him, he would empty it and make a new selection, as if all was as before: himself, his library, his future, and the punctilious, practical subdivision of his hours.
His room at least was in his power. Learning flourished. Theses sprouted from the writing desk like mushrooms. True, in earlier times, he had scorned and despised the blind for positively enjoying life despite this, of all, afflictions. But no sooner had he transformed his prejudice into an advantage, than the necessary philosophy came of itself.
Blindness is a weapon against time and space; our being is one vast blindness, save only for that little circle which our mean intelligence — mean in its nature as in its scope — can illumine. The dominating principle of the universe is blindness. It makes possible juxtapositions which would be impossible if the objects could see each other. It permits the truncation of time when time is unendurable. Time is a continuum whence there is one escape only. By closing the eyes to it from time to time, it is possible to splinter it into those fragments with which alone we arc familiar.
Kien had not discovered blindness, he only made use of it: a natural possibility by which the seeing live. Do we not to-day make use of every source of power of which we become possessed? On what means and possibilities has mankind not already laid hands? Any blockhead to-day can handle electricity and complicated atoms. Shapes to which one man as well as another may well be blind, fill Kien's room, his fingers, his books. This printed page, clear and co-ordinated as any other, is in reality an inferno of furious electrons. If he were perpetually conscious of this, the letters would dance before his eyes. His fingers would feel the pressure of their evil motion like so many needle pricks. In a single day he might manage to achieve one feeble line, no more. It is his right to apply that blindness, which protects him from the excesses of the senses, to every disturbing element in his life. The furniture exists as little for him as the army of atoms within and about him. Esse percipi, to be is to be perceived. What I do not perceive, does not exist. Woe to the feeble wretches who go blithely on their own way, whate'er betide.
Whence, with cogent logic, it was proved that Kien was in no wise deceiving himself.
CHAPTER VI
MY DEAR LADY
Thérèse's confidence, too, increased with the weeks. Of her three rooms only one, the dining-room, was furnished. The two others were unfortunately still empty. But it was in these two that she passed her time so as to spare the dining-room furniture. Usually she stood behind the door which led to his writing desk, and listened. For hours at a time, for whole mornings and afternoons, she stayed there, her head against a crack through which she could see nothing at all; arms akimbo and elbows pointing sharply in his direction, without even a chair to lean on, propped up on herself and the starched skirt, she waited, and knew exactly why she was waiting. She never tired. She caught him at it, when he suddenly began talking although he was alone. His wife wasn't good enough for him, there he was talking to thin air, a judgment on him. Before lunch and dinner she withdrew to the kitchen.
He felt contented and happy, at his work, far, far away from her. During almost all this time she was not two paces off.
True the thought sometimes occurred to him, that she might be planning a speech against him. But she said nothing and still nothing. He resolved, once a month, to check the contents of the shelves in her rooms. No one was safe from book thefts.
One day at ten o'clock, when she had just comfortably installed herself at her post, he flung open the door, aflame with inspectional zeal. She bounded backwards; she had all but fallen over.
'A nice sort of manners!' she cried, emboldened by the shock. 'Come into a room without knocking. You'd think I'd been listening at doors, and in my rooms. Why should I listen? A husband thinks he can take any liberty simply because he's married. Shame, that's what I say, shame! Manners indeed!'
What did she say? He was to knock before he could go to his books? Insolence! Ridiculous! Grotesque! She must be out of her mind. He would as soon slap her face. That might bring her to her senses.
He imagined the marks of his fingers on her gross, overfed, shiny cheeks. It would be unjust to give one cheek preference over the other. He would have to slap both at once. If he aimed badly, the red finger-marks on one side would be higher up than those on the other. That would be unpleasing. His preoccupation with Chinese art had bred in him a passionate feeling for symmetry.
Thérèse noticed that he was examining her cheeks. She forgot about the knocking, turned away and said enticingly: 'Don't.' So he had conquered without slapping her face. His interest in her cheeks was extinguished. With deep satisfaction he turned towards the shelves. She lingered, expectant. Why didn't he say something? Squinting cautiously, she discovered the changed expression of his features. Better go straight to her kitchen. She was in the habit of solving all her problems there.
Why did she have to say that? Now again he wouldn't want to. She was too respectable. Another woman would have thrown herself straight at him. You couldn't do anything with him. That was the way she was. If she were a bit older, she would have jumped at him. What sort of a man was that? Maybe he wasn't a man after all. Trousers have nothing to do with it, they wear them just the same. They aren't women either. There are such things. Who could tell when he'd want to agai
n? It might take years with people like that. Not that she was old, but no chicken either. She knew that herself without being told. She looked thirty, but not twenty. All the men stared at her in the street. What was it the young man in the furniture shop said: 'Yes, around thirty, that's when the best people get married, whether ladies or gentlemen.' As a matter of fact, she'd always thought she looked forty; could you wonder, at fifty-six? But when a young man like that says a thing like that, all of his own, he must know what he's talking about. 'Well I ask you, the things you don't know!' she had answered him. Such a superior young man! He had guessed she was married too, not only her age. And there she was tied to an old man. Anyone would think, he didn't love her.
'Love' in all its parts of speech was a heavy-type word in Therese's vocabulary. In her youth she had grown accustomed to terser expressions. Later, when in her various places she had learnt this word along with many other things, 'love' still remained for her a foreign sound of wondrous import. She rarely took the blessed consolation between her lips. But she lost no other opportunity: wherever she read the word 'love' she would linger, and carefully sift all the surrounding matter. At times the most tempting 'situations vacant' were overshadowed by offers of marriage and love. She read 'good wages' and held out her hand; joyfully her fingen curled up under the weight of the expected money. Then her eye fell on 'love' a few columns further on; here it paused to rest, here it clung for broad moments. She did not of course forget her other plans, she did not open her hand to return the money. She merely covered it over for a brief, tremulous space with love.
Thérèse repeated aloud: 'He doesn't love me.' She drew out the pivotal word, pursing her mouth, and already she felt a kiss on her lips. This comforted her. She closed her eyes. She put the peeled potatoes on one side, wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door into her little room. Sparks made her close her eyes. Suddenly it was hot. Little globes danced through the air, glow-worms, red ones; it was narrow, the floor gaped in front of her, her feet fell into it; fog, fog, a strange fog, or was it smoke; wherever she turned her eyes, all was empty, cleared out, so much room; she clutched for support, anywhere; deadly sick she was; her trunk, her trousseau, who had taken them away; help !
When she came to herself, she was lying across the bed. Clean and orderly, the room reappeared to view, everything in its right place. Then she was afraid. First the room was empty, then full again. What was she to make ofthat? She wasn't staying here. The heat had made her come over queer. It was too small in that room, too shabby. All of a sudden she might die a lonely death.
She straightened the folds of her crushed skirt, and glided across to the library.
'I've just nearly died,' she said simply. 'It all went black. My heart stopped. Too much work and a bad bedroom. No wonder.'
'What, as soon as you left me, you felt sick?'
'Not sick, it all went black.'
'That's a long time. I have been standing at least an hour by the bookshelves.'
'What, so long?' Thérèse swallowed. She had never been ill since she could remember.
'I shall fetch the doctor.'
'I don't need the doctor. I'd rather move. Why shouldn't I sleep? I need a good night's sleep. The room next to the kitchen is the worst in the house. It's a servant's room. If I had a servant, she'd sleep there. You can't sleep there. You've got the best room yourself. I've a right to the second best, the next one. A man really thinks only he needs to sleep. If things go on like this, I'll be laid up, and where'U you be then? You've forgotten what a servant costs!'
What did she want of him; She was at liberty to move her rooms round as she liked. He didn't care where she slept. Owing to her fainting fit he did not interrupt her. Luckily fainting fits were not a common occurrence. Out of pity — false pity, as he told himself— he made himself listen.
'Who'd think of pestering? One room each. Then nothing can happen. I'm not one of those. Disgusting the way other women go on. Fit to make you blush. I don't need to. I want some new furniture! That large room holds a lot. I'm not a beggar, am I?'
Now he knew what she wanted: furniture again. He had slammed the door open in her face. He, then, was responsible for her fainting fit. Doors should not be flung open so roughly. The shock had affected her. He had been startled himself. She spared him her reproaches; he would allow her the furniture as a compensation. 'You are right,' he said, 'buy yourself a new bedroom suite.'
Immediately after lunch Thérèse glided from street to street, until she had found the best possible furniture shop. Here she listened to the prices of bedroom suites. Not one of them seemed outrageously expensive enough. When the proprietors, two fat brothers, each overreaching the other, at length named a price which would surely be too high for any honest person, she twisted her head round, jerked it towards the door and announced defiantly:
'You gentlemen seem to think my money's not honestly come by.'
She left the shop without further greeting and went straight home, to her husband's study.
'What do you want?' He was furious: at four o'clock in the afternoon she was in his room.
'I have to warn my husband of the price of things. If not, he'll be upset when his wife asks for so much money all of a sudden. The prices of bedroom suites these days! If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't credit it. I've looked out a good one, nothing special. Everywhere the same prices.'
Reverentially, she uttered the figure. He felt not the least desire to chew over things which had been decided long ago, that morning even. Hurriedly he wrote out a cheque for the sum she had stated, pointed with his finger to the name of the bank where she was to cash it and then to the door.
Only when she was outside did Thérèse convince herself that the crazy price she had named was really written down on the paper. Then her heart bled for the beautiful money. She didn't need the most expensive bedroom suite. She'd always kept herself respectable and decent. Now that she was a married woman, was that a reason for breaking out; She needed no luxuries. Better buy one for half the price and put the balance in the post-office. Then she'd have something to fail back on. The years she'd have had to work to earn all that money! It's not to be reckoned in years. She'd slave for him plenty more years yet. What would she get out of it? Not a brass farthing! A servant gets more than the mistress. A mistress indeed, she'd have to look out for herself or nothing would ever come of it. Why was she such a fool? She ought to have made an agreement with him at the registry office. She ought to have her wages back again. She'd got the same amount of work to do. She'd got more work than before, there was the dining-room suite and the furniture in his room. It all had to be dusted. That wasn't nothing. She ought to have higher wages. There was no justice anywhere.
The cheque in her hand quivered with indignation.
At supper she put on her most evil smile. The corners of her eyes and mouth met close to her ears. Her eyes in their narrow slits glinted green.
'There'll be no cooking in this house to-morrow. I've no time. I can't be in two places at once.' Curious as to the effect of her words she paused. She was revenging herself on him for his wickedness. She was breaking her contract and talking at table. ' 'Am I to take the first thing I see because of getting your lunch? Lunch happens every day. A bedroom suite is only bought once. More haste less speed. No cooking to-morrow. No!'
'Really not?' A colossal idea had flamed up in his mind, devouring the needs and rights of everyday. 'Really not?' his voice sounded as if he were laughing.
'It's no laughing matter!' she replied, annoyed. 'Work, work, work, morning, noon and night. Am I a servant, then?'
In the highest good humour he interrupted her:
'I ask you only to proceed with caution ! Go to as many shops as you can! Compare the prices with each other before making any decision. Shopkeepers are swindlers by nature. They always think they can make a woman pay double. In the lunch-hour you ought to have a long rest in a cafe and a good lunch, because you were unwell to-day.
Don't come home ! The weather is very hot, you will overtire yourself. After lunch you can take your time and look at some more shops. Don't hurry on any account! As for supper, you need have no anxiety. I most strongly advise you to stay out the whole day until the shops close.'
He had forcibly expelled from his memory the fact that she had already found the bedroom suite, and demanded of him the exact sum for it.
"We can always have a bit of cold meat for supper,' said Thérèse, and thought: now he's after me again. It's easy to see when a person's ashamed of himself. Manners indeed, to make a convenience of your wife ! You can do as you like with a servant. Excuse me, but you pay for that. Not with the mistress, though. That's why you make yourself mistress!
When she left the house next morning, Thérèse had already firmly decided only to buy her furniture from that superior young man who had known, as soon as he looked at her, both her age and about her marriage.
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