Auto-Da-Fé

by Elias Canetti

  George did not interrupt him, he wanted to hear it all. Peter spoke with such haste and excitement, that no friendly word would have held him up. He had stood up: as soon as he spoke of books, his small gestures expanded, grew determined. George regretted the image which, for the lack of another, he had chosen to illustrate the termites and their happy sexlessness in order to lure his brother's thoughts into the desired direction; it had proved, unfortunately, a bad choice. The mere thought that he could set fire to his books, burned Peter more than fire itself. He loved his library so dearly; it was his substitute for human beings. He might have been spared this painful vision: but still it had not been in vain. From it George learnt that there was a cure for the woman, more certain than poison; it was this overwhelming love which had only to be brought into play against that hatred and it would be extinguished and destroyed. It would be worth living for the sake of books which even from an imagined danger he would protect with such passion. Quickly and noiselessly I shall throw out the woman, George decided, and the caretaker with her, remove from the flat anything which may remind him of them, go through the library in case anything's missing, put his financial affairs in order — he's probably got little or nothing left — lead him back to the bosom of his books, fan his old love for a day or two, direct his attention to work which he had intended before, and then leave this dry fish to himself in his own dreary element — he finds it gay enough. At the end of six months I'll call on him again. I owe him these little attentions though he is my brother and I despise his ridiculous profession. I've discovered all I need to know about his married life. His judgments, which he thinks objective, are as transparent as water. First I must calm him down. He is calmest when he can disguise his hatred under the names of mythical or historical women. Behind these ramparts of his memory he feels safe against the woman upstairs. She could not make him a single answer on those scores. Fundamentally he is limited and has a petty character. His hatred gives him a kind of vigour. Perhaps a little of that will be left over for his later theses.

  'You interrupted yourself. You wanted to say something important.' George broke gently, with a soft expectant voice, into Peter's staccato exclamations. So much gravity and officiousness disarmed his rage. He sat down once more, searched in his head and found, in a very little time, the requisite connecting thread.

  'Just such another wonder as the love riot in the ant-heap and the impossible burning of my library would have been the destruction of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo himself. He might possibly — in spite of four years work — at the command of some crazy pope, have peeled off or painted over one figure after another. But Eve, this Eve, he would have protected against a hundred Swiss Guards. .She is his testament.'

  'You have a nose for the testaments of great artists. History justifies you too, not only Homer and the Bible. Let's forget Eve, Delilah, Clytaemnestra and even Penelope, whose ruthlessness you have proved. They are formidable examples, outstanding figures for the demonstration of your point, but, who knows if they ever lived? A Cleopatra proves a thousand times more to us, amateurs of history.'

  'Yes — I have not forgotten her, I had not got so far. Good, we'll omit the intervening ones ! You are not as thorough as I am. Cleopatra has her sister murdered — every woman fights every woman. She deceives Antony — every woman deceives every man. She exploits him and the Asiatic provinces of Rome for her own luxuries — every woman lives and dies for her love of luxury. She betrays Antony at the first moment of danger. She talks him into believing that she will burn herself alive. He kills himself meanwhile. She does not burn herself. But she has a mourning robe ready to hand, it suits her, dressed in it she tries to entangle Octavian. He was astute enough to lower his eyes. I dare swear he never saw her. The sly young fellow was in full armour. Otherwise she would have tried the touch of her skin, would have clung to him at the very moment when Antony was breathing his last. He was a man, Octavian, a fine man, he protected his body with armour and his eyes by casting them down! He is said to have answered not a word to her siren songs. I have a suspicion he may even have stopped his ears as Odysseus did for his part. Now, she couldn't captivate him through his nose alone. He could rely on his nose. Probably his olefactory organ was ill-developed. A man, a man I admire! Caesar yields to her, not he. And in the meantime she had grown a great deal more dangerous owing to her age, more importunate I mean.'

  He even reproaches his wife her age, understandably enough, thought George. For a very long time he went on listening. Hardly a misdeed of womankind, whether historically vouched for or merely traditional was passed over. Philosophers explained their contemptuous opinions. Peter's quotations were reliable, and, since he spoke like a school master, imprinted themselves deeply on his brother's mind. Many a phrase, corrupted by time-honoured tradition, he would correct as he went along. You can always learn, even from a pedant. Much was new to George. Thomas Aquinas had said: 'Women are weeds which grow quickly, incomplete men; their bodies only come earlier to ripeness because they are ofless value, nature takes less pains with them. And in which chapter does Thomas More, the first modern communist, treat of the marriage laws of his Utopia? In the chapter on slavery and crime! Attila, King of the Huns, was called by a woman, Honoria, the Emperor's sister, into Italy her own homeland, which he very largely plundered and laid waste. A few years later the widow of that same Emperor, Eudoxia, married, after her husband's death, his murderer and successor, and called in the Vandals to Rome itself. Rome owed that notorious sack to her, as Italy owed the ravages of the Huns to her sister-in-law.'

  Little by little Peter's anger grew less. He spoke ever more calmly, and cited appalling crimes almost casually. The material was more ample than his hatred. So as to omit nothing — his chief characteristic was still his accuracy — he divided it scrupulously into periods, peoples and thinkers. Only a little was left for each person. An hour ago Messalina would have heard a great deal more of herself. Now she got off lightly with a few lines of Juvenal. Even the mythology of certain negro tribes seemed to be saturated with contempt for women. Peter found his allies wherever they were. He could forgive the ignorance of illiterates if they agreed with him about women.

  George used a small pause for recollection, to make a proposal; he offered it respectfully and with unchanged expectation, though it concerned simply a meal. Peter agreed: he would prefer to eat out of the house. He had seen enough of the closet. They went into the nearest restaurant. George felt, sidelong, that he was being closely watched. Scarcely had he opened his mouth before Peter was back on his hyenas. But soon his sentences gave way to silence. Then George too fell silent. For a few moments both rested from their vigilance. In the restaurant Peter ceremoniously took his place. He fidgeted on his chair until he had completely turned his back on a neighbouring lady. Immediately after another appeared, still older and more anxious to be looked at: even a Peter interested her; grateful for the attention which she soon hoped to attract, she took no exception to a skeleton. The head waiter, a gentleman of distinguished appearance, stood before George, whom he took for the benefactor of the hungry guest, and took his order. With inconspicuous nods in the direction of the beggar, he recommended two sorts of dish, nourishing for the poor fellow, and more refined for his benefactor. Suddenly Peter got up and declared curtly: 'We will leave this place!' The waiter was full of regret. He ascribed the blame to himself and overflowed with courtesies. George felt himself painfully moved. Without any explanation, they went. 'Did you see the hag?' asked Peter in the street. 'Yes.' 'She was looking at me. Atme! I am not a criminal. How can she have thought of such a thing, to look at me! What I have done, I am ready to answer for.'

  In the second restaurant George took a private cubicle. Over their meal Peter went on with his interrupted lecture, long and tedious, his eyes always on the watch to see if his brother was listening. He lost himself in commonplaces and hackneyed stories. His speech limped along. Between sentences he fell asleep. Soon he w
ould be separating his words by whole minutes. George ordered champagne. If he spoke more quickly he would be done sooner. Besides, I shall learn his last secrets, if he's got any. Peter refused to drink. He abhorred alcohol. Then he drank all the same. Or else, he said, his brother might think he had something to hide from him. He had nothing to hide. He was truth itself. His misfortune came from his love of truth. He drank freely. His learning shifted to another sphere. He revealed an astonishing knowledge of historic murder trials. With passion he defended the right of men to set aside their wives. His speech transformed itself naturally into that of the defending counsel, pleading before the court the reasons why his client had been forced to kill his fiendish wife. Her fiendishncss was clear from the immoral life which she would so willingly have led, from her provocative way of dressing, from her age which she tried to conceal, from the vulgar words which were her entire vocabulary, and above all from her sadistic violence which went so far as the most brutal beating. What man would not have killed such a woman; All these arguments Peter pursued at length and with deep emphasis. When he had finished he stroked his chin with satisfaction, like a true barrister. Then he pleaded in general for the murderers of less gifted women.

  George learnt nothing new of the case of his brother. The opinion which he had already formed remained, in spite of the alcohol, intact. Injuries to pedantic heads are easily repaired. They arise from an excess of logic, and by logic they are cured. These cases were the only ones which George did not care for; they were not real cases. A man who is the same lit-up as he is stone-cold aeserves the lowest possible opinion. What an all-devouring lack of imagination in this Peter! A brain of lead, moulded out of letters, cold, rigid, heavy. Technically a miracle perhaps; but are there miracles in our technical times? The boldest thought to which a philologist can bring himself is that of murdering his wife. And even then the wife has to be more or less a monster, a good twenty years older than the philologist in question, his own evil image, a person who treated men as he treated the texts of great poets. If he were to carry out the murder, if he were to raise his hand against her and not draw it back at the last moment, if he were to go to his destruction for this crime, to sacrifice to his revenge manuscripts, texts, library, all the furniture of his lean heart — then hold his memory in honour! But he prefers to pay her off. He telegraphs first to his brother. He asks help for no murder. He will live and work another thirty years. In the annals of some science or other he will shine as a star of the first magnitude for all earthly eternity. Grandchildren, turning over the pages of the Transactions of this or that Sinological Society (for grandchildren of this kind too will be born) will come across his name. He has the same name himself. He ought to change it. Fifty years hence the Chinese National Government will honour him with a statue. Children, graceful, delicate creatures with slant eyes and smooth skin (when they laugh the hardest houses bend down) play in a street called after him. In their eyes (children are a bunch of riddles, they and everything around them) the letters of his name will become a mystery, he a mystery who during his life was so obvious, transparent, understandable and understood, who, if he ever was an enigma, was an enigma immediately solved. What luck that people do not usually know after whom their streets are called! What luck that they know so little altogether!

  Early in the afternoon he brought the philologist to his hotel and asked him to rest there while he settled up his affairs at home.

  'You are going to clean out my flat,' said Peter.

  'Yes, yes.'

  'You must not be surprised at the odious stench.'

  George smiled: cowards incline to circumlocutions.

  'I shall hold my nose.'

  'Keep your eyes open! You may see ghosts.'

  'I never see ghosts.'

  'Maybe you'll see some all the same. Tell mc if you do!'

  'Yes, yes.' How tasteless his jokes are!

  I've a request for you.'

  'And that is?'

  'Don't talk to the caretaker! He's dangerous. He may attack you. Say a word which doesn't suit him, and he hits out at once. I don't want you to come to any harm on my account. He'll break all your bones. Every day he throws beggars out of the house; he injures them first. You don't know him. Promise me you won't have any contact with him! He's a liar. You should not believe anything he says.'

  'I know, you've warned me already.'

  'Promise me.'

  'Yes, yes.'

  'Even if he does nothing to you, he'll jeer at me later.'

  So he's already afraid of the time he'll be alone again. 'You can be certain I'll get rid of him out of the house.'

  'Truly?' Peter laughed, since his brother had known him, for the first time. He clutched for his pocket and handed George a bundle of crushed bank notes. 'He'll want money.'

  'This is your entire fortune?'

  'Yes. You'll find the rest in the flat in a more noble form.'

  This last phrase almost made George sick. One half of their vast internal inheritance was locked up in dead tomes, the other in a unatic asylum. Which half had been the better used? He had expected to find at least some of the capital still with Peter. That wasn't the reason he was distressed, he said to himself; not because I shall have to support him for the rest of my life. His poverty annoys me because with this money I could have helped so many patients.

  Then he left him alone. In the street he wiped his bands clean on his handkerchief. He would have wiped his forehead too; he had already lifted his hand when he remembered that similar gesture of Peter's. Hurriedly he dropped his hand again.

  When he was once again outside the door of the flat he heard loud screams. Inside people were fighting. It would be all the easier for him to deal with them. At his violent ringing the woman opened the door. Her eyes were red and she was wearing the same comical skirt she had worn in the early morning.

  'I ask you, Mr. Brother!' she shrieked, 'he's taking liberties! He pawned the books. It's not my fault, is it? Now he's going to tell the police of me. He can't do it, I tell you. I'm a respectable woman!'

  George led her with elaborate politeness into one of the rooms. He offered her his arm. She clutched at it at once. In front of his brother's writing desk he asked her to take a seat. He himself set the chair for her.

  'Make yourself comfortable!' he said. 'I hope you feel safe here. A woman like you should have every attention. Unhappily I am already married. You ought to have a business of your own. You are a born business woman. We shall not be interrupted here, I truste' He went to the communicating door and rattled at the lock. 'Locked, good. Would you very kindly lock the other door as well?'

  She obeyed. He understood exactly how to turn himself at once into the owner, and the householder into his guest.

  'My brother is unworthy of you. I have been talking to him. You must leave him! He wanted to report you for double adultery. He knows everything. But I have dissuaded him. A man like him would be deceived by every woman. I suspect that he is not in any case normal. All the same he might easily make you appear as the guilty party in a divorce. You would get nothing at all in that case. Then you would have nothing for all your sufferings with this wretched creature — I know just what he's like. You would have to pass your old age in poverty and loneliness. A respectable woman like you with a good thirty years before you yet. How old are you then? Not a day over forty? He has already secretly filed his petition. But I will take your part. You please me. You must leave the house at once. If he doesn't see you any more, he'll do no more against you. I'll buy you a dairy shop at the other end of the town. I shall put up the capital on one condition: you must never cross my brother's path again. If you should do so the capital which I am putting up will come back to me. You will sign an agreement to this effect. You will do well out of it. He wanted to have you shut up. He has the law on his side. The law is unjust. Why should a woman like you have to suffer because a few books are missingî I cannot allow it. Ah, if only I were not already married! Permit me, dear l
ady, as your brother-in-law, to kiss your hand. Tell me, if you will, exactly, what books are missing. I have taken it upon myself to replace them. Otherwise he would not have withdrawn his complaint. He is a cruel man. We will leave him to himself. Let him see how he gets on then. Not a soul will look after him. He has deserved it. If he commits any more follies then he'll only have himself to blame. Now he tries to blame everything on you. I shall see that the caretaker loses his job. He has taken liberties with you. From now on he can caretake in another house. You will soon marry again. You can be sure the whole world will envy you your new shop. A man would glady marry into that. You've got what a woman needs. Nothing is missing. Believe me! I'm a man of the world. Who else to-day is so particular about having everything clean as you are? Your skirt is something quite unusual. And your eyes! And your youth! And your little mouth! As I've said already if I were not married I'd try to seduce you! But I have a respect for my brother's wife. When I come here again later to keep an eye on that fool, I shall permit myself, if I may, to call on you in your dairy shop. Then you won't be his wife any longer. Then we'll let our hearts speak.'