CHAPTER I
THE STARS OF HEAVEN
Since Kien had been thrown out of his flat, he had been overwhelmed with work. From morning to night with a measured and persistent tread he walked through the town. Already at dawn his long legs were in motion. At midday he didn't permit himself either rest or food. So as to husband his strength, he divided the scene of his activities into sections to which he kept rigorously. In his brief-case he carried a vast plan of the town, scale 1 : 5,000, on which the book stores were designated by cheerful red circles.
He entered a book shop and demanded the proprietor himself. If he was away or out at lunch he contented himself with the head assistant. 'I urgendy require, for a work of scholarship, the following books,' he said, and from a non-existent paper read out a long catalogue. To avoid repeating himself he pronounced the authors' names with perhaps exaggerated distinctness and deliberation. For he was concerned with rare works and the ignorance of such people is hardly to be conceived. Despite reading he could spare a watchful side-glance for the listening faces. Between one tide and the next he introduced brief pauses. He delighted in hurling the next title rapidly at the listener, who had as yet not fully recovered from the preceding one. The bewildered expressions amused him. Some asked for 'One moment, please!' Others clutched at their forehead or temples, but he continued to read unperturbed. His paper included between two and three dozen volumes. At home he had them all. But here he acquired each afresh. These duplicates, at present oppressive to him, he planned to exchange or sell later on. For the rest, his new activity cost him not a penny. In the street he prepared his lists. In each new book shop he read out a new one. When he had finished he folded up his piece of paper with a few assured movements, replaced it with the others in his note case, bowed contemptuously low and left the shop. He waited for no answer. What could these numbskulls have answered? If he involved himself in discussions about the required books it would only be a waste of time. Already he had lost three whole weeks in the strangest circumstances, stiff and stark at his writing desk. To make up for the loss he walked all day, so cleverly, persistently, industriously that, without a suspicion of self-complacency, he could feel pleased with himself, as he was.
The people with whom his profession brought him into contact behaved, according to their mood and temperament, in different ways. A few felt affronted at not being given time to answer, the majority were glad enough to listen. His gigantic learning could be both seen and heard. One of his sentences outweighed the contents of a well-fdled shop. His full importance was rarely recognized. Else the poor fools would have left their work, crowded about him, pricked up their ears and harkened until their eardrums split. Would they ever again encounter such a prodigy of learning? But mostly a lone assistant took advantage of the opportunity of hearing him. He was shunned, as all great men are, he was too strange and remote, and their embarrassment, which he had determined not to notice, smote him to his inmost core. As soon as he turned his back on them, for the rest of the day, they would talk of nothing but him and his lists. Stricdy speaking, proprietors and staff functioned as his own private servants. He would not grudge them the honour of a collective mention in his biography. After all, they did not behave themselves ill, admired him and provided him with everything of which he had need. They divined who he was, and at least had the strength to be silent in his presence. For he never entered a book store twice. When he did so once in error, they threw him out. He was too much for them, his appearance oppressed them and they freed themselves of it. He sympathized with their humiliation and on that occasion bought the plan of the town with the red circles. In the circles denoting book shops he had already dealt with, he made a small cross; for him they were dead.
Besides, his activity had a pressing purpose. From the first moment when he found himself in the street his sole interest was for his theses at home. He was determined to complete them: without a library this was impossible. He therefore considered and compiled lists of the specialized books he needed. These lists came into being by necessity; caprice and desire were excluded, he only permitted himself to buy books indispensable to his work. Circumstances forced him to shut up his library at home for the time being. He apparently submitted to his fate, but in fact he outwitted it. He would not yield an inch of ground in this matter of learning. He bought what he needed and in a few weeks would resume his work; his plan of campaign was largely conceived and well-adapted to die peculiar circumstances, he was not to be subdued; in freedom he spread his wise wings; with each glorious day of independence he grew in stature, and this interim collection of a small new library comprising a few thousand volumes was reward enough for his pains. He was even afraid that the collection might grow too big. Every night he slept in a different hotel. How was he to carry away the increasing burden; But he had an indestructible memory and could carry the entire new library in his head. The briefcase remained empty.
In the evenings after closing time he became aware of his fatigue, and sought, the moment he had left the last book shop, the nearest hotel. Without luggage as he was, and in his shabby suit, he aroused the porters' suspicions. Pleased in advance at the way in which they would send him packing, they allowed him to speak his three or four sentences. He required a large, quiet room for the night. If none was to be had except in the vicinity of women, children or common people, he requested them to tell him so at once, since in that case he would be compelled to refuse it. At the phrase 'common people' every porter was disarmed. Before his room was allotted to him, he pulled out his wallet and declared his intention of paying in advance. He had drawn his remaining capital out of the bank; the wallet was crammed with highly respectable banknotes. For love of these the porters laid bare regions of their eyeballs which no one, not even titled travellers or Americans, had ever seen before. In his precise, tall, angular writing Kien filled in the usual form. His profession he declared to be: 'Owner of a library.' He would not state whether married or single; he was neither married nor single nor divorced and he indicated this by a crooked penstroke. He gave the porters fantastic tips, about 50 per cent on the price of the room. Every time he paid he rejoiced that his bankbook had escaped Thérèse. Their enthusiastic bows placed a coronet on his head; he remained unmoved, an English lord. Contrary to his custom — technical simplifications were odious to him — he made use of the lift, for in the evening, tired as he was, the library in his head weighed heavy. He had his dinner brought up to his room: it was the only meal in the day. Relaxing for a short while he set down his library, and then looking round decided whether there was enough room for it.
At first, when his liberty was yet young, he was not concerned with the kind of room he had taken; it was after all only a matter of sleeping and the sofa could hold his books. Later he used the wardrobe as well. Soon the library had outgrown both. The dirty carpet had to be used so he rang for the maid and asked for ten clean sheets of brown paper. He spread them out on the carpet and over the whole floor; if any were left over he covered the sofa with them and lined the wardrobe. Thus for a time it became his habit to order paper every evening as well as food; he left it behind every morning. The books built themselves up higher and higher, but even if they fell they would not be soiled for everything was covered with paper. Sometimes at night when he awoke, filled with anxiety, it was hecause he had most certainly heard a noise as of falling books.
One evening the piles of books were too high even for him; he had already acquired an amazing number of new ones. He asked for a pair of steps. Questioned why he wanted it, he replied, cuttingly, 'That is not your business!' The maid was of a rather timid nature. A burglary, which had recently occurred, had all but cost her her place. She ran to the porter and told him, excitedly, what the gentleman in No. 39 wanted. The porter, a character and man of the world, knew what he owed to his tip, although it was safe in his pocket.
'Go and get some sleep, sweetie,' he grinned at her, 'I'll deal with the murderer!'
She didn't move. 'Strange, isn't he,' she said shyly. 'Looks like a flagpole. First he asked for paper and now he wants a pair of steps. The floor's covered with paper.'
'Paper?' he asked; this information made an excellent impression on him. Only the most remarkable people carry precautions to that length.
'Yes, what do you think?' she said proudly; he had listened to her.
'Do you know who the gentleman is? he asked. Even talking to the maid he didn't say he; he said 'the gentleman'. 'Proprietor of the Royal Library, that's what he is!' Each syllable of this glorious profession he launched into the air like an article of faith. To shut the girl up he added 'Royal' on his own account. And he realized how very refined the gentleman upstairs was since he had omitted 'Royal' when filling in the form.
'There aren't any Royal now, anyway.'
'But there's a Royal Library! Clever, aren't you? What do you think they did with the books, swallowed them?'
The girl was silent. She loved to make him angry because he was so strong. He only noticed her when he was furious. She came running to him with every little thing. For a couple of minutes he bore with her. Once he was enraged, you had to look out for yourself. His fury gave her strength. She gladly carried the steps to Kien. She could have asked the boots to do it, but she did it herself; she wanted to obey the porter. She asked the gentleman proprietor of the Royal library if she could help him.
He said: 'Yes, by leaving this room at once!' Then he locked the door — for he mistrusted the officious creature — stopped up the keyhole with paper, placed the steps cautiously between the piles of books and climbed up. One parcel after another, arranged according to the lists, he lifted out of his head, filling the entire room with them up to the ceiling. Despite the heavy weight he managed to keep his balance on the steps; he felt like an acrobat. Now, his own master again, he overcame difficulties easily. He had just finished when there was an obsequious knock at the door. He was annoyed at being disturbed. Since his experiences with Thérèse he was in mortal terror of any uninitiate looking at his books. It was the maid (who out of devotion to the porter) timidly asked him for the steps back again.
'Please sir, excuse me, sir, you won't want to be sleeping with the steps in the room!' Her zeal was genuine; she stared at the strange flagpole with curiosity, love and envy and wished that the porter would take as much interest in her.
Her language reminded Kien of Thérèse. Had she been Thérèse he would have been afraid. But as she only reminded him of her he shouted: 'The steps remain here ! I shall sleep with the steps !'
Gracious heavens, this is a fine gentleman, thought the young thing and disappeared, frightened. She had not realized that he was so very refined that you couldn't address a single word to him.
He drew his own conclusions from this experience. Women, whether housekeepers, wives or maids had to be avoided at all costs. From then onwards he asked for bedrooms so large that a pair of steps would have been senseless and superfluous, and he carried his own paper in his brief-case. The waiter, for whom he rang to order his meal, was, happily, a man.
As soon as his head felt relieved of the weight, he lay down on the bed. Before going to sleep he compared his previous circumstances with his present situation. In any case, towards the evening his thoughts reverted to Thérèse with pleasure, because he paid his expenses with the money he had rescued from her by his personal valour. Money matters promptly conjured up her picture. All day he had nothing to do with money, not only did he refuse himselflunch but also trams, and with good reason. The serious and glorious undertaking on which he was now engaged was not to be smirched with any Thérèse. Thérèse was the penny soiled by a thousand hands. Thérèse was the word in the mouth of an illiterate. Thérèse was the weight on the spirit of man. Thérèse was madness incarnate.
Imprisoned for months with a lunatic, he had in the end been unable longer to resist the evil influence of her disease and had himself been infected. Grasping to excess, she had imparted a portion of her greed to him. A devouring lust for other books had estranged him from his own. He had almost robbed her of the million which he believed her to possess. His character, perpetually in close and violent contact with hers, had been all but dashed to pieces on this rock of money. But it had sustained the shock. His body invented a defence. Had he continued to move about the flat freely for much longer he would have succumbed irremediably to her disease. For that reason he had played that trick of the statue. Naturally he could not transform himself into concrete stone. It was enough that she had taken him for that. She was frightened by the statue and made a wide circle round it. His ingenuity in sitting rigidly on a chair for weeks, had perplexed her. She had been perplexed already. But after this adroit ruse she no longer knew who he was. This gave him time to free himself from her. Gradually his wounds healed. Her power over him was broken. As soon as he was strong enough he resolved on a plan of escape. It was essential to escape from her, and yet to keep her in custody. So that his escape should be successful, she had to believe that it was she who had thrown him out. Thus he hid his bankbook. For many a long week she searched the flat for it. This indeed was the nature of her disease, she must always look for money. Nowhere did she find the bankbook. Finally she ventured as far as the writing desk. But here she collided with him. Her disappointment provoked her to fury. He irritated her more and more, until, beside herself with rage, she threw him out of his own flat. There he stood outside, redeemed. She thought herself the victor. He locked her into the flat. She could never escape, and now he was completely safe from her attack. True he had sacrificed his flat, but what will not a man do to save his life, if that life belongs to the sacred cause of Learning?
He stretched himself out under the blanket and touched with his body as much as possible of the linen sheet. He begged the books not to fall down, he was tired and at last would like to rest. Half asleep, he mumbled, 'Good night'.
For three weeks ne enjoyed his new freedom. With admirable diligence he made use of every minute; when the three weeks were over he had exhausted every book shop in the town. One afternoon he did not know where else he was to go. Begin again at the beginning, and visit all over again in the same order? He might be recognized? He would prefer to avoid unpleasantness. His face — was it one of those which anyone would remember from a single glance? He stopped in front of the mirror outside a hairdresser's and surveyed his features. Watery blue eyes, and no cheeks at all. His forehead, ridged as a rock-face, from which his nose plunged at right angles towards the abyss, an edge dizzily narrow. At its base, almost hidden, cowered two minute black insects. No one would have guessed them to be nostrils. His mouth as the slot of a machine. Two slurp lines, like artificial scars, ran from his temples to his chin and met at its point. These and his nose divided his long and lean face into five strips of a terrifying narrowness; narrow, but strictly symmetrical; there was no room to linger anywhere and Kien did not linger. For when he saw himself— he was not used to seeing himself— he suddenly felt very lonely. He decided to lose himself among a crowd of people. Perhaps he would then forget how lonely his face was, and perhaps he would think of a way of carrying on his activities.
He turned his eyes to the names above the doors, a feature of the town to which he was otherwise bund, and read The Stars of Heaven. He entered with pleasure. He thrust back the thick curtains over the door. An appalling fog almost took his breath away. Mechanically, as if in self defence, he walked two steps further. His narrow body cut the air like a knife. His eyes watered: he opened them wide to see. They watered more and he could see nothing. A black figure escorted him to a small table and told him to take a seat. He obeyed. The figure ordered him a large black coffee and disappeared in the fog. Here in this alien quarter of the world, Kien clutched at the voice of his escort and identified it as male, but blurred and therefore distasteful. He was pleased to find yet another creature as despicable as he held all mankind to be. A thick hand pushed a large coffee in front of him. He thanked it politely. Surprised, the hand paused a moment, then pressed itself flat against the marble and stretched out all five fingers. What can it be grinning for? Kien asked himself, his suspicions aroused.
By the time the hand, with the man attached to it, had withdrawn, he was once again in possession of his eyes. The fog was parting. Kien's glance followed the figure, long and thin as he was himself, with distrust. It came to a halt in front of a bar, turned itself round and indicated with an outstretched arm the newcomer. It said some incomprehensible words and shook with laughter. To whom was it speaking? In the vicinity of the bar, on every side, not a soul was standing. The place was unbelievably neglected and dirty. Behind the bar there was most clearly to be seen a heap of many coloured rags. These people were too lazy even to open a wardrobe door; they used the space between the bar and the mirror at the back of it to throw their things down. They were not even ashamed in front of their customers! Those too now began to interest Kien. At almost every little table sat a hairy object with a face like an ape, staring doggedly in his direction. Somewhere at the back strange girls yelled. The Stars of Heaven were very low and daubed between smeary grey-brown clouds. Here and there the remains of one of them broke through the dreary layers. Once the whole of the sky had been sprinkled with golden stars, but most of them had been extinguished by smoke, the rest were dying for lack of daylight. The world beneath this sky was smalh It would easily have been got into a hotel bedroom. Only as long as the fog deceived the eye it had seemed wide and wild. Each little marble table had its own planetary existence. The stink of the world was generated by each and all. Everyone was smoking, silent or battering lus fist upon the hard marble. From tiny alcoves smothered cries for help could be distinguished. Suddenly an old piano made itself heard. Kien looked about for it in vain. Where had they hidden it? Old fellows dressed in rags, with cloth caps on their heads, pushed the heavy door-curtains aside with tired movements and slowly drifted about among the planets, greeting this one, threatening that, and finally settling down where they were least welcome. In a short time the place changed entirely. Movement became impossible. Who would dare to tread on the toes of such neighbours as these? Kien only was still sitting alone. He was afraid to stand up and remained where he was. Between the tables insults were bandied about. Music inspired these people with strength and fight. As soon as the piano stopped they slumped down wretchedly into themselves. Kien clutched at his head. What kind of creatures were these?
Suddenly a vast hump appeared close to him and asked, could he sit there? Kien looked down fixedly. Where was the mouth out of which speech had issued ? And already the owner of the hump, a dwarf, hopped up on to a chair. He managed to seat liimself and turned a pair of large melancholy eyes towards Kien. The tip of his strongly hooked nose lay in the depth of his chin. His mouth was as small as himself— only it wasn't to be found. No forehead, no ears, no neck, no buttocks — the man consisted of a hump, a majestic nose and two black, calm, sad eyes. For a long time he said nothing; he was doubtless waiting while his appearance made its own impression. Kien accustomed himself to the new circumstance. Suddenly he heard a hoarse voice underneath the table:
'How's business?'
He looked down at his legs. The voice rasped, indignantly: 'I'm not a dog, am I?' Then he knew that the dwarf had spoken. What he was to say about business he did not know. He considered the all-pervading nose of the manikin, it inspired him with mistrust. As he was not a business man he shrugged his shoulders slightly. His indifference made a great impression.
'Fischerle is my name!' The nose pecked at the table. Kien was distressed for his own good name. He did not therefore respond with it and only inclined himself stiffly, in a manner which might have passed equally well for dismissal or for greeting. The dwarf interpreted it as the latter. He dragged two arms into view — as long as the arms of a gibbon — and reached for Kien's brief-case. Its contents provoked him to laughter. The twitching corners of his mouth, appearing on both sides of the nose, at last proved the existence of the mouth itself.
'You're in the paper racket, or aren't you?' he croaked, and held up the clean folded paper. At the sight of it the whole world beneath the Stars of Heaven broke into neighing laughter. Kien, well aware of the deeper significance of his paper, felt like shouting 'Insolence!' and snatching it out of the dwarf's hand. But the very intention, bold as it was, appeared to him as a colossal crime. To atone for it he put on an unhappy and embarrassed expression.
Fischerle did not let go. 'Here's a novelty for you. Ladies and gentlemen, here's a novelty! A dumb salesman!' He waved the paper about in his crooked fingers and crushed it in at least twenty places. Kien's heart bled. The cleanliness of his library was at stake. Was there no means by which he could rescue it? Fischerle climbed up on to his chair — now he was just as tall as the sitting Kien — and sang in a cracked voice. 'I'm a fisherman — He's a fish!' At 'I' he clapped the paper against his hump, at 'he' he flicked it at Kien's ears. Kien bore it all patiently. He thought himself lucky that the raving dwarf hadn't murdered him. But his behaviour was growing painful. His clean library was already defiled. He grasped that a man without a racket was of no account in this company. During the long drawn out interval between 'I' and 'he' he stood up, made a deep bow and declared resolutely: 'Kien, book racket.'
Fischerle broke off before the next 'he' and sat down. He was satisfied with his success. He shrank back into his hump and asked with utter humility: 'Do you play chess?' Kien expressed his regret.
'A person who can't play chess, isn't a person. Chess is a matter of brain, I always say. A person may be twelve foot tall, but if he doesn't play chess, he's a fool. I play chess. I'm not a fool. Now I'm asking you; answer me if you like. If you don't, don't answer me. What's a man got brains for? I'll tell you, or you'll be worrying your head about it, wouldn't that be a shame? He's got brains to play chess with. Do you get ine? Say yes, then that's that. Say no, I'll explain it all over again, for you. I've always liked the book racket. May I point out to you that I learnt it on my own, not out of a book. What do you think, who's the champion in this place? I bet you don't know that one. I'll tell you who it is. The champion's called Fischerle and sitting at the same table as you are. And why do you think he came to sit here? Because you look such a misery. Now maybe you'll be thinking I always make for the miseries. Wrong, rubbish, not a bit of it. Have you any idea what a beauty my wife is! Such a rare creature as you don't"often see! But, say I, who's got the brains? The miseries have got brains, that's what I say. What's the good of brains to a handsome fellow? Earning? His wife works for him. He wouldn't play chess because he'd have to stoop, might spoil his figure; now what's the conclusion? The miseries get all the brains there are. Look at chess champions — all miseries. Look here, when I see a famous man in the picture paper and he's anything to look at, Fischerle, I say to myself, there's something fishy. They've got the wrong picture. Well, what do you expect, piles and piles of photos, every one supposed to be someone famous. What's a picture paper to do? Picture papers are only human. Tell you what, it's queer you don't play chess. Everyone in the book racket plays chess. No wonder, considering the racket. They just open the book and learn the moves by heart. But do you think one of" them's ever got me beaten? No man in the book racket ever beat me. As true as you're in it yourself, if you are.'
To obey and to listen was the same for Kien. Since the manikin had got on to the subject of chess he was the most harmless little Jew in the world. He never paused, his questions were rhetorical but he answered them himself. The word chess rang in his mouth like a command, as though it depended on his gracious mercy, whether he would not add the mortal 'check-mate'. Kien's silence, which had irritated him at first, now appeared to him as attentiveness and flattered him.
During games his partners were far too much afraid of him to interrupt him with objections. For he took a terrible vengeance and would hold up the foolishness of their moves to the general derision In the intervals between games — he passed half his life at the chessboard — people treated him as his shape and size warranted. He would have preferred to go on playing for ever. He dreamed of a life in which eating and sleeping would be got through while his opponent was making his moves. When he had won uninterrupted for six hours and managed to find yet another victim, his wife interfered and forced him to stop, otherwise he would get above himself. He was as indifferent to her as if she were made ofstone. He stuck to her because she provided his meals. But when she snapped off the chain of his triumphs, he would dance raging round about her, hitting her in the few sensitive parts of her coarsened person. She stood it all quietly, strong as she was, and let him do as he liked. Those were the only expressions of conjugal tenderness with which he favoured her. For she loved him; he was her child. Business considerations forbade any other. She enjoyed great respect under the Stars of Heaven, because she alone of the poverty-stricken and low-priced girls of the establishment had a regular elderly gendeman, who for eight years had visited her every Monday with undeviating fidelity. On account of this regular income she was known as the Capitalist. During her frequent scenes with Fischerle, the whole place roared, but no one would have dared to start a new game against her orders. Fischerle only hit her because he knew this. For her clients, he felt tenderness, if indeed his love for chess left him any to spare. As soon as she had disappeared with one of them he could race across a chessboard to his heart s content. He had priority claims on any stranger whom chance brought to the place. Each one might be a world champion who might teach him something new. But he took it for granted that he would beat him. Only when his hope for new combinations had been shattered he introduced his wife to the stranger and got rid of her for a time. Secretly he advised the man to stay with her as long as he cared to; he, Fischcrle, had always liked the man's particular racket; she was easy going, she knew how to value a man with a bit of life in him. But he begged not to be given away, business was business and he was acting against his own interests.
Earlier, many years ago, before his wife was a Capitalist, and when she had too many debts to be able to pack him off to a café, whenever she brought a client into her narrow little room, Fischerle, in spite of his hump, had to creep under the bed. There he listened carefully to everything the man said — he didn't care what his wife said — and soon he developed an instinct whether the man was a chess player or not. The moment he was sure of this, he crawled out as fast as he could — often hurting his hump very much — and challenged the unsuspecting visitor to a game of chess. Some men agreed at once, as long as the game was for money. They hoped they would win back from the shabby Jew the money they had given his wife under a more insistent pressure. They thought themselves well justified because they would certainly not now have agreed to their original bargain. But they always lost as much money again. Most of them refused Fischerle's offer, tired, suspicious or indignant. Not one of them was puzzled by his sudden appearance. But Fischerle's passion grew with the years. Each time it was harder for him to postpone his challenge long enough. Often he was forcibly overcome by the conviction that just above his head an international champion was lying incognito. Much too early he would appear at the bedside, and with his finger or his nose tap the unknown celebrity on the shoulder until he became aware not of the insect he suspected but of the dwarf and his challenge. This was too much for all of them, and not one but instantly used the occasion to demand his money back. After this had happened several times — once an infuriated catde dealer even fetched the police — his wife declared categorically that things must change or she would get herself someone else. Whether things were going well or not, Fischerle was sent henceforward to the café and was not allowed to come home before four in the morning. Soon after that the regular old gentleman who came every Monday settled himself in and the worst times were over. He stayed all night. Fischerle would find him still there when he came home, and was regularly greeted by him with 'Hallo, World Champion!' This was intended for a good joke — in time it grew to be eight years old — but Fischerle took it for an insult. If the gendeman, whose name nobody knew —he even concealed his Christian name —was particularly satisfied, he took pity on the little man and quickly let himself be beaten by him. The gentleman was one of those people who like to setde the superfluities oflife all at once. When he left the little room he had got rid of both love and pity for a week. His voluncary defeat by Fischerle saved him the pennies he would otherwise have had ready for beggars in the shop he presumably kept. On its door was a notice which ran: 'Beggars will be given nothing here.'
There was, however, one type of men in the world whom Fischerlc hated — International Chess Champions. With a kind of rabid fury he pursued every important tournament which came to his notice in papers or magazines. Once he had played them through for himself, he could keep them in his head for years. Owing to his unchallenged championship in the café, it was easy for him to prove to his friends die worthlessncss of these great players. Move by move, he would show them — they relied unquestioningly on his memory — what had happened at this or that tournament. When their admiration for such a match reached a pitch which annoyed him, he made up a few false moves and thence carried on the game just as it suited him. Rapidly he would steer towards the catastrophe; they knew, of course, who had suffered it, for here too, names were a fetish. Voices were raised to say that Fischerle himself would have done no better. Nobody had recognized the mistake made by the defeated party. Then Fischerle would push his chair so far back from die table that his outstretched arm could just reach the pieces. This was his particular way of showing contempt, since his mouth, the organ which other men use for the purpose, was almost entirely hidden by his nose. Then he would croak: 'Give me a handkerchief. I'll win the game blind.' If his wife was there she would hand him her dirty scarf; she knew that she must not interfere with his chess tournament triumphs which only took place about once every few months. If she were not there, one of the other girls would put her hands over his eyes. Swift and sure, he would take the game back move for move. At the place where the original mistake had occurred he would stop. It was the very point where he had began to cheat. Cheating again he carried the opposing party with equal boldness to victory. Every move was breathlessly followed. Everyone was amazed. The girls fondled his hump and kissed his nose. The men, even the good-looking ones who knew little or nothing about chess, beat their fists on the marble tables and asserted, in just indignation, that it would be a dirty swindle if Fischerle were not to become the world champion. They shouted so loudly that they at once recaptured the girls' attention. Fischerle didn't care. He pretended that their applause meant nothing to him, and only remarked drily: 'What do you expect, I'm only a poor devil. If someone gave me the deposit, now, I d be world champion to-morrow!' 'To-day!' they all cried. That was an end of their enthusiasm.
Thanks to the fact that he was an unrecognized genius at chess, and thanks to the regular customer of his wife s, the Capitalist, Fischerle enjoyed one important privilege beneath the Stars of Heaven. He was allowed to cut out and keep all the printed chess problems in the papers, although these, which had already passed through half a dozen hands were — after several months — sent on to an even more miserable café. But Fischerle did not keep the scraps of chequered paper; he tore them into tiny fragments and threw them down the lavatory with disgust. He lived in mortal terror lest anyone should want to refer to one of them. He was by no means convinced of his importance. He racked his brains over the actual moves which he concealed. Therefore he loathed world champions like the plague.
'Where would I be, d'you think if I was given a stipendium?' he said to Kien. 'A man without a stipendium is a cripple. Twenty years I've been waiting for a stipendium. You don't think I'd take anything from my wife, do you? I want peace, and I want a stipendium. Move in with me says she. I was a boy then. No, I said, what does Fischerle want with a wife? What do you want then, says she, she couldn't leave me alone. What do I want? A stipendium's what I want. Nothing for nothing. You wouldn't start a firm without capital. Chess too's a racket, why shouldn't it be? There's nothing that isn't a racket, come to think of it. Very good, says she, you move in with me and you'll get your stipendium. Now, I ask you, do you understand what I'm talking about? D'you know what a Stipendium is? I'll tell you in any case. If you know already, it'll do no harm, if you don't it'll do no. harm either. Now listen: stipendium is a refined word. This word comes from the French and means exactly the same as capital does in Jewish!'
Kien swallowed. By their etymology shall ye know them. What a place! He swallowed and was silent. It was the best thing to do in this den of thieves. Fischerle made a minute pause in order to observe the effect of the word 'Jewish' on his companion. You never can tell. The world is crawling with anti-semites. A Jew always has to be on guard against deadly enemies. Hump-backed dwarfs and others, who have nevertheless managed to rise to the rank of pimp, cannot be too careful. The swallowing did not escape him. He interpreted it as embarrassment, and from that moment decided that Kien must be a Jew, which he certainly was not.
Reassured he went on: 'You can only make use of it in better-class professions,' he said, meaning the Stipendium; 'when she swore by the Holy Saints I moved in with her. Do you know how long ago that was? I can tell you because you're my friend; that was twenty years ago. Twenty years she's been scraping and saving, doesn't allow herself anything, doesn't allow me anything. Do you know what a monk is? No, you wouldn't know that because you're a Jew, we don't have monks among the Jews, monks, never mind, we live like monks, I'll tell you a better one, perhaps you'll understand it now since you don't understand much: we live like nuns, nuns are the wives of the monks, see? Every monk has a wife and she's called a nun. But you can't imagine how separately they live. That's the sort of marriage everyone would like, the Jews ought to have that kind too! And would you believe it, we haven't got that stipendium together yet ? Add it up now, you must be able to add! You'd give twenty schillings right away. But not everyone would give that. Nowadays a gentleman s a rarity. Who can afford such stupidity? You're my friend. Like the good chap you are, you say to yourself Fischerle must have his stipendium. If not, he'll be ruined. Can I let a man like Fischerle ruin himself? That would be a shame, no, I can't do a thing like that. What shall I do? I'll give his wife twenty schillings, she'll take me along with it and my fnend'll have his fun. There's nothing I wouldn't do for a friend. I'll prove it to you. You bring your wife here, until I got my stipendium that is, and I swear to you I m not a coward. D'you think I'm afraid of a woman? What harm can a woman do? Have you a wife?'
This was the first question to which Fischerle expected an answer. True he was as sure of the wife, whose existence he was questioning, as he was of his hump. But he longed for a game, he had oeen watched now for three hours and could bear it no longer. He was determined to bring the discussion to a practical conclusion. Kien was silent. What could he have said? His wife was his sore point; with the best intention in the -world nothing true could be said of her. He was, actually, neither married, nor single nor divorced. 'Have you a wife?' asked Fischerle a second time. But already it sounded threatening. Kien was worried about the truth. The same thing which had happened before over the book racket was happening again. Necessity makes liars of us all. 'I have not a wife!' he asserted with a smile which lit up his austerity. If he must lie, he would choose the pleasantest alternative. 'Then I'll give you mine!' burst out Fischerle. Had the man in the book racket hada wife, Fischerle's offer would have been differently worded: 'Then I'll make you a nice change from her.' Now he shouted loudly across the café: 'Are you coming, or not?'
She came. She was large, fat and round, and half a century old. She introduced herself by shrugging a shoulder in Fischerle's direction and adding, not without a breath of pride, 'My husband'. Kien stood up and bowed low. He was terrified of whatever was going to happen now. Aloud he said: 'Delighted!' To himself softly, inaudibly: 'Strumpet.' With this archaic word he reduced her to nothing. Fischerle said: 'Well then, sit down.' She obeyed. His nose reached up to her bosom. Nose and bosom leant side by side over the marble table. Suddenly the manikin burst out and rattled rapidly as if he had forgotten the most important thing: 'Book racket!'
Kien was again silent. The woman found him repulsive. She compared his boniness to her husband's hump and found the latter beautiful. Her rabbit-face always had something to say for himself. He wasn't born dumb. There was a time when he even talked to her. Now she was getting too old for him. He's quite right. It's not as though he goes with other girls. He's got a heart of gold, that kid. Everybody thinks they're still carrying on with each other. Every one of her girl friends is after him. You can't trust women. She's different. You can trust her. Men aren't to be trusted either. But you can trust Fischerle. Rather than have anything to do with a woman, he says, he'd have nothing to do with anyone. She agrees to everything. She doesn't want any of that. But he mustn't talk about it, that's all. He's so modest. He's never wanted a thing out of her. A pity he doesn't look after his clothes a bit more. Time and again you'd think he'd scrambled straight out of the dustbin. If that Ferdy hasn't given Mizzi an ultimatum: he'll wait another year for that motorbike she promised him. If she hasn't got it by the end of the year, sh— him if he doesn't find himself another girl. Now she's scraping and saving, but where's she going to get a motorbike from? Her rabbit-face wouldn't do a thing like that. The beautiful eyes he's got! He can't help his hump, can he?
Always when Fischerle found her a client she felt that he wanted to be rid of her and was grateful to him for his love. Later on she would find him too conceited again. But on the whole she was a contented creature, and in spite of her squalid life had little hate in her. That little was all for chess. While the other girls knew the first principles of the game, in all her life she had never understood why the different pieces had different moves. It disgusted her that the King should be so powerless. She'd teach that pert thing the queen a thing or two ! Why should she have it all her own way and the king not at all? Often she would watch the game tensely. A stranger would have judged her by her expression a pronounced connoisseur. In fact she was simply waiting for the queen to be taken. If that happened she burst into triumphant crooning and left the table at once. She shared her husband's hate for the stranger queen, and was jealous of the love with which he guarded his own. Her girl friends, more independent than she was, placed themselves at the top of the social hierarchy and called the queen the tart, the king the pimp. Only the Capitalist still clung to the existing order from whose lowest rank, by virtue of her regular gentleman, she had already climbed. She, who otherwise set the tone for the most outspoken jokes, would not join in against the king. As for the queen, 'tart was too good a name for her. The castles and the knights pleased her, because they looked like real ones, and when Fischerle's knight charged full gallop across the board she would laugh out loud in her calm husky voice. Twenty years after he had first come to her with his chessboard she would still ask him in all innocence why the casdes could not be left standing at the corners of the board where they had been at the beginning of the game; they looked ever so much nicer there. Fischerle spurned her woman's widessness and said not a word. When she bored him with her questions — she only wanted to hear him speak, she loved his croaking, nobody else had such a raven-voice — he would shut her up with some drastic assertion: 'Have I a hump or haven't I? And suppose I have? You can take yourself out sliding! Maybe that'll knock a little sense into your head.' His hump distressed her. She'd rather have overlooked it. She had a feeling as if she were answerable for the misshapenness of her child. As soon as he had discovered this trait in her, which seemed to him quite mad, he made use of it as blackmail. His hump was the one dangerous threat on which he could rely.
At this very moment she was gazing lovingly upon him. His hump compared to this skeleton was beautiful. She was happy that he had called her to his table. She gave herself no trouble at all with Kien. After a general silence she said: 'Well, what about it? How much will you give me?' Kien blushed. Fischerle went for her at once. 'Don't talk so silly! I won't have my friend insulted. He's got a head on his shoulders. He doesn't talk nonsense. Every word he turns over in his head a hundred times before he says it. If he says something it's worth saying. He's interested in my Stipendium and is going to make a voluntary contribution of twenty schillings.' 'Stipendium? Whatever's that?' 'Stipendium is a refined word!' Fischerle bawled. 'It comes from the French and means the same as capital in Jewish!' 'Capital? Who says I got capital?' His wife simply didn't catch on. Why on earth had he used a French word? He was determined to be in the right. He looked at his wife long and gravely, indicated Kien with his nose and declared pompously: 'He knows everything.' 'Everything?' 'That we're saving up for my chess championship.' 'I wouldn't dream of it! I don't earn that much. My name isn't Mizzi and you're not Ferdy. What do I get out of you? More kicks than ha'pence. You know what you are, do you? You're a cripple! Go and beg if you don't like it!' She called Kien to witness the crying injustice of it. The cheek of it! You wouldn't hardly credit it. A cripple like him! He ought to think himself lucky!'
Fischerle shrank down, he gave his game up for lost and only said mournfully to Kien: 'You be thankful you're not a married man. First we scrape and save twenty years every brass farthing and now she's blued the whole bloody Stipendium with her fancy boys.' For a moment this shameless lie took his wife's breath away. 'I swear,' she screamed as soon as she had recovered herself, 'in all these twenty years I haven't had a single man, only him!' Fischerle opened his hands to Kien in a gesture of resignation: 'A whore who never had a man!' At the word 'Whore' he raised his eyebrows. At this insult his wife burst into noisy crying. Her words grew incomprehensible but one had the impression that she was sobbing about a regular income. 'Now you can see yourself, she's admitting it.' Fischerle was regaining courage. 'Where do you think she gets a regular income from? From a gentleman who turns up every Monday. In my flat. Listen, a woman always tells lies, and why does a woman always tell lies? Because she's a liar! Now I ask you: Could you tell a lie? Could I tell a lie? Out of the question! And why? because we've got heads on our shoulders. Have you ever seen a man with a head on his shoulders who tells lies? I haven't!' His wife sobbed more and more loudly.
Kien agreed with all his heart. In his terror he had never asked himself whether Fischerle was telling the truth or lying. Since the woman had sat down at the table, he was relieved by every hostile gesture in her direction wherever it came from. Since she had asked him for a present he knew who it was he had before him; a second Thérèse. He knew nothing about the rituals of the place, but one thing he recognized clearly — this stainless spirit in a wretched body, had struggled for twenty years to lift itself out of the mire of its surroundings. Thérèse would not allow it. He was forced to impose enormous sacrifices on himself, never losing sight of his glorious goal — a free mind. Thérèse, no less determined, dragged him for ever back into the slime. He saves, not out of meanness, his is a generous soul; she wastes it again, so that he shall never escape her. He has clutched at one tiny corner of the world of the spirit and clings to it like a drowning man. Chess is his library. He only talks about rackets because any other kind of speech is forbidden here. But it is significant that he regards the book racket with such esteem. Kien pictured to himself the battle this down-trodden man fought for his own flat. He takes a book home to read it secretly, she tears it in pieces and scatters it to the winds. She forces him to let her use his home for her unspeakable purposes. Possibly she pays a servant, a spy, to keep the house clear of books when she is out. Books are forbidden, her own way of life is permitted. After a long struggle he succeeds in wringing from her the concession of a chessboard. She has confined him to the smallest room in the house. There he sits through the long nights and handling those wooden chessmen recovers his human dignity. He almost feels released when she is receiving these visits. During these hours he might be dead for her. Things must reach this pass with her before she will stop torturing him. But even then he listens unwillingly lest she should reappear, the worse for drink. She stinks of alcohol. She smokes. She flings open the door and with her clumsy foot kicks over the chessboard. Mr. Fischerle weeps like a little child. He had just reached the most interesting part of his book. He picks up the letters scattered all over the floor and turns his face away so that she shall not rejoice over his tears. He is a little hero. He has character. How often does the word 'Strumpet!' spring to his lips. He swallows it, she would not understand. She would long since have turned him out of the house, but she is waiting until he makes a will in her favour. Probably he is not rich. All the same he has enough for her to want to rob him of it. He has no intention of making this final sacrifice. Defending himself he keeps his roof over his head. Did he but know that he owed that roof to her speculations on his will! He must not be told. He could do himself an injury. He is not made of granite. His dwarfish constitution...
Never before had Kien felt himself enter so deeply into the mind of another man. He had been successful in freeing himself from Thérèse. He had struck at her with her own weapons, outwitted her and locked her in. Here she was again, sitting at his very table, making the same demands as before, nagging as before, and — the only alteration in her — had this time adopted a suitable profession. But her destructive activity was not directed at him, she took little notice of him, all her attention was directed at the man opposite, whom nature by a mistaken etymology had, moreover, fashioned as a cripple. Kien felt himself deeply indebted to this man. He must do something for him. He respected him. Had Mr. Fischerle not been of so delicate a sensibility he would have offered him money direct. No doubt he could make use of it. But he was as anxious not on any account to hurt his feelings, as he was anxious not to hurt his own. Possibly he might steer the conversation back to that point at which, with a woman's shamelessness, Thérèse had interrupted them?
He drew out his wallet, still crammed full of valuable banknotes. Holding it unusually long in his hand, he extracted from it all the banknotes and placidly counted them all over. Mr. Fischerle was to be persuaded by this that the offer about to be made to him was by no means a great sacrifice. When he reached the thirtieth-hundred schilling note Kien looked down at the little fellow. Possibly he was already mellowed enough for the offer to be dared, for who enjoys counting money? Fischerle was looking stealthily all about him; the only person for whom hè had no eyes at all was Kien counting his money, surely out of the delicacy of his feelings and his repulsion from filthy lucre. Kien was not to be discouraged, he went on counting, but loudly now in a clear high voice. Secretly he apologized to the little man for his insistence, for he noticed how much he hurt his ears. The dwarf wriggled restlessly on his chair. He laid his head down on the table so as to stop up at least one ear, the sensitive creature, then he pushed his wife's bosom about, what was he doing that for, he was making it broader; it was broad enough already, he was obscuring Kien's views. The woman let him do as he liked, she was silent now. Doubtless she was counting on the money. But she was making a mistake there. Thérèse would get nothing. When Kien had got to forty-five the little fellow's agonies had reached their peak. Imploringly he whispered: 'Pst ! Pst !' Kien softened. Should he spare him the gift after all, no, no, later he would be glad of it all the same, perhaps he would run away with it and rid himself of this Thérèse. At the number fifty-three Fischerle clutched his wife's face and croaked out like a madman: 'Can't you keep quiet? What are you after, you silly bitch? What d'you know about chess? I'll chessboard you ! I'll eat you alive ! Scram!' With every new figure he said something else; the woman seemed bewildered and made as if to go. This did not suit Kien at all. She had to be there when he gave the little fellow his present. She had to be angry at getting nothing herself, or her husband wouldn't enjoy it. Money alone meant little to him. He must hand it over to him before she went.
He waited for a round figure — the next was sixty — and broke off his counting. He rose to his feet and took out a hundred schilling note. He would rather have selected several at once but he was not going to hurt the dwarf's feelings with either too large or too small a sum. For a moment he stood there, tall and in silence, to heighten the solemnity of his proposal. Then he spoke; they were the most courteous words of his life:
'Honoured Mr. Fischerle! It is impossible for me to repress any longer a request which I have to address to you. Pray do me the honour of accepting towards your Stipendium, as you are pleased to call it, this token of my esteem!'
Instead of 'thank you', the little fellow whispered 'Pst ! Have it your own way,' and went on screaming at his wife; he was evidently bewildered. His furious words and looks almost knocked her under the table. He cared so little for the money offered that he did not even look at it. Not to hurt Kien's feelings he simply stretched out his arm and clutched at the note. Instead of the single note he grasped the entire bundle, but in his excitement didn't even notice it. Kien nearly smiled. From sheer modesty the man acts like the greediest thief. As soon as he notices it he will be painfully embarrassed. To spare him embarrassment, Kien exchanged the bundle for the single note. The dwarf's fingers were hard and sensitive, they clawed themselves, doubtless against the will of their owner, round the bundle; they still did not feel anything even when Kien detached them one after another from the packet, but closed themselves automatically again over the single hundred schilling note which remained. Playing chess has hardened his hands, thought Kien; Mr. Fischerle is used to grasping the pieces firmly, they alone keep him alive. In the meantime he had sat down again. His beneficence made him happy. Thérèse too, smothered in injuries, her face aflame, had got up ana left the table in earnest. She might as well go, he had no further use for her. She could expect nothing from him. It was his duty to help her husband to his victory over her, and in that he had succeeded.
In the tumult of his happy sensations, Kien did not hear what was going on about him. Suddenly he felt a heavy blow on his shoulder.
It made him jump and he looked round. A vast hand lay there, and a voice zoomed: "What about me?' At least a dozen fellows were seated round about, since when? He had not noticed them before. Fists were piled up on the table, more fellows were coming along, those standing at the back leant over those in front who were sitting. A girl's voice called out plaintively: 'Let me out, I can't see a thing.' Another one, shrilly: 'Ferdy, your motorbike's in the bag!' Someone held the open brief-case in the air, shook it, found nothing, and wailed, disillusioned: 'Go to hell with your paper.' You couldn't see the room any more for the people in it. Fischerle was croaking. No one listened to him. His wife was there again. She was screaming. Another woman, fatter still, struck out right and left and forced her way through the men shouting: 'I'll have something too!' She was covered with all those sreaps of rags that Kien had seen behind the bar. The stars shook. Chairs collapsed. An angel's voice was crying with joy. Just as Kien understood what it was all about, he was crowned with his own brief-case. He saw and heard no more, he only felt that he was lying on the floor while his pockets, and the very seams and holes in his suit were being searched by hands of every shape and weight. He trembled all over, not for himself, only for his head; they might throw his books about. They are going to kill him but he won't betray his books. We want the books! they will order him, where are your books; But he won't give them up, never, never, never, he is a martyr, he is dying for his books. His lips move, they want to say how strong he is in his resolution, but they dare not speak aloud, they move only as though they had spoken.
But it occurs to no one to ask him. They prefer to find out for themselves. Several times he is pushed around over the floor. They all but undress him to the skin. Whichever way they twist and turn him, they find nothing. Suddenly he realizes that he is alone. All the hands have vanished. Stealthily he feels for his head. As a protection against the next attack he leaves his hand up there. The second hand follows it. He tries to stand up without taking his hands away from his head. His enemies are watching for this moment to snatch at the defenceless books; careful, careful! He succeeds. He is lucky. Now he is standing. Where are these creatures? Better not look round; he may be noticed. His glance, cautiously directed to the furthest corner of the room, falls on a heap of people at work on each other with knives and fists. Now, too, he hears their wild screams. He will not understand them. If he did they might understand him. On tiptoe, on his long legs he creeps out. Someone clutches at his back. Running even, he is too cautious to look round. He squints backwards, holding his breath, pressing his hands with all his strength to his head. But it is only the door curtains. In the street he draws a deep breath. What a pity he can't close those doors. The library is saved!
A few doors off the dwarf was waiting for him. He handed his briefcase back to him. "The paper's there too,' he said, 'I'll show you the kind of man I am.' In his distress Kien had forgotten that a person called Fischerle existed in the world. He was all the more overcome by this incredible proof of his devotion. 'The paper too,' he faltered, 'how can I thank you ... ' He had not mistaken his man. 'That's nothing,' declared the little fellow. 'Now will you kindly step in here with me.' Kien obeyed, he was deeply moved and would gladly have embraced the little man. 'Do you know what a reward is?' asked the dwarf as soon as they were inside a porch hidden from passers-by. 'You must know what that is. Ten per cent. In there they are killing each other, men and women, and I've got it.' He drew out Kien's wallet and handed it over to him like a ceremonial presentation. 'I'm not a fool! I'm not going to be locked up to save their throats.' Since his most precious possessions had been in danger, Kien had forgotten all about the money too. He laughed aloud at so much conscientiousness, took the wallet back mainly because he was so pleased with Fischerle and repeated: 'How can I thank you! How can I thank you!' 'Ten per cent,' said the dwarf. Kien plunged into the packet of notes and offered a large portion to Fischerle. 'You count first of all,' he yelled. 'Business is business. All of a sudden you'll be saying I robbed you.' It was all very well for Kien to count. Had he an idea how much there had been before? FiScherle on the other hand knew exactly how many notes he had already set aside. His demand that Kien should count referred to the reward alone. But to please him Kien counted it all carefully through. When for the second time to-day, he reached the figure sixty, Fischerle saw himself locked up. He decided to make off at once — for this contingency he had already extracted his own reward — but quickly he tried one last attempt. 'There you are, it's all safe!' 'Of course,' said Kien, pleased not to have to do any more counting. 'Count out the reward now and we're quits.' Kien began again and got as far as nine, he would have gone on counting forever. 'Stop! Ten per cent!' cried Fischerle. He knew exactly how much there had been in all. While he was waiting for Kien he had swiftly and thoroughly been through the wallet.
When the deal was finished, he gave Kien his hand, looked sadly up at him and said: 'You ought to know what I've done for you! It s all over with the Stars of Heaven for me. You don't think I can ever go in there again, do you? They'd find all this money on me and kill mo dead. Because where does Fischerle get the money from? And how am I to tell them where I got it from? If I say I got it from the gentleman in the book racket they'll smash me to smithereens and steal the money out of my pockets while I lie there. If I say nothing they'll take it from me while I'm still alive. You see how it is, if Fischerle lives, then he's nothing left to live for, and if he dies, well he's dead. That's what you get for being a friend.' He was still hoping for a tip.
Kien felt obliged to help this person, the first worthy object he had found in his life, to a better and more dignified existence. 'I am not a tradesman, I am a man of learning and a librarian,' he said and bowed condescendingly to die dwarf. 'You may enter my service and I will look after you.
'Like a father,' completed the little fellow. 'Just as I thought. Very well, off we go!' He marched boldly out. Kien ambled after him. He cast about for work to give to his new famulus. A friend must never suspect that he is being given presents. He could help him in the evenings to unload and pile up the books.