Auto-Da-Fé

by Elias Canetti

  Kien said he didn't know if the caretaker slept heavily or not. It was presumable at least, because everything about him was heavy, except his four canaries, who were made to sing whenever he wanted. (He mentioned them in the interests of accuracy.) On the other hand, the fellow was of a fanatical vigilance; he had constructed himself a special peep-hole eighteen inches above ground level so that he could the etter watch those who went in and out. He knelt there all day. 'I'd eat him alive!' Fischerle bunt in. 'That kind are all informers. An informer like that! A vulgar brute! If I had him here dear friend, you'd open your eyes, how I'd knock him about, with my little finger I'd knock him all to bits! Are informers scum or aren't they? They are, I say, and aren't I right?' 'I hardly think that my caretaker was ever an informer by profession,' Kien reflected, 'if indeed such a profession should exist. He was a policeman, an inspector, unless I mistake, and has long been retired.'

  At that Fischerle renounced his plan. No burglary of that kind for him. He wasn't having anything to do with the police at present, before going to America, emphatically not, and above ail not with retired pohcemen; they're much the worst. Out of laziness they go for the innocent. Because they mayn't arrest any more, they go mad on every occasion and beat harmless deformities into deformity. A pity all the same, it wouldn't hurt to fit oneself out a bit better for America. A man goes to America only once. A world champion ought not to arrive as a beggar, not that he is, but he may be, and people might say: he came here with empty hands, we won't have him staying here with full ones, let's take it all away from him. In spite of his world championship Fischerle was not at all sure of himself in America. Sharks are everywhere and everything in America is huge. From time to time he stuck his nose into his left armpit and strengthened himself with the smell of his money, which was stowed there. That comforted him, and after his nose had been there a fraction of time, it popped gaily up into the air again.

  But Kien no longer felt so happy about Thercse's death. Fischerle's words reminded him of the danger in which his library was. Everything drew him back to it, its distress, his duty, his work. What kept him here? A nobler love. So long as a single drop of blood ran in his veins, he was determined to ransom the wretched, to redeem them from a fiery death, to protect them from the jaws of the hog! At home he would, without doubt, be arrested. He must look facts steadily in the face. He was accessory to Therese's death. She was chiefly responsible but he had locked her in. By law, he would have been compelled to hand her over to an institution for the mentally unfit. He thanked God he had not obeyed the law. In an institution she would have been alive to-day. He had condemned her to death, hunger and her own greed had executed the sentence on her. He took back not one iota of what he had done. He was ready to answer for her to justice. His trial must end with an overwhelming verdict for acquittal. In any case the arrest of so famous a scholar, probably the greatest sinologist of his time, would cause undesirable publicity, a thing, in the interests of learning, to be avoided. The chief witness for the defence would be that very caretaker. Kien relied on him, but Fischerle's reflections on the venality of such a character did not fail of their effect. Landsknechts will go over to the master who pays them best. The crux of the matter was to guess who this opponent might be. Should there be any such person, had he an interest in bribing the caretaker with irresistible sums? Thérèse was alone. Not a word had ever been said of any relations. At her funeral, no one had followed the coffin. Should anyone pretending to be a relation appear in the course of his trial, Kien would have the origins of the person in question most carefully investigated. Some sort of a relation was of course possible. He decided to talk to the caretaker before he was arrested. An increase of his honorarium to 200 schillings would entirely win over this — as Fischerle so rightly called him — informer. This could not be regarded either as bribery or as an injustice of any kind; the caretaker was to tell the truth, nothing but the truth. In no circumstance whatever was it right that presumably the greatest sinologist of his time should be punished on account of an inferior woman, a woman of whom it could not be said with any certainty whether she were able fluently to read and write. Learning demanded her death. It demanded also his free pardon and rehabilitation. Scholars of his standing could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Women, unhappily, may be reckoned in millions. Thérèse belonged to the least of these. True her death had been as painful and cruel as could well be imagined. But for that, precisely for that, she was herself responsible. She might as well have starved peacefully to death. Thousands of Indian fakirs had died this lingering death before her and thought themselves redeemed thereby. The world admires them to this day. No one pities their fate, and their people, the wisest after the Chinese, call them saints. Why had not Thérèse wrung from herself the same decision! She clung too much to life. Her greed knew no bounds. She lengthened her life by one contemptible second after another. She would have eaten men, if there had been any nearby. She hated mankind. Who would have sacrificed himself for her? At her worst hour she found herself, as she deserved to be, alone and forsaken. So she clutched at the last chance left to her: she ate her own body, morsel by morsel, strip by strip, piece by piece, and thus, in indescribable agony kept herself alive. The witness did not find a body, he found bones, held together only by the blue starched skirt which she habitually wore. This was her well-merited end.

  Kien's speech in his own defence became the perfect accusation of Thérèse. In retrospect, he destroyed her a second time. For some time now he had been sitting in an hotel bedroom with Fischerle; they had got there almost automatically. His close-knit chain of thought was not interrupted for a single moment. He was silent and thought over every little detail. Out of the words which the devoured woman had uttered while she was alive he reconstructed a text which could well have served as an example of its kind. He was past-master of brilliant emendations and could argue every letter. All the same he deeply regretted expending so much philological meticulousness on a mere murder. He acted however under the strongest compulsion and promised the world rich compensation in the work he would do in the immediate future. She, whose case was now under discussion, had been the chief hindrance to his work. He thanked the judge for his conciliatory conduct throughout, conduct which he, a man accused of murder, had certainly not expected. The judge inclined his head and declared with ceremonious courtesy, that lie knew well what befitted the greatest sinologist of the modern world. That 'presumably' which Kien placed before 'the greatest sinologist' when he spoke of himself, was omitted by the judge, for it was wholly superfluous. Kien was filled, at this public homage, with a sensation of justifiable pride. His accusation of Thérèse acquired a gentler tone.

  'Certain extenuating circumstances must be allowed her,' he said to Fischerle, who was seated next to him on the bed, regretting the abandoned burglary, and sniffing at his money. 'Even in her worst moment, when her character must have been wholly undermined by hunger, she never dared to touch a book. I would like to add, that of course we are speaking of an uneducated woman.' Fischerle was annoyed because he understood, why did he have to understand non-sense, he cursed his own intellect, and only out of habit responded to the words of the poor devil next him. 'Dear friend,' he said, you're a fool. Nobody does what they don't know how. What d'you think, she'd have eaten up the most beautiful books, and with an appetite too, if she'd known now easy it was. Tell you what, if the cookery book that that hog at the Theresianum has put together, with 103 recipes—if that were in print — no, better say no more.' 'What do you mean?' asked Kien with staring eyes. He knew exacdy what the dwarf meant, but he wanted another than himself to place this ghastly thing in relation to his library, not he himself, not even in his thoughts. 'I can only say, dear friend, that when you got home you'd have found your flat empty, eaten bare, not a page, let alone a book!' 'God be praised!' Kien drew a deep breath. 'She is already buried and the blasphemous work will not come out so soon. I shall know how to bring it into question at my trial. The
world shall listen! I intend to reveal, without mercy, all I know. A scholar's word still carries weight!'

  Since his wife's death Kien's words had grown bolder, and the very difficulties before him pricked on his lust for batde to new deeds. He passed a stimulating afternoon with Fischcrle. In his melancholy mood the dwarf had much feeling for jokes. He had the trial explained to him to die minutest detail and raisea no objection anywhere. He gave Kien good advice free, gratis and for nothing. Had he no relations who could help him, a murder trial was no light matter? Kien cited his brodier in Paris, a well-known psychiatrist; earlier he had amassed a fortune as a gynaecologist. 'A fortune, did you saye* Fischerle immediately decided to make a halt in Paris on die way to America. 'He's the right man for me,' he said, 'I'll consult him about my hump.' 'But he's not a surgeon!' 'Don't matter; if he's been a gynaecologist, he can do anything.' Kien smiled at die innocence of the dear fellow, who evidently had no idea of any such thing as specialization of knowledge. But he willingly gave him the exact address, which Fischerle noted down on a dirty piece of paper, and told him much of the beautiful relationship, which decades ago, had existed between him and his brodier. 'Learning demands an undivided allegiance,' he concluded, 'it leaves nothing over for customary relationships. It has separated us.'

  'If you're on trial you can't make use of me anyhow. Tell you what, I'll go to Paris in the meantime and tell your brother I'm from you. I shan't have to pay him anything if I'm your good friend!* 'Of course not,' replied Kien, 'I'll give you a letter of recommendation, so that you get there safely. It would make me very happy, if he should really be able to relieve you of your hump.' He sat down and wrote at once — for the first time in eight years — to his brother. Fischerle's proposition seemed very suitable to him. He hoped soon to be able to withdraw once more entirely into his life of study, and the little fellow, much as he respected him, would then only be a burden. As a matter of fact, ever since they had been on Christian name terms, he had rather felt he would have to get rid of him sooner or later. If Fischerle could get rid of his hump, George would surely be able to make good use of him at his clinic as a male nurse. The dwarf carried the sealed and addressed letter into his room, took a book out of the parcel, his precious goods which the hawker had simply dropped on the floor, and placed the letter in it. The rest of the parcel was to serve its former purpose in the morning. Accurately calculated, Kien must have about 2000 schillings left. In a single morning these would easily be got from him. The evening therefore was spent in indignant colloquy about the hog and other unnatural creatures.

  The next day began badly. Scarcely had Kien taken up his position at the window when a man with a parcel crashed into him. His balance was just good enough to save him from falling through the pane. The rough feuow pushed past. "What do you want? Why have you come? Wait a minute !' All his shouts were in vain. The creature flung himself up the stairs and did not even turn round. After lengthy consideration, Kien came to the conclusion that these must have been pornographic books. This was the only excuse for the shameless haste with which the man had fled from any examination of his parcel. Then the sewerman appeared, stood stock still before him and demanded in a resounding voice 400 schillings. Enraged by the previous encounter, Kien recognized him. In a trembling voice he approached him: 'You were here yesterday! Are you not ashamed?' 'Day before yesterday too,' squelched out the open-hearted sewerman. 'Get out of here! Repent of your sins! You'll come to a bad end!'

  'I want my money,' said the sewerman. He was looking forward to the five schillings he would soon drink up. Without thinking about it — he never thought — he was sure that, as a labourer, he would only get his wages if he had done his work, that is, if he had delivered over the money paid to him. 'You will get nothing !' declared Kien, resolute. He stood on the stain. He was ready for everything. The books would be pawned over his dead body! The sewerman scratched his head. He could have squashed this bag of bones flat between finger and thumb. But he hadn't been told to. He only did what he was told. I'll go and ask the chief,' he grunted, and turned his backside on the other. That way of saying good-bye was easier than talking. Kien sighed. The glass door creaked.

  There appeared a blue skirt and an enormous parcel. Thérèse followed. Both were hers. At her side came the caretaker. With his left hand he lifted an even larger parcel high above his head and threw it over into his right hand, which caught it easily.

  CHAPTER VII

  FULFILMENT

  For a full week after Thérèse had thrown out her husband, that thief, she did nothing but search the flat. She behaved as though she were spring cleaning and divided up her work. From six in the morning till eight in the evening, she pushed about on feet, knees, hands and elbows spying for secret cracks and fissures. She discovered dust in places where she had not suspected it, even at her cleanest moments, and attributed it to the thieff for such people are dirty. With a stiff sheet of brown paper she probed into fissures which were too narrow for her stout hairpins. Afterwards she blew the dirt off, and dusted the paper over. For she could not bear the idea that she might touch the lost bankbook with a dirty piece of paper. For this work she wore no gloves — it would have spoilt them — but they lay near by, washed to glistening whiteness, in case she should find the bankbook. The beautiful carpets, which might have been damaged by so much tramping to and fro, were rolled in newspaper and stacked in the corridor. She searched each single book for its real contents. She was not yet seriously thinking of a sale. First she must talk it over with a sensible man. All the same, she noted the number of pages and felt a respect for books with more than 500, they must certainly be worth something, and she weighed them up in her hand before replacing them, like plucked chickens in the market. She was not cross about die bankbook. She was happy to give herself up to the flat. She could have done with more furniture. You had only to think the books away to see at once what sort of a person had lived here: a thief. After a week she knew the truth: there wasn't a bankbook. In a case like this a respectable woman calls the police. She waited before registering her complaint until she had used up the last of her housekeeping money. She wanted to prove to the police that her husband had run away with everything and left her without a penny. When she went marketing she made a wide detour to avoid the caretaker. She was afraid he would ask after the Professor. True he hadn't yet made a move, but he would certainly do so on the first of the month. On the first he got his monthly tip. This month he wouldn't get a penny; already she saw him begging outside her door. She was fully determined to send him off empty-handed. No one could force her to give him anything. If he was insolent, she'd report him.

  One day Thérèse put on her starchier skirt. It made her look younger. Its blue was just a trifle lighter than the other one which she wore every day. A dazzling white blouse went well with it. She unbolted the door into her new bedroom, glided over to the wardrobe mirror, said 'Here I am again' and grinned from ear to ear. She looked not a day over thirty, and had a dimple in her chin. Dimples are beautiful. She fixed a rendezvous with Mr. Brute. The flat was hers now; Mr. Brute could come. She'd like to ask him what she'd better do. Millions are locked up in those books, and she'd be happy to give someone a share. He needs capital. She knows he's a good manager. She's not one to sleep on all that beautiful money. What good is it to her now? Saving's good, earning's better. All of a sudden you've doubled it. She hasn't forgotten Mr. Brute. Women don't forget him. Women are like that; they're all after him. She'd like some too. Her husband's gone. He won't come back. The way he behaved, she wouldn't like to say. He didn't treat her right, but he was her husband just the same. So she'd rather not say. He was a thief but he wasn't clever. If everyone were like Mr. Brute! Mr. Brute has a voice. Mr. Brute has eyes. She'd found a new name for him, it was called Puda. It's a beautiful name, Mr. Brute is even more beautiful. Mr. Brute is the most beautiful. She knows ever so many men. Does she like one of them as she likes Mr. Brute? Let him prove it if he thinks she's anything to
hide. He mustn't think. He must come. He must say that about her magnificent hips. He says it so beautifully.

  At these words she balanced up and down before the mirror. It made her feel how beautiful she was. She took off her skirt and had a look at her magnificent hips. How right he is. He's so sensible. He's not only superior, he's everything. How could he have known? He'd never seen her hips. He notices everything. He looks carefully at all women. Then he asks, can't he sample them? A man ought to be bold. If he isn't, he's not a man. Is there a woman who could say no to him? Thérèse touches her hips with his hands. They are as soft as his voice. With her smiling dimples she looks in his eyes. She'll give him something, she says. Back to the door she goes, and fetches the bunch of keys hanging there. Before the mirror, she hands over the present with a jingle, and says he can come to her rooms whenever he likes. She knows he won't steal anything, even if she isn't there. The bunch of keys falls to the ground and she is ashamed because he won't have them. She calls: Mr. Puda, mayn't she call him just Puda. He says nothing, he can't tear himself" away from her hips. It's beautiful. But she would like to hear his voice too. She tells him a dark secret. She has a savings book and he can look after it for her. Will she just tell him its number too? She teases him. She starts back, he shouldn't ask that of her, she wouldn't do a thing like that. Not till she knows him better. She hardly knows him at all. But did he say anything? Where is ht ? She looks for him round her hips, but there she is cold. It is warm in her bosom. His hands dangle there under her blouse, but where is he? She looks for him in the mirror but only sees her skirt. It looks as good as new and blue is the most beautiful of colours, because she is true to Mr. Puda. She puts it on again, it suits her well, and if Mr. Puda likes she will take it off again. He'll be coming to-day, he'll stay all night, he'll come every night, he is so young. He has a harem, but he'll get rid of them all for her sake. Once he behaved like a brute. That's his name. He can't help his name. She's all of a sweat, and now she will go to him.