'Good. I promise. Only speak!'
'You've promised then. Did you sec his belly?'
'Yes — but the smell, the smell.'
'In a minute. Didn't you notice anything about his belly?'
'No.'
'People say it has corners.'
'What's the meaning of that?' Kien's voice faltered. Something unheard of was coming.
'They say — I must prop you up or there'll be an accident — they say, he gets fat on books.'
'He —'
' — devours books!'
Kien gave a great cry and fell to the ground. In his fall he dragged the dwarf with him; he hurt himself on the pavement and for revenge went on talking. 'What do you expect, says the hog — I've heard him with my own ears — what am I to do with this muck? Muck, he said, he always calls books muck, muck's good enough for him to eat. What d'you expect, he says, this muck Ties about here for months, I'd as soon get something out of it, eat myself full once in a while. He's written his own cookery book, full of different recipes, he's looking for a publisher now. There are too many books in the world, he says, and too many empty stomachs. I owe my belly to my cookery, he says, I'd like everyone to have a belly like mine, and I want all books to vanish; if I had my way all books would have to go! You can burn them, of course, but that does no one any good. So cat them up, say I, raw with oil and vinegar like salad, or baked in a batter like schnitzel, with salt and pepper, or with sugar and cinnamon; a hundred and three receipts the hog's got, finds a new one every month; it's a sin and a shame, that's what I say.'
While Fischerle was croaking out these words without a moment's pause, Kien lay writhing on the ground. He smote the pavement with his flcshlcss fists as though to prove that the hard crust of the earth itself was softer than the heart of man. Sharp anguish rent his bosom; he wanted to cry aloud, to save, to deliver, hut instead of his lips, his fists only spoke, and they rang but faintly. They smote each paving stone in turn, omitting none. They smote themselves bloody; he frothed at the mouth and the blood from his fists mingled with it, so close to the earth were his trembling lips. When Fischerle had finished, Kien got up, swayed, clung to the hump and, after he had moved his lips once or twice in vain, shrieked out shrill across the square: 'Ca-ni-bals! Ca-ni-bals!' He stretched out his free arms in the direction of the Theresianum. With his other foot he pounded the pavement which, only a moment before, he had all but kissed.
Passers-by, of whom there were one or two at this time, stood still in terror, for his voice sounded like that of a man mortally wounded. Windows were thrown open; in a neighbouring street a dog howled; out of his shop appeared a doctor in his white coat; and right round the corner of the church, the police could be sensed. The ungainly flowerwoman, whose stand was before the church, reached the shrieker first and asked the dwarf what was wrong with the gentleman. In her hand she was still holding some fresh-cut roses and a piece of bass to wind round them. 'He has just lost someone,' said Fischerle sadly. Kien heard nothing. The flowerwoman tied her roses together, laid them in Fischerle's arms and said: 'That's for him, from me.' Fischerle nodded, whispered 'Funeral to-day' and dismissed her with a casual gesture of the hand. In return for her flowers she went from one passer-by to the next and told them that the gentleman had just lost his wife. She was crying because her late lamented, who had passed over these twelve years, had always beaten her. He would never have thought of crying over her grave like that. She was sorry for herself too as the dead wife of the thin gentleman. The doctor in front of his shop — he was a hairdresser — nodded drily: 'A widower in the flower of his youth,' waited a moment and grinned at his joke. The flowerwoman threw him an ugly look and sobbed: 'I gave him my roses!' The rumour of the dead wife spread up into the houses, some of the windows were closed again. A regular dandy commented: 'What can I do about it;' but went on hanging about because of a sweet young tender-hearted servant girl, who was longing to comfort the poor gentleman. The constable was at a loss what course to take; a page-boy, hurrying to work, had told him what had happened. When Kien started yelling again, exasperated by so many people, the organ of the law sought to intervene. The tearful entreaties of the flowerwoman held him back. But the proximity of the police had an anxious effect on Fischerlc, he leapt up to the height of Kien, put his hand over his mouth, shut it tightly and drew him down to his level. In this way he pushed him along, a half-closed pen-knife, to the church door, called: 'Praying'll quiet him down!' nodded to the spectators and vanished with Kien into the church. The dog in the side-street was still howling. 'Animals always know,' said the flowerwoman, 'when my poor lamented ...' and she told the policeman her story. Since the gentleman had vanished she was regretting the expensive flowers.
Inside the church the hawker was still in his first energetic burst. Suddenly up popped Fischerle with his rich business friend, pushed the walking-stick on to a bench, said aloud: 'Are you mad?' looked about him and went on talking in a low voice. The hawker was very much frightened, for he had cheated Fischerle, and the business friend knew of how much. He crept as far as he could away from them and hid himself behind a column. Secure in the darkness he watched them, for an acute intuition told him why they had come: they were either bringing or fetching away the parcel.
In the dark, narrow church Kien came gradually to himself. He felt the proximity of another being, whose soft-voiced reproaches infused him with warmth. What was being said, he did not understand, but it quieted him. Fischerle worked desperately hard; he had overshot his target by a long way. While he poured out soothing words he was trying to make out what sort of a man precisely he had there sitting beside nim. If the creature was mad, then he was generously mad; if he only pretended to be, then he was the boldest crook in the world. A crook who lets the police come right up to him without running away, who has to be rescued by force from the arms of the police, who makes his grief credible to a flowerwoman so that she gives him roses for nothing, who risks 950 schillings without wasting a word on them, who will listen to the most monstrous lies from a hunchback without knocking him down! A world champion among crooks! To do down such a master of his craft is a pleasure; opponents of whom you have to be ashamed are what Fischerle can't stand. He's all for equality in every match, and since Kien has turned out to be his partner for financial reasons, he must regard him as his equal.
All the same he treated him as though he were an utter fool; he wanted it this way — well, he could have it. To distract his thoughts he asked him, as soon as he began to breathe more easily, about the events of the morning. Kien was not unwilling to free himself from the comfortless oppression, which burdened his soul since he had heard the worst, by the recollection of happier moments. He propped up his shoulders, ribs and the rest of his bones against the pillar which closed the end of the pew and smiled the weakly smile of an invalid who was on the road to recovery but must be spared as much as possible. Fischerle was willing to spare him. An opponent of such mettle was to be cherished. He clambered up on to the bench, knelt there and pressed his ear to the near neighbourhood of Kien's mouth: in case anyone should hear him. 'So that you don't overtire yourself,' he said. Kien no longer accepted things naturally. The least friendly movement of a fellow being seemed a miracle.
'You are hardly human,' he breathed, lovingly.
'A deformity is hardly human, is that my fault?'
'Man is the only deformity,' Kien tried his voice a tone stronger. He and the dwarf were looking into each other's eyes, so he forgot there were things he shouldn't have mentioned in the dwarf's presence.
'No,' said Fischerle, 'man isn't a deformity, or I'd be a man!'
'No, I won't have that. Man is the only beast!' Kien grew louder, forbade and ordered.
Fischerle took this skirmishing — as he thought it — for the greatest joke. 'And why isn't that hog a man then?' There, that's a facer.
Kien leapt up. He was invincible. 'Because hogs can't defend themselves! I protest against this violation! Men are men
and hogs are hogs! All men are merely men! Your hog is only aman! Woe to the man who dares presume to be a hog! I will destroy him! Ca-ni-bals! Ca-ni-bals!'
The church echoed with wild lamentations. It seemed empty. Kien let himself go. Fischerle was caught off his guard; in a church he felt uncertain of himself. He almost pushed Kien out again into the square. But there the police were on the watch. If the church fell down, he wasn't going to walk into the arms of the police! Fischerle knew terrible stories of Jews buried in the wreckage of falling churches because they had no business to be there. His wife the Capitalist had told them to him because she was devout and wanted to convert him to her faith. He had no articles of faith, or only one — that 'Jew' is a genus of criminal which carries its punishment with it. In his extremity he looked at his hands, which he held always at about the level of an imaginary chessboard, and noticed the roses and how he had crushed them under his right arm. He pulled them out and screeched: 'Roses, beautiful roses, beautiful roses!' The church was suddenly full of screeching roses; from the heights of the nave, from the transepts, the choir and the tower, from all directions, red birds fluttered down on Kien.
(The hawker cowered in terror behind his column. He grasped that there was a row between the business friends and was delighted because in a quarrel one of them was sure to drop the parcel. All the same he'd have liked them well outside; the noise was deafening, maybe a riot would break out, any sort of scum will join in that sort ofthing and someone might steal his parcel.)
Kien's canibals were suffocated by the roses. His voice was already tired with earlier efforts and could, not compete with the dwarf's. As soon as he became fully conscious of the word 'Roses' he broke off his outcry and turned, half astonished, half ashamed, towards Fischerle. How did the flowers get there; he surely ought to be somewhere else; flowers are harmless, they live on water and fight, on earth and air, are not human, have never injured a book, are diemselves eaten, are destroyed by human beings; flowers need protection, they must be guarded from men and animals, where's the difference, beasts, beasts, here, there, some eat plants, others eat books, the only natural ally of the book is the flower. He took the roses from Fischerle's hand, remembered their sweet smell which he knew from Persian love poetry, and raised them to his eyes; it was true, they did smell. This soothed him completely. 'Call him hog as often as you please,' he said. 'But spare at least these flowers!' 'I brought them here specially for you,' said Fischerle, glad not to have to raise his voice in church any more. 'Cost a fortune, they did. And got all crushed on account of your screaming. What can poor flowers do for diat kind?' He decided from now on to agree with everything Kien said. Contradiction was too dangerous. Such boldness might well land him in the Eolice court. The recipient of the gift sank down exhausted on the ench, leaned up once more against the column, and while moving the roses up and down before his eyes as carefully as if they were books, began to recount the happy events of the morning.
The time when, calm and all unknowing, he had ransomed victim after victim in that light forecourt where not a soul could escape him, seemed as remote as his youth. He could clearly recall the men and women whom he had helped back towards a better life — was it but an hour ago? — and he was astonished at the precision of his memory which on this occasion was outdoing itself. 'Four great parcels might have found their way into the hog's belly or been hoarded for some later fire. But I saved them. Shall I take credit to myself? I think not. I have grown more modest. Why then should I talk of it? Perhaps only so that you too, you who wish for all or nothing, should recognize the value of an act of benevolence be it of never so small a compass.' In these words one might detect the calm which comes after storm. His voice, otherwise dry and hard, sounded at this moment both gentle and fragrant. It was very quiet in the church. Between separate sentences he paused often and then, softly, took up the tale again. He described the four lost souls to whom he had extended his help. Their figures, surmounting the sharp outlines of their parcels, were blurred a little; first he described the parcels, their wrapping, shape and presumable contents, he had not in any case actually investigated. The parcels were so neat, their bearers so modest and shamefaced, he would not for anything have cut off their retreat. To what purpose would be his work of redemption if he were harsh? All but the last were creatures of rare goodness, who held their friends tenderly, and demanded great sums so that they might be left in possession of their books. Without a doubt, they would all of them have come away from the top floor with their books intact, their firm determination was plain to see; they took the money from him and withdrew, speechless, profoundly moved. The first, probably a working man, shouted at nim as soon as he spoke, taking him doubtless for some wretched tradesman in books; never had harsh words sounded sweeter to him. Next came a lady whose appearance had strangely recalled to him some other acquaintance; she had imagined herself to be mocked by some attendant fiend, blushed crimson and said not a word. Soon after came a blind man, who collided with a common woman, the wife of one of the door-keeping fiends. He saved himself from her arms and clung to his parcel, and then, with astonishing confidence, came to a stand before his benefactor. A blind man with books is a deeply moving spectacle; they cling desperately to their one comfort and some, to whom braille means Uttle, for far too little has been printed in it, will never give up, will never admit the truth, to themselves. You may see them with open books in our print before them. They cheat themselves and imagine that they read. We have too few of these, for if ever any deserved the gift of sight it is surely these blind ones. For their sake one could wish the dumb letters spoke. The demands of the blind man were the highest, he granted them but was too delicate to say why, and pretended that it was on account of that wayward woman. Why remind him of his misfortune? To comfort him, it was better to show him his blessings. Had he a wife of his own, every moment of his life he would be colliding with her and wasting his time; that is the way of women. The fourth, an insignificant fellow less devoted to his books which bobbed up and down on his arm, asked — as one would have guessed — little and betrayed by his words a touch of vulgarity.
From this recital the dwarf discovered that not a penny had slipped through his net, which would have annoyed him seriously. He confirmed the common appearance of the last of the four, whom he had met coming out of the door. The man was undoubtedly a hawker and would come back next day. They must settle with him.
The last words were overheard by the hawker; he had grown used to their tones of voice. After the noisy quarrel had died down, he had slunk inquiringly but slowly nearer towards them, and came up at exactly that moment when their talk turned to him. He was indignant at the dwarf's treachery and with all the greater energy resumed his business as soon as the two had left the church.
Fischerle nerved himself for a heavy sacrifice. He led Kien into the nearest hotel, so as to get him into proper trim for the next day, and suppressed his annoyance at the enormous tip which Kien saw fit to pay out of his money. When Kien settled the bill for two rooms — where one would have been quite good enough — he added 50 per cent of the entire sum in tips as if Fischerle, as far as his own part of the bill was concerned, would have agreed to such folly, and then, perfectly aware of his crime, looked smiling into his face; he would gladly have knocked his block off. Weren t these overheads superfluous? What difference did it make if he gave the porter one schilling or four? In a few days, whatever happened, the whole lot would be in , Fischerle's pockets on the way to America. The porter was no richer for the trifle, and Fischerle was poorer. And he had to be friends with a dirty double-crosser like this ! Not a doubt of it, he was annoying him on purpose so that he should lose patience within sight of the goal, forget himself and provide an excuse for being sacked. He'd see him damned first! To-night he'd spread out that packing paper and pile up these books, would wish him good night and let him shout out all those idiotic names to him before he went to sleep, he'd get up in the morning at six, at an hour when tarts and
criminals even are still fast asleep, pack up the books and go on playing his part. The worst game of chess would be better. The great gawk couldn't think that he, Fischerle, believed in all these impossible books. He only did it to impress him; very well Fischerle d be impressed for as long as he needed to be impressed and not a second longer. As soon as he'd got all of his passage money, he'd tell him where he got off. 'Tell you what you are, call yourself a gentleman,' he'd screech, 'a common crook you are! That's what you are!'
All the afternoon, worn out with the exertions of the morning, Kien passed in bed. He did not undress for he was not anxious to make a to-do about this untimely repose. To Fischerle's repeated question, whether he was to start unloading the books, he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. His interest in his private library, which was safe in any case, had much declined. Fischerle noticed the change. He sniffed out some trap of which he must find out the reason, or if not a trap a loophole through which a few painful blows might be directed at Kien. Time and again he asked about the books. Weren't they getting very heavy for the head librarian? His present position was one to which neither his head nor his books were accustomed. Not that he wanted to interfere, but he couldn't approve of disorder in anyone's head. Wouldn't it be advisable to ask for extra pillows so that the head might at least be propped upright? If Kien turned his head round, the dwarf cried out with every sign of terror: 'For God's sake take care!' Once he even jumped up and held his hands under his right ear to catch the books. 'They're falling out!' he said reproachfully.
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