CHAPTER III
INFINITE MERCY
The public pawnbroking establishment carries, in memory of a devout and frugal princess who received the poor on one day in every year, the suitable name of Theresianum. As for the beggars, they forfeited, even in those days, the last of their possessions: that much-coveted portion of Love which Christ bestowed on them a good two thousand years ago, and the dirt on their feet. While the princess washed off the after, the name of Christian was very near her heart; she earned it every year afresh to add it to her innumerable others. The state pawn-broking establishment stands splendidly and thickly walled about like a true prince's heart, well defended against the world without, proud and of many mansions.
At certain hours it gives audience. It prefers to entertain beggars, or those who are shortly to become such. People throw themselves at its feet and bring in offering as in days of old a tithe, of their possessions, which is only so in name. For it is nothing to the prince s heart but the millionth part; to the beggars, their all. The prince's heart takes all, it is spacious and extensive, has a thousand different rooms and chambers and as many offices to perform. The trembling beggars are graciously permitted to raise themselves, and are given in exchange a small portion of alms, cash down. With that they go out of their minds with joy and out of the building with haste. For the custom of washing their feet the princess, now that she exists merely as an institution, has no further use. She has introduced a new custom to take its place. The beggars pay interest on their alms. The last shall be first, for which reason their interest rate is the highest. A private person who charged so high an interest would be prosecuted for extortion. But an exception can be made for beggars since, after all, only the most beggarly sums are involved. It cannot be denied that these people rejoice over the transaction. They throng to the counters and cannot undertake quickly enough to pay the quarter of the whole sum back again in interest. Those who have nothing make joyful givers. Though there are some to be found among them, miserly skinflints, who refuse to pay back the loan and the interest, and prefer to default on their pledges rather than open their purses. They say, they have none. Even these are allowed to enter in. The great benevolent princely heart, in the midst of the city's roar, has not leisure to test such deceiving purses for their miserliness. It foregoes the alms, it foregoes the interest, and contents itself with pledges five or six times the value of the money. A treasure chest of pennies is gradually being amassed. The beggars bring their rags here; the heart is decked in silks and satins. A staff of loyal officials permanently installed, year in, year out, take in and pay out, all for the sake of a coveted pension. As true liegemen of their mistress they disparage all and everything. It is their duty to radiate disparagement. The more they reduce the alms, the more people are made happy. The heart is large, but not infinite. From time to time it throws away its riches at sacrificial prices to make room for new gifts. The pennies of the beggars are as inexhaustible as was their love for the immortal Empress. When business in all the rest of the land is at a standstill, it is still humming here. Stolen goods, as ought to be hoped in the interests of a livelier circulation of trade, are the subject of transactions only in exceptional cases.
Among the treasure chambers of this lady of infinite mercy, that for jewels, gold and silver takes the place of honour not far from the main entrance. It rests securely on the earth's foundations. The floors are arranged according to the value of the objects pawned. At the very top, higher even than coats, shoes and postage stamps, on the sixth and topmost floor, are the books. They are housed in an annexe, to reach them you climb an ordinary staircase like that of any tenement. The princely grandeur of the main building is wholly lacking here. There is no room for a brain in this abounding heart. Pensive, you stand below on the staircase and are ashamed —for the abandoned creatures who bring their books here out of greed for filthy lucre — for the staircase which is not as clean as it should be for such a function — for the officials who receive the books but do not read them — for the fire-endangered rooms in the attics — for a State which does not go the shortest way to make the pawning of books an offence against the law — for humanity which, now that printing seems natural to them, have altogether forgotten the special sanctity contained in each single rinted letter. Why should not the unimportant trinkets and trappings e huddled together on the sixth floor and the books — since a radical reform of this insult to culture cannot be contemplated — take their place at least in the spacious halls of the ground floor? In case of fire the jewellery could simply be thrown into the street. It is very well packed up, far too well for mere minerals. Stones cannot hurt themselves. But books on the other hand hurled from the sixth floor into the street, would, for sensitive tastes, be already dead. Think only of the pricks of conscience the officials would suffer. The fire spreads on every side; they stand at their posts, but they are powerless. The staircase has fallen in. They must choose between the fire and the eighty foot drop. Their counsels are divided. What one is on the point of dropping from the window, another snatches from him ana throws into the flames. 'Better burnt than crippled!' With these words he hurls his defiance into the face of his colleague. This latter hopes, however, that nets are being held out below so as to catch the poor creatures unhurt. 'They will not be damaged by the friction of the air!' he hisses to his opponent. 'And where is your net, may I askî' 'The fire brigade will be putting it out at once.' 'At present I can hear nothing but the bodies clattering on to die pavement.' 'For pity's sake, say no more!' 'Quick then, into the fire!' 'I can't do it.' He cannot bring himself to do it; in contact with his charges he has acquired humanity. He is like a mother who, for better or for worse, throws her child out of the window; someone will surely take it up; in the fire it would be lost without hope of rescue. The fire-worshipper has more character; the other, more heart. Both are laudable, both carry out their duty to the end, both are lost in the fire, but what does this avail the books?
For an hour Kien had been leaning on the banisters, ashamed. He seemed to himself then as one who had lived in vain. He had known in what barbarous manner humankind use to treat their books. He had often been present at sales by auction; indeed it was to them that he owed certain rare volumes which he had vainly sought among booksellers. Whatever was of a kind to enrich his knowledge, he had always accepted. Many a painful impression had he carried away from the sale-room, deeply graven on his heart. Never would he forget that magnificent edition of Luther's Bible over which speculators from New York, London and Paris had circled like vultures and which, in the outcome, had proved a forgery. The disappointment of those outbidding swindlers was nothing to him, but that treachery and deceit could raise their heads even in this quarter was beyond his understanding. The man-handling of books before the sale, examining them, opening them, closing them, just as if they were slaves, cut him to the heart. This shouting out, bidding, outbidding by creatures who in all their lives had not read a thousand books seemed to him a crying outrage. Each time when, compelled by necessity, he had found himself in the hell of the sale-room, he had a strong desire to take a hundred well-armed mercenaries with him, to give the dealers a thousand lashes apiece, the collectors five hundred, and to take the books, over which they were haggling, into protective custody. But how little did these experiences weigh against the bottomless degradation of this pawning house; Kien's fingers twisted themselves into the ornamental ironwork — as elaborate as it was tasteless — of the stair-rail. They clutched into it, in the secret hope that he might pull down the whole building. The abomination of this idolatry oppressed him. He was ready to let them bury him under all six stories on one condition: that they should never be built up again. But could he rely on the word of barbarians? One of the purposes which had brought him here, he now abandoned: he renounced his inspection of the upper rooms. Hitherto his worst expectations had been far surpassed. The annexe was even more unsightly than he had been told. The width of the staircase, stated by bis guide to be five feet four, was in fact not more than four foot five. Generous people often make such transferences in estimating numbers. The dust was the harvest of three weeks at least and not of a day or two. The lift bell was out of order. The glass doors which led into the annexe were badly oiled. The notice-board which pointed the way to the book section had been daubed by an unskilful hand with bad paint on a piece of shoddy cardboard. Underneath it, carefully printed, hung another notice: Postage stamps on the First Floor. A large window gave on to a small backyard. The colour of the ceiling was undefined. Even in broad daylight you could sense how wretched was the illumination afforded in the evening by the single electric bulb. Kien had conscientiously convinced himself of all this. But he hesitated still to mount the steps of the staircase. Hardly would he be able to endure the shocking spectacle which awaited him at its summit. His health was enfeebled. He dreaded a stroke. He knew that every life was mortal, but so long as he could feel that dearly loved burden within himself, he must spare himself. He bowed his heavy head over the banisters and was asnamed.
Fischerle watched him proudly. He stood some little distance from his friend. He knew his way about the public pawnbroking establishment as well as about Heaven. He had come to reclaim a silver cigarette case on which he had never set eyes. He had won the pawn ticket from a crook whom he had beaten at chess two dozen times, and had it still carefully preserved in his pocket when he entered Kien's service. It was generally rumoured that the ticket was good for a brand new solid silver cigarette case, first quality stuff. Often and often Fischerle had managed to sell pawn tickets in the Theresianum to interested persons. Just as often, he had been forced to look on while his own and other people's treasures were redeemed. Besides his chief dream about becoming world chess champion, he carried a lesser one around in his head: He would dream of exchanging a pawn ticket of his very own, of paying down the full sum, interest and all, flat on the counter under the official's indifferent jaws, of waiting for his own property like other people at the redemption counter and of sniffing at and examining it when he had it, as if he had often before had it under his eyes and nose. Being a non-smoker he really had no use for a cigarette case, but one of his hours of fulfilment was at hand, and he asked Kien for a short time off. Although he explained what his reason was, Kien flatly refused it. He had absolute confidence in him, but since he had relieved him of half the library, he would take good care never to let him out of his sight. Scholars of the highest character have been known to become criminals for the sake of books. How great then must be the temptation for an intelligent being with a thirst for learning, who found himself for the first time under the pressure of books with all their fascination!
The division of the burden had happened in this way. When Fischerle began packing up the books in the morning, Kien could not understand now he had managed hitherto to carry them all. The meticulousness of his servant made him aware of the potential dangers through which he had come. Up to this time he had simply got up in the morning and sallied forth ready packed. It had not occurred to him to ask himself how the books, so carefully unloaded on the >revious evening, had found their way back into his head. He felt limself full, and set off. But Fischerle s incursion altered all that at a jlow. On the morning after the unsuccessful robbery, he crept towards Kien's bed like one on stilts, fervently urged him to exercise all possible care in getting up, and asked if he was to begin packing up again. As his manner was, he waited for no answer; ne dexterously lifted up the nearest pile and approached it to Kien's head as he still lay in bed. 'In with them!'he said. While Kien washed and dressed himself, the little fellow, who set no great store on washing, worked industriously away. Within half an hour he had emptied the first room. Kien purposely loitered over his dressing. He was turning over in his mind how he had usually managed his packing. But he couldn't remember. Strange, his memory seemed to be failing. As long as it only affected external things of this kind, it was of no consequence. But he must keep a close watch lest this loss of memory should extend into the scholastic sphere. That would be unthinkable. His memory was no less than a heaven-sent gift, a phenomenon; even as a schoolboy he had been examined by famous psychologists on the state of his memory. In one minute he had memorized it to sixty-five decimal places. The learned gentlemen — all and sundry — shook their heads. Perhaps he had overburdened his own head. Look only at the work in progress — pile after pile, parcel after parcel was loaded in; yet surely he ought to spare his head a little. You cannot replace a head; it can be developed as his had been developed, only once; any part of it destroyed is destroyed for ever. He sighed deeply and said: 'Yours is a light task, my dear Fischerle!' 'Tell you what,' the little fellow at once saw what he meant, 'I'll carry what s in the next room myself, Fischerle's got a head too. Or hasn't he?' 'Yes, but... ' "What, but... tell you what, you've hurt my feelings!' After long hesitation, Kien gave his consent. Fischerle had to swear honour bright that he had never stolen yet. Further, he lamented his innocence and said over and over again: 'But, mister, with this hump! How could a fellow steal?' For a moment, Kien dwelt on the idea of demanding a guarantee. But as not the strongest guarantee in the world would have availed anything in his own case against his inclination to books, he gave up the plan. He added, however, the statement: 'You are no doubt a fast runner?' Fischcrle saw through the trap and answered: "What would be the point of lying? When you take a step, I take half a one. At school I was always the worst runner.' He thought up the name of a school lest Kien should ask him: in fact he had never been to one. But Kien was wrestling with weightier problems. He was about to make the greatest gesture of trust of his entire life. 'I believe you !' he said simply. Fischerle was jubilant. 'See now, that's just what I mean!' The book pact was confirmed. As Kien's servant, the little man took the heavier naif. In the street he walked ahead, but never further than two small steps. The hump, which was there anyway, prevented the stooping pose, which he had put on for the occasion, from making its full effect. But his dragging footsteps spoke volumes.
Kien felt himself relieved. Head held high, he followed the man who had his confidence and turned his eyes neither to right nor to left. They remained fixed on the hump which, like that ofa camel, not so slowly but just as rhythmically, swayed up and down. From time to time he stretched out his arm to make sure that the tips of his fingers could still touch the hump. If this was no longer the case he hastened his step. In the event of any attempt to escape, he had laid his plans. He would grasp the hump in a grip of iron and hurl his body full length upon that of the criminal; he must however take especial care not to endanger the creature's head. When the experiment of stretching out his arm worked exactly — so exactly that he did not need either to hasten or slacken his pace — Kien would be suffused by a prickling sensation, exquisite and uplifting, such as is only given to men who can permit themselves the luxury of an absolute confidence in having ensured themselves against every disaster.
For two whole days he let things go on in this way, under the pretext of taking a rest after his recent exertions, of preparing himself for future efforts, of making a last investigation of the city for any undiscovered booksellers. His thoughts were free and joyful; he watched step by step the restoration of his memory; this first voluntary holiday which he had allowed himself since his university days was being passed in the company of a devoted creature, a friend, who prized highly the value or Intellect' — as he was in the habit of calling Education — who was willing to carry a respectable library about with him and yet would not of his own volition open a single one of those volumes, to read which he was inwardly burning; a creature malformed and on his own confession a poor runner, yet sturdy and muscular enough to justify himself as a porter. Almost Kien was tempted to believe in happiness, that contemptible life-goal of illiterates. If it came of itself, without being hunted for, if you did not hold it fast by force and treated it with a certain condescension, it was permissible to endure its presence for a few days.
When the third day of happiness broke; Fischerle asked for an hour's leave of absence. Kien liftecf his hand in order to strike his forehead. In other circumstances he would have done it. But, knowing the world as he did, he decided to keep silence and by diis means to unmask the treacherous plans of the dwarf— if he should have any. The story of the silver cigarette case he took for an impudent He. After he had uttered his 'no , first in numerous disguises, but gradually more and more clearly and angrily, he declared suddenly: 'Good, I shall accompany you!' The wretched deformity must be made to confess his vile design. He would go with him to the very counter and see with his own eyes this alleged pawn ticket and alleged cigarette case. Since neither existed, die rogue would fall on his knees, there before all the world, and implore him with tears for forgiveness. Fischerle noticed the suspicion and felt his honour insulted. Did he think him crazy; stealing books — and what books! Because he wants to go to America and he s working hard for his passage money, is he to be treated like a creature without a head on his shoulders?
On the way to the pawnbroking establishment he told Kien what it was like inside. He described the impressive building to him, with all its rooms from basement to attic. At the end, he suppressed the shadow of a sigh and said: 'About the books, better say nothing.' Kien's curiosity burst into name. He asked and asked until he had elicited every atom of the hideous truth from the dwarf, who was coyly concealing it. He believed him, for man is base; he doubted him, for the dwarf irritated him to-day. Fischcrle assumed tones of unmistakable significance. He described the way in which the books were taken in. A hog values them, a dog makes out the ticket, a woman shoves them into a dirty wrapper and scrawls a number on it. A decrepit old man, who time and again falls on the floor, carries them away. Your heart bleeds as you watch him out of sight. It would do you good to stand a bit longer at the glass door, till you've had your cry out and can go into the street again, being ashamed of having such red eyes; but the hog grunts: 'That's all', throws you out and slams the shutter down. Some soulful natures can't tear themselves away even then. Then the dog starts barking and you have to run; he bites, that one.
'But this is inhuman!' the cry escaped Kien. While the dwarf was talking, he had caught up with him, had walked beside him with death in his heart, and stood now stock still in the middle of the street they were crossing. 'It's just as I say!' Fischerle asserted with a break in his voice. He was thinking of the cuff on the ear, which the dog had dealt him when he had once come in, every single day for a week, to beg for an old book on chess. The pig stood by rolling with paunch and pleasure.
Fischerle said not a word more; he had had his vengeance. Kien was silent. When they reached their goal, he had lost all interest in the cigarette case. He watched Fischerle redeem it, and rub it repeatedly over his jacket. 'I wouldn't recognize it. What they do with the things, I don't know.' 'No.' 'How do I know if this is my case after all. 'All.' 'Tell you what, I'll have the law on them. All of them thieves and robben. I won't have it! I'm not a human being, I suppose; The poor have got a right, same as the rich!' He talked himself into such a fury that the people round about, who up to this had only stared at his hump, began to take notice of his words. The people, who in any case thought they were being done in this establishment, sided with the humpback, whom nature had placed at an even greater disadvantage than their own, although not one of them believed that the pawn tickets had been muddled. Fischerle aroused a general murmur; he didn't believe his ears, people were actually listening to him. He talked on, the murmur grew louder, he could have screamed with delight; then a fat man next to him growled: 'Go and make a complaint, then!' Fischerle rubbed the case over quickly once or twice more, then opened it and croaked: "Well, I never. Tell you what. It is mine alright!' They forgave him the disappointment he had so irresponsibly caused; they didn't grudge him the right cigarette case, after all he was only a poor cripple. Another would not have escaped so lightly. As they left the room Kien asked: 'What was the cause of the disturbance?' Fischerle had to remind him what they had come for. He showed him the cigarette case again and again, until at last he saw it. The disappearance of a suspicion which, against his more recent discoveries, weighed little, made only a mild impression. 'Show me the way!' he commanded.
For a whole hour now he had stood; ashamed. Whither can this world be leading us? We stand, only too evidently, on the verge of catastrophe. Superstition trembles at the significant date A.D. iooo, or at comets. The sage, reverenced as a saint already by the ancient Indians, dismisses numbers, dates and comets to the devil and declares: our creeping corruption is this lack of piety with which men are infected; this is the poison by which we all shall perish. Woe to those who shall come after us! They are lost, they will inherit from us a million martyrs and the instruments of torture with which they must destroy a second million. No state can bear so many saints. In every town will be builded palaces to the Inquisition, like this one, six storeys high. Who can tell, perhaps the Americans build their pawnshops to touch the very sky. The prisoners, left to wait year after year for death by fire, languish on the thirtieth floor. O cruel mockery, a prison among the clouds'. Rescue, not lamentation? Deeds, not tears? How to go thither; How to discover the localities of these prisons? Blindly indeed do we walk through life. How little do we see of the fearful misery which lies about us? How would this blasphemy, this unredeemed, bestial, all-corrupting blasphemy have been uncovered, had not an accidentally encountered dwarf, with his heart in the right place, stammering with shame, speaking like one in a nightmare, collapsing almost under the burden of his own horrifying words, told the whole story? He should serve as an example. He had never yet spoken to anyone. In his foul-smelling drinking den he sat silent, even at his chess-playing, he had this vision of wretchedness, branded for ever into his brain. He suffered instead of babbling. 'The Day of Reckoning will come,' he told himself. He waited; day after day he scanned the strangers who crossed the threshold of the café; he yearned almost to death for one man, one single heart, for one alone who could see and hear and feel. At last came that One. He followed him, he offered him his services, sleeping and waking he attended his commands, and when the moment came, he spoke. The paving stones did not melt at his words; not a house collapsed; the traffic did not stop. But that One to whom he spoke, his heart stopped: that One was Kien. He had heard, he had understood. He would take this heroic dwarf for his pattern; death to idle words; now to action!
Without looking up he released his hold on the banisters and placed himself squarely in the middle of the narrow stairs. At once he felt a push. His thoughts moved spontaneously into deeds. He looked the poor sinner squarely in die eyes and asked:
'What do you want?'
The poor sinner, a half-starved student, was carrying a heavy briefcase under his arm. He owned a copy of Schiller's Works and it was his first visit to the establishment. As these volumes were much thumbed and he himself over his large cars in debt, he was shyly making a first entry. On the staircase the last drop of courage had drained out of his minuscule head. Why must he go on with his studies: Father and mother, and all the aunts and uncles were more for business — he took one step forward and cannoned into a stern personage, obviously a director of this place — who fixed him with a piercing eye and in a cutting voice demanded:
'What do you want?'
'I... er I wanted the book section.'
'I am the book section.'
The student, who had a respect for professors and similar apparitions because all his life long he had been an object of contempt to them, and for books no less, because he had so few, felt for his hat to take it off. Then he remembered that he had none.
'What do you intend to do upstairs?' asked Kien threateningly.
'Oh .. . er ... only Schiller.'
'Show me!'
The student did not dare refuse his brief-case. He knew that nobody would buy that Schiller off him. But Schiller was his only hope for the next few days. He did not want to bury his hope so soon. Kien took the case from him with a vigorous jerk. Fischerle tried to make signals to his master and uttered over and over again 'Pst! Pst!' The boldness of a robbery on the open stairway impressed him. The book racket was maybe smarter than he had thought. Maybe he only pretended to be mad. All the same, you couldn't get away with it on the open stairs. Behind the student's back he gesticulated wildly with his hands and simultaneously took his precautions for a timely escape. Kien opened the brief-case and looked carefully at the Schiller. 'Eight volumes,' he ascertained, 'the edition is worthless in itself and its condition is a scandal!' The student's ears flushed fiery red. "What do you want for it? I mean how much — money?' The repulsive word came out at last, but only after hesitation. The student remembered from his halcyon childhood, passed chiefly in his father's shop, that prices should be given at the highest possible rate so as to allow a margin for bargaining. 'Thirty-two schillings it cost me, new.' He imitated the structure of his father's phrases and his tone of voice. Kien took out his note case, extracted thirty schillings, completed the sum with two coins, which he took from his purse, handed the total sum to the student and said: 'Never repeat this action, my friend! Believe me, no mortal man is worth his weight in books!' He gave him the briefcase back, still full, and shook him warmly by the hand. The student was in a hurry, he cursed the formalities which detained him. He was already at the glass door — Fischerle, completely baffled, had made way for him —when Kien called after him: 'Why Schiller? You should read the original. You should read Immanuel Kant!' 'Original yourself !' the student grinned in his thoughts, and ran for it as fast as his legs would carry him.
Fischerle's excitement knew no bounds. He was almost crying. He clutched Kien by his trouser buttons — his waistcoat was too high — and crowed: 'Tell you what, what do you think this is? Plumb crazy, that's what it is! Either a fellow has money, or else he hasn't. If he has, he doesn't throw it about; if he hasn't he doesn't throw it about anyway. A crime, that's what it is. Ought to be ashamed of yourself, a big chap like you!'
Kien was not listening to his words. He was content with what he had done. Fischerle pulled at his trousers for so long, that at last the perpetrator of the crime became aware of him. He guessed the dumb reproach, as he called it, in the behaviour of the little man and to pacify him told him of the mental aberrations in which the life of die inhabitants of exotic countries is so rich.
Rich men of China, who are anxious for their welfare in the next world, were in the habit of giving great sums of money for the preservation of crocodiles, pigs, tortoises, and other animals at Buddhist monasteries. Special ponds and preserves were laid out for the animals, and the monks had no other work than to keep and feed them; woe to them if one of these endowed crocodiles were to come to any harm. A gentle and natural death was permitted even to the fattest pig and the reward for his good work would go to the noble benefactor. So much was left over for the monks that all of them could live on it. Should you visit a shrine in Japan, you will find children with imprisoned birds squatting all along the roadside, one small cage close against the next. The little creatures, which are trained to do it, beat their wings and utter loud chirpings. Buddhist pilgrims going that way take pity on them for their soul's sake. For a sm?ll ransom, the children open the cage doors and let the birds go free. This ransoming of animals is a general practice there. What docs it matter to the pilgrims as they go on their way that the tame birds are all lured back again into their cages by their owners? One and the same bird serves ten, a hundred or a thousand times during its life: captivity as an object for the mercy of pilgrims. And these know well enough — apart from a few peasants and extremely ignorant exceptions—just what happens to the birds as soon as their backs are turned. The real fate of the animals is indifferent to them.
'It is easy to see why this should be so,' Kien drew the moral of the story. 'It is a matter of mere beasts. These must of necessity be indifferent to us. Their own stupidity condemns them. Why do they not fly away? Why do they not even hop away if their wings have been cut? Why do they let themselves be lured back again? Their animal stupidity be on their own heads! Yet in itself this ransoming of the animals has, like every superstition, a deeper meaning. The effect of such a deed on the men who perform it depends naturally on what they select to ransom. Let us take books, genuine, intelligent books instead of these absurd and stupid animals, and the act which you perform for them achieves high moral value. You will thereby redeem the wayward sinner who had sought refuge in hell itself. Rest assured, this Schiller will not be dragged a second time to the slaughter house. By reforming this man who, in the present state of our law — or lawlessness rather — is permitted freely to dispose of books as if they were animals, slaves or labourers, you will also render the lot of his books more endurable. On reaching home a man who has been recalled to his duty in this fashion, may very well fall on his knees before those whom he had hitherto held for his servants (although spiritually regarded, he should have been theirs) and vow to treat them better. Even should the man be so hard-hearted as to make no amends — at least his victims will have been ransomed from Hell. Do you know what that means — the burning of a library? Think, man, a library on fire on the sixth floor ! Imagine it only ! Tens of thousands of volumes — millions of pages — milliards of printed letters — each one of these in flames — each one of these imploring, crying, shrieking for help — it would split the eardrums, it would crack the heart — but no more of that! I am happier now than I have been for years. Let us continue on the path on which we have begun. Our widow's mite for the alleviation of universal misery is small, but we must cast it in. If a man should say: alone I am too weak, then nothing would be done, and misery would devour further. I have boundless confidence in you. Earlier, you were injured because I had not imparted my plan to you. It only took recognizable shape in that moment when Schiller's Works uttered their dumb appeal. I had no time to inform you of it. Instead, I will give you now the two watchwords under which our campaign is to be carried out: Action, not lamentation! Deeds, not tears! How much money have you?'
Fischerle, who had at first interrupted Kien's recital with angry interjections such as 'What are the Japs to me?' 'Why no goldfish?' and had repeatedly referred to the pious pilgrims as a gang of crooks, but who had nevertheless listened to every single word, grew calmer as the speech ended on the widow's mite and the plan of campaign. He was carefully considering how he should insure himself against the loss of his passage-money to America; it belonged to him, he had even had it in his hand, he had only given it back temporarily and as a precaution. At which moment Kien's question: 'How much money have you?' brought him crashing out of the clouds. He clenched his teeth and was silent, only out of business considerations be it understood, otherwise he'd have given him a piece of his mind. The meaning of all this play-acting began to grow clear to him. This grand gentleman was regretting the reward which Fischerle had honourably obtained. He was too cowardly to steal the money back at night. Not that he could have found it. Fischerle stowed it away when he was asleep, rolled into a tight bundle, between his legs. What was the fine gentleman up to, the so-called scholar and librarian, though in fact not even in the book racket, nothing more nor less than a crook who was only walking about free as air because he had the good luck not to have a hump? What was he up to? That time when he got out of the Stars of Heaven he was glad to have that money back — Lord knew where he'd stolen it from. He was afraid Fischerle would loose the others on to him, so he handed over the reward quick. But simply to get this ten per cent back, he had said grandly, 'You shall come into my service'. And what did he do, the swindler! He pretended to be offhis head. You've got to hand him that, he does it a treat. Fischerle fell in with it. A whole hour he plays the fool here until a chap comes along with books. He hands him over thirty-two schillings as pleased as Punch and expects thirty times as much from Fischerle. A creature with all that capital, and grudges a poor pickpocket his little bit of reward. How petty all these fine gentlemen are! Fischerle had no words for it. He hadn't expected it of him. Not from a fellow who was crackers, anyway. Not that he's under any obligation to be really crackers, well and good, but that's no reason to be mean. Fischerle will pay him out alright. The stories he can tell! The creature's got a head on his shoulders. You can see the difference straight away between a poor pickpocket and one of your better-class swindlers. In the hotels they fall for it at once. Fischerle pretty nearly fell for it himself.
While he was at once boiling with hate and overwhelmed with admiration, Kien took his arm confidingly and said: 'You're not angry with me any more, are you? How much money have you? We must stand by one another!'
'Scum!' thought Fischerle to himself, 'you're up to your tricks alright, but I know a trick or two!' Aloud he said: 'Maybe thirty schillings.' The rest was very well hidden.
'That is a small sum. But it is better than nothing.' Kien had forgotten that he had given the little fellow a big sum of money only a few days back. He accepted Fischerle's mite at once, thanked him, with deep emotion, for so much self-sacrifice and had all but promised him a reward in the Hereafter.
From this moment the two were engaged in a life and death struggle with each other, of which one of them remained in total ignorance. The other, feeling himself less gifted at play-acting, took over the production and hoped in this way to countervail his disadvantage.
Morning after morning Kien took his stand in the entrance hall of the building. Even before it opened he was pacing up and down outside the Theresianum sharply observing all who passed. When one of them stopped, he went close up to him and asked: "What do you want here*' Not the rudest or most ribald retort sufficed to distract him. His success was his justification. Those who passed through this street before nine o'clock glanced merely out of curiosity at the notice-boards outside on which the date and place of the next auction was set out, together with the objects to be sold. Timorous persons took him for a private detective, guarding the treasures of the Theresianum, and hurried out of range to avoid a conflict with him. The indifferent often failed to register his inquiry until they were a street or two further off. The bold were indignant and, contrary to their usual custom, tarried long and immobile in front of the notice boards. He let them alone but he impressed their features on his memory. He took them for men on whose conscience their sin hung heavy, who had come to reconnoitre the land before coming back, perhaps an hour later, with the scapegoat under their arm. The fact that they never came back he attributed to his implacable stare. On the stroke of the hour he presented himself in the small entrance lobby of the annexe. Who ever should push open the glass door must see at once the haggard figure, straight as a candlestick, next to the window, and, in order to reach the staircase, must pass in front of it. When Kien addressed anyone his features altered not a fraction. Only his lips moved, like two sharp-edged knives. His first task was to ransom the unhappy books, his second to reform a bestial mankind. He was learned in books, but in men, he was forced to concede, far less. He determined therefore to become learned in men too.
For his better convenience he divided the people as they appeared outside the glass door into three groups. To the first of these their heavy brief-cases were a burden, to the second a bargain, to the third a blessing. The first group held their books fast in both arms, without grace, without love, just as they would have carried any heavy parcel. They pushed the door open with them. They would have shoved the books along the banisters — had they been allowed to get so far. As they wanted to be quickly rid of their burden they did not think of hiding it and held it always in front of their chests or their stomachs. They agreed readily to his offers, were content with whatever sum he suggested, did not bargain and left the building just as they had entered it, only a little more weighed down, for they carried with them money and a doubt or two as to the legality of their having received it. Kien found this group unpleasing, they would learn too slowly; in order to effect an ultimate reform he would have needed to spend some hours on each one.
But he felt a real hatred for the second group. The members of this group hid the books behind their backs. At best they revealed only the tips of them between their arms and ribs so as to whet the greed of a possible buyer. They received the most brilliant offers with suspicion. They refused to open their parcels or satchels. They haggled up to the last moment and oehaved at the end as if they had been outwitted. There were some among them who pocketed the money and still wanted to go up to Hell. At this Kien found that he was striking chords which were an astonishment even to him. He placed himself in their path and spoke to them as they deserved: he demanded the money back at once. When they heard that, they turned and ran. The little money in hand was dearer to them than the thousands under the roof. Kien was convinced that there, above, gigantic sums were paid out. The more money he gave away, the less he had left, so much the more oppressive became the thought of the foul competition of the devils on high.
Of the third group he had seen none as yet. But he knew that it existed. He awaited its representative whose characteristics were as familiar to him as a catechism, with patient longing. Once, at last, that man must come to whom the carrying of books is a blessing, whose road to hell is paved with anguish, who would indeed collapse altogether did not those friends, whom he carried with him, ceaselessly re-imbue him with strength. His step is that of a sleepwalker. Behind the glass door his silhouette appears, he hesitates, how is he to push it open without in the least degree giving pain to one of his friends? He does so. Love is the author of invention. At sight of Kien, his own conscience in the flesh, he glows fiery red. With a colossal effort of will he pulls himself together and takes a step forward. His head is on his breast. In front of Kien — before ever he is spoken to — he stops as at some inner command. Hé guesses what his conscience has to say to him. The fearful word 'Money' falls. He shrinks back, the executioner's axe is towards him; he sobs aloud: 'Not that! Not that!' He will riot take money. Rather he will hang himself. He would flee the place, but his strength forsakes him and, moreover, to prevent any risk to his friends, violent exercise is to be avoided. His conscience takes him in his arms and speaks kindly to him. There is more rejoicing in heaven, he cries, for one sinner reclaimed than for ninety and nine just men. Perhaps he will bequeathe him his library. When this man comes, he will forsake his post for an hour; this one who takes nothing, outweighs the thousands who ask for more. While he waits for him, he will give the thousands all he has. Perhaps one of the first group will bethink himself when he gets home. For the second he entertains no hope at all. But all the victims he can save. For that and not for his private satisfaction, he takes his stand.
At Kien's head, to his right, hung a notice, prohibiting loitering on the stairways and in the corridors and by the heating pipes. Fischerle warned his deadly enemy of this on the very first day. 'People will think you've no coal in the house,' he said. 'Only people who've got no coal stand about here. And they aren't allowed to. They turn them out. The heating's for the cats. Clients might cool off on the way upstairs. Anyone who's really cold has to clear out quick. He might get warm here. Anyone who isn't cold can stay. As for you, everyone would think you were cold!'
'The hot pipes are on the first landing, fifteen steps higher,' answered Kien.
'You don't get any heating for nothing, it's all one how little it is. Tell you what, here, where you're standing, I've stood too in my time, and been moved on, just the same.' This was not a lie.
Kien bethought himself that his competitors had an interest in driving him out and gratefully accepted the little fellow's offer to keep a sharp look out. His passion for that half of the library which he had entrusted to him had paled. Greater dangers threatened. Now that they had bound themselves by the same oath to die same task, he thought any treachery was out of the question. When they took up their positions on the following day, Fischerle said: 'Tell you what, you go in first! We don't know each other. I'll stand about outside somewhere. Better not disturb me. I won't tell you where I am. If they once see we're together, all our work'U be for nothing. In emergency, I'll pass by you and wink at you. First you run, then I'll run. We won t both run together. Behind the yellow church we'll have a meeting place. You wait there till I come. Got that?' He would have been genuinely astonished if his suggestion had been rejected. Since he had an interest in Kien, he was not going to let him go. How could anyone think that he would cut and run for a reward, for a mere tip, when he had the whole lot pretty near in his hand? That swindler, that book racket, that cunning dog, saw through the honest part of his plan and agreed.