Kien had passed the rest of Sunday at his writing desk. He worked as a pretence only, for his mission of enlightenment was completed. In fact he was fighting his greed for new books. It had awakened in him with so great a vehemence that his study, with all its shelves and all the volumes on them seemed to him worn out and stale. Time and again he had to force himself to reach for the Japanese manuscripts on his desk. When he got so far, he would touch them, and immediately, as if repelled, draw his hand back again. What was the meaning of them? They had been lying around his cell for fifteen years already. At midday and in the evening he forgot his hunger. Night found him still at his desk. On the half-written sheet before him he had drawn, quite contrary to his habit, characters which had no meaning whatever. Towards six in the morning he began to nod; at a time when he was usually getting .up, he was dreaming of a gigantic library built, on the site of the Observatory, at the crater of Vesuvius. Trembling with fear he walked up and down in it and waited for the eruption of the volcano, due in eight minutes. His fear and his pacing up and down lasted an eternity, but the eight minutes to the catastrophe remained constant. When he woke up the door into the neighbouring room was already closed. He saw this, but felt no more shut in than before. Doors did not matter, for everything was equally wearisome, the rooms, the doors, the books, the manuscripts, he himself, learning, his life.
Swaying a little with hunger he got up and tried the other doors which led into the hall. He found that he was locked in. He became conscious that his intention had been to fetch himself something to eat, and was ashamed in spite of his hunger. In the hierarchy of man's activities, eating was the lowest. Eating had become the object of a cult, but in fact it was but the preliminary to other, utterly contemptible motions. It occurred to him that he wanted to perform one of these too. He felt therefore that he was justified in rattling the door. His physical exertions and his empty stomach exhausted him to such an extent that he almost began to cry again, as he had done yesterday over the counting. But to-day he had not even strength for that; he could only call in a plaintive voice: 'I don't want anything to eat, I don't want anyt ling to eat.'
'Now you're talking,' said Thérèse who had been waiting outside for some little time and listening for his first movements. He needn't think he'd get anything to eat from her. A man who doesn't bring a penny into the house gets nothing to eat. That was what she had to say to him; she'd been afraid he might forget about the eating question. Now, as he renounced eating of his own free will, she opened the door and informed him of her views on the subject. Nor would she have her house turned into a pig-sty. The passage in front of her own rooms belonged to her. That was the law. That's why they put up: 'No right of way.' Opening and spreading out a piece of paper which she held crumpled up in her hand, she read out: No right of way. Temporary thoroughfare only.'
She had already been out and bought food for one person at the butcher's and the greengrocer's, where she was equally disliked. It came dearer that way, and she usually bought for several days together. To their questioning glances she answered aggressively: 'From to-day he won't get anything more to eat from me.' Proprietor, customers and staff in both shops wondered. Next she carefully copied the inscription from a neighbouring alley on to a piece of paper. All the time she was writing, her shopping bag with the beautiful food lay on the dirty pavement.
When she came back, he was still asleep. She bolted the door into the passage and stood on guard. Now she'd got to the point, she'd speak straight out to him. She withdrew her permission to use her passage. He was not to use her corridor to go to the kitchen or avatory any more. He had no business there. In future every time he made her passage dirty he'd have to clean it up. She was not a servant, she'd have the law on him. He could go in and out, but only if he kept to his own path. She'd show him where it was.
Without waiting for his answer she sidled all the way along the wall to the front door. Her skirt brushed against the wall, it did not trespass an inch into the part of the corridor which was hers. Then she glided into the kitchen, fetched a piece of chalk, a relic of her schooldays, and drew a thick line between her corridor and his. 'Excuse me, this will do for now,' she said, 'we'll have oil paint later.'
In hungry bewilderment, Kien had not fully understood what was happening. Her movements struck him as senseless. Am I still on Vesuvius? he asked himself. No, on Vesuvius there was that terror about the eight minutes, but not this woman. Perhaps it was not so bad on Vesuvius after all. Only the coming eruption would have caused discomfort. Meanwhile his own discomfort was growing. It drove him on to the forbidden corridor, just as if Thérèse had made no chalk line down it. In long strides, he reached his goal. Thérèse came after him. Her indignation was a match for his necessity. She would have overtaken him, had he not had a good start. He bolted himself in, in the customary way, an action which saved him from violence at her hands. She rattled at the closed door and spat out in repetitive jerks: 'I ask you, I'll have the law on you! I'll have the law on you!'
When she saw that it was all in vain, she withdrew to the kitchen. Over her stove, where all her best ideas came to her, she hit on what was justice. Very well, he should have the corridor. She could be considerate. He had to go to the lavatory. But what would she get in return? Nobody ever gave her anything for nothing. She'd had to earn every penny. She'd give him the corridor and he in return must give her part of his room. She must take care of her rooms, where should she sleep? She had locked up the three rooms full of new furniture. Now she would lock up her old bedroom too. No one should go in. I ask you, she'd have to sleep in his room. What else could she do? She'd sacrifice her beautiful corridor and he'd have to make room for her in his study. She'd bring the furniture out ofthat little room where the housekeeper used to sleep. In return he could go to the lavatory as often as he chose.
She went down at once into the street and fetched up a porter. She would have nothing to do with the caretaker, who had been bribed by that man.
As soon as her voice left him in peace, Kien had fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion. When he awoke he felt refreshed and courageous. He went into the kitchen and, without the least prick of conscience, helped himself to several slices of bread and butter. When, suspecting nothing, he returned to his own room he found that it had been cut down ty half. Right across the middle stood the Spanish screen. Behind it he came on Thérèse in the midst of her old bedroom furniture. She was just putting the finishing touches and admiring the beautiful effect. That shameless porter had gone off, thank the lord. He had demanded a whole fortune, but she'd only given him half, and thrown him out again, of which she was very proud. But the Spanish screen did not satisfy her, for it looked crazy. On one side it was empty and blank and on the other were nothing but a mass of crooked marks; she would have preferred a blood-red sunset. She pointed to the screen and said: 'I can't have that here. As far as I'm concerned it can go out.' Kien was silent. He dragged himself to his writing desk groaning softly and lowered himself into his chair.
After a minute or two he gathered himself to his feet. He wanted to sec whether the books in the neighbouring room were still alive. His anxiety arose more from a rooted sense of duty than from any real love. Since the preceding day he felt tenderness only for books which he did not possess. Before he could reach the door, Thérèse was already there. How had she noticed his movement in spite of the Spanish screen? How was it that her skirt carried her forward at a quicker pace than his legs; For the moment he laid a hand neither on her nor on the door. Before he had assembled even the courage which words cost him, she was already nagging:
'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 woma
n. 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!
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