CHAPTER XIII

BEATEN

The malicious pleasure with which he proved to her, from the evidence, how little he still possessed, tided Thérèse over the worst moment. She would have disintegrated into her chief components — skirt, ears and sweat — had not her hatred for him, which he was now intensifying with pedantic zeal, become the surviving core of her being. He showed her how much he had inherited. He fetched all the bills for books out of the different drawers among which his varying moods had distributed them. His memory for the trivialities of everyday, usually such a nuisance to him, now had its uses. On the back of the spoilt will, he noted down the sums. Broken as she was, Thérèse counted them up in her head and rounded them up to a total. She wanted to know what was really left over. It became evident that the library had cost far more than a million. He was not in the least consoled by this surprising result; its unexpectedly high value did not compensate him for the collapse of the four new rooms. Revenge for the way in which she had cheated him was his only thought. During the whole of this tedious operation, he spoke not one syllable too many, and — for him a heavier task — not one too few. A misunderstanding was impossible. When the annihilating figure was calculated at last, he added in loud staccato tones, like a schoolboy repeating a lesson: 'I have spent the rest on single books and on daily expenses.

At that Thérèse dissolved, flowing out of the door in a torrential stream, across the corridor into the kitchen. When it was time to go to bed she interrupted her crying, took off her starched skirt, laid it over a chair, sat down by the stove again and went on crying. The neighbouring bedroom, in which she had lived so happily for eight years as a housekeeper, invited her to sleep. But she did not think it respectable to end her mourning so soon, and did not move from her place.

On the following day early she began to put into practice the decisions she had taken during her period of mourning. She locked the three rooms of the flat which belonged to her. The beautiful dream was over. People are like that, but after all she had three rooms and the books in them. She wouldn't touch the furniture until Kien died. It must be spared.

Kien had passed the rest of Sunday at his writing desk. He worked as a pretence only, for his mission of enlightenment was completed. In fact he was fighting his greed for new books. It had awakened in him with so great a vehemence that his study, with all its shelves and all the volumes on them seemed to him worn out and stale. Time and again he had to force himself to reach for the Japanese manuscripts on his desk. When he got so far, he would touch them, and immediately, as if repelled, draw his hand back again. What was the meaning of them? They had been lying around his cell for fifteen years already. At midday and in the evening he forgot his hunger. Night found him still at his desk. On the half-written sheet before him he had drawn, quite contrary to his habit, characters which had no meaning whatever. Towards six in the morning he began to nod; at a time when he was usually getting .up, he was dreaming of a gigantic library built, on the site of the Observatory, at the crater of Vesuvius. Trembling with fear he walked up and down in it and waited for the eruption of the volcano, due in eight minutes. His fear and his pacing up and down lasted an eternity, but the eight minutes to the catastrophe remained constant. When he woke up the door into the neighbouring room was already closed. He saw this, but felt no more shut in than before. Doors did not matter, for everything was equally wearisome, the rooms, the doors, the books, the manuscripts, he himself, learning, his life.

Swaying a little with hunger he got up and tried the other doors which led into the hall. He found that he was locked in. He became conscious that his intention had been to fetch himself something to eat, and was ashamed in spite of his hunger. In the hierarchy of man's activities, eating was the lowest. Eating had become the object of a cult, but in fact it was but the preliminary to other, utterly contemptible motions. It occurred to him that he wanted to perform one of these too. He felt therefore that he was justified in rattling the door. His physical exertions and his empty stomach exhausted him to such an extent that he almost began to cry again, as he had done yesterday over the counting. But to-day he had not even strength for that; he could only call in a plaintive voice: 'I don't want anything to eat, I don't want anyt ling to eat.'

'Now you're talking,' said Thérèse who had been waiting outside for some little time and listening for his first movements. He needn't think he'd get anything to eat from her. A man who doesn't bring a penny into the house gets nothing to eat. That was what she had to say to him; she'd been afraid he might forget about the eating question. Now, as he renounced eating of his own free will, she opened the door and informed him of her views on the subject. Nor would she have her house turned into a pig-sty. The passage in front of her own rooms belonged to her. That was the law. That's why they put up: 'No right of way.' Opening and spreading out a piece of paper which she held crumpled up in her hand, she read out: No right of way. Temporary thoroughfare only.'

She had already been out and bought food for one person at the butcher's and the greengrocer's, where she was equally disliked. It came dearer that way, and she usually bought for several days together. To their questioning glances she answered aggressively: 'From to-day he won't get anything more to eat from me.' Proprietor, customers and staff in both shops wondered. Next she carefully copied the inscription from a neighbouring alley on to a piece of paper. All the time she was writing, her shopping bag with the beautiful food lay on the dirty pavement.

When she came back, he was still asleep. She bolted the door into the passage and stood on guard. Now she'd got to the point, she'd speak straight out to him. She withdrew her permission to use her passage. He was not to use her corridor to go to the kitchen or avatory any more. He had no business there. In future every time he made her passage dirty he'd have to clean it up. She was not a servant, she'd have the law on him. He could go in and out, but only if he kept to his own path. She'd show him where it was.

Without waiting for his answer she sidled all the way along the wall to the front door. Her skirt brushed against the wall, it did not trespass an inch into the part of the corridor which was hers. Then she glided into the kitchen, fetched a piece of chalk, a relic of her schooldays, and drew a thick line between her corridor and his. 'Excuse me, this will do for now,' she said, 'we'll have oil paint later.'

In hungry bewilderment, Kien had not fully understood what was happening. Her movements struck him as senseless. Am I still on Vesuvius? he asked himself. No, on Vesuvius there was that terror about the eight minutes, but not this woman. Perhaps it was not so bad on Vesuvius after all. Only the coming eruption would have caused discomfort. Meanwhile his own discomfort was growing. It drove him on to the forbidden corridor, just as if Thérèse had made no chalk line down it. In long strides, he reached his goal. Thérèse came after him. Her indignation was a match for his necessity. She would have overtaken him, had he not had a good start. He bolted himself in, in the customary way, an action which saved him from violence at her hands. She rattled at the closed door and spat out in repetitive jerks: 'I ask you, I'll have the law on you! I'll have the law on you!'

When she saw that it was all in vain, she withdrew to the kitchen. Over her stove, where all her best ideas came to her, she hit on what was justice. Very well, he should have the corridor. She could be considerate. He had to go to the lavatory. But what would she get in return? Nobody ever gave her anything for nothing. She'd had to earn every penny. She'd give him the corridor and he in return must give her part of his room. She must take care of her rooms, where should she sleep? She had locked up the three rooms full of new furniture. Now she would lock up her old bedroom too. No one should go in. I ask you, she'd have to sleep in his room. What else could she do? She'd sacrifice her beautiful corridor and he'd have to make room for her in his study. She'd bring the furniture out ofthat little room where the housekeeper used to sleep. In return he could go to the lavatory as often as he chose.

She went down at once into the street and fetched up a porter. She would have nothing to do with the caretaker, who had been bribed by that man.

As soon as her voice left him in peace, Kien had fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion. When he awoke he felt refreshed and courageous. He went into the kitchen and, without the least prick of conscience, helped himself to several slices of bread and butter. When, suspecting nothing, he returned to his own room he found that it had been cut down ty half. Right across the middle stood the Spanish screen. Behind it he came on Thérèse in the midst of her old bedroom furniture. She was just putting the finishing touches and admiring the beautiful effect. That shameless porter had gone off, thank the lord. He had demanded a whole fortune, but she'd only given him half, and thrown him out again, of which she was very proud. But the Spanish screen did not satisfy her, for it looked crazy. On one side it was empty and blank and on the other were nothing but a mass of crooked marks; she would have preferred a blood-red sunset. She pointed to the screen and said: 'I can't have that here. As far as I'm concerned it can go out.' Kien was silent. He dragged himself to his writing desk groaning softly and lowered himself into his chair.

After a minute or two he gathered himself to his feet. He wanted to sec whether the books in the neighbouring room were still alive. His anxiety arose more from a rooted sense of duty than from any real love. Since the preceding day he felt tenderness only for books which he did not possess. Before he could reach the door, Thérèse was already there. How had she noticed his movement in spite of the Spanish screen? How was it that her skirt carried her forward at a quicker pace than his legs; For the moment he laid a hand neither on her nor on the door. Before he had assembled even the courage which words cost him, she was already nagging:

'You dare! Because I'm good enough to let him use the passage, he thinks the rooms are his too. I've got it in writing. Black on white. He mustn't even touch the door handle. He can't get in anyway, I've got the key. I'm not giving it up. The handle belongs to the door. The door belongs to the room. Handle and door belong to me. I won't have him touching my handle!'

He fended off her words with an awkward movement of his arm and unintentionally touched her skirt. She began to scream loud and desperately as if for help.

'I won't have him touching my skirt! The skirt's mine! He didn't buy it! I bought it! He didn t starch it and iron it! I starch it and iron it! Are the keys in my skirt? The very idea. I'm not giving up the keys. Not if you were to bite it. The keys aren't in it. A woman gives her everything to a man. Not my skirt! Not my skirt!'

Kien passed his hand over his forehead. 'I'm in a madhouse!' he said, so low that she couldn't hear him. One glance at the books convinced him that he was not." He remembered the purpose for which he had got up. He had not the courage to carry it out. How was he to get into the next room? Over her dead body? What was the use of her dead body if he had no keys? She was crafty enough to have hidden the keys. As soon as he had the keys he would unlock the doors. He was not in the least afraid of her. Let him but have the keys in his hand and he would strike her out of his path like a mere nothing.

A struggle at this moment would have served no purpose whatever, so he withdrew to the writing desk. Thérèse kept watch on her door for another quarter of an hour. She went on screaming undeterred. That he was sitting at his desk again, the hypocrite, didn t impress her at all. She only stopped when her voice began to give out; then she gradually subsided behind the Spanish screen.

Until the evening she was not again to be seen. Now and again he heard broken sounds from her; they sounded like fragments of a dream. Then she became quiet, he breathed more freely, but only for a short time. Across the refreshing silence and space there suddenly rang out unmistakable sounds. 'Hanging's too good for that kind. First they promise to marry you, then they don't make a will. Excuse me, Mr. Puda, more haste, less speed. The very idea, not to have enough money to make a will.' She's not talking at all, he told himself, these are the after effects of my own overheated hearing, echoes one might call them. As she was now quiet again, he reassured himself with this explanation. He even managed to turn over the pages of the papers in front of him. As he was reading his first sentence, the echoes disturbed him once more, 'Am I a criminal? Judas is the one. Books are wordi something too. Things aren't what they were. Always such a nice-tempered gentleman, Mr. John was. A dirty old dolly-mop my old mum. Wait and see. There's keys and keys. People aren t like that. Nobody made me a present of the keys. All that good money for nothing. Anyone can beg. Anyone can knock you about. Not my skirt.'

It was precisely this sentence, the first one which registered in his ears as an echo of her earlier screechings, which convinced him that she was really talking. Impressions which he thought forgotten re-emerged in all their strength, radiating even a glow of happiness. He was ill again and lay in bed six long weeks condemned to hear her litany. At that time she repeated herself over and over again; he learnt her words by heart and was thus, in the truest sense, her master. At that time he knew in advance what sentence, what word would come next. At that time the caretaker used to come and strike her dead every day. That was a wonderful time. How long ago that was. He calculated it out and arrived at a bewildering conclusion. He had only got up for the first time a week ago. He searched for some reason to explain the chasm which had opened between that golden time and these grey days. He might have discovered it, but Thérèse suddenly began to talk again. What she said was incomprehensible, and therefore held despotic sway over him. It could not oe learnt by heart, and who could guess what would come next? He was chained down and could not tell by what.

In the evening hunger released him. He took good care not to ask Thérèse whether there was anything to eat. Secretly, as he thought, and noiselessly, he left the room. Not until he reached a restaurant did he look about him to see if she had followed him. No, she was not standing on the threshold. Let her dare, he said and boldly took his seat in one of the inner rooms, among couples who were evidently none of them married. So I too, in my mature years, have sunk to the underworld, he sighed, and was astonished not to see champagne flowing over the tables and to notice that the people, instead of behaving outrageously, were consuming cutlets and steak with coldblooded greed. He might have been sorry for the men since they had let themselves be caught by women. But he forbade himself any emotion of this kind on account of their greed, possibly because he was himself so hungry. He insisted that the waiter spare him the perusal of the menu and bring him whatever he — as an expert — should think good. The expert at once revised his opinion of this shabbily dressed person and, recognizing the secret connoisseur concealed within this long, lean gentleman, served him immediately with the most expensive dishes. Hardly was he served than the eyes of all the loving couples were drawn towards his plate. The recipient of these luxuries noticed their attraction, and, although the food tasted delicious, he consumed it with evident repulsion. 'To consume' seemed to him the most unimpassioncd and therefore the most suitable expression for the process of taking in nourishment. He stubbornly pursued his thoughts about this matter, expounding it in length and breadth for the benefit of his slowly reviving spirit. Emphasis on this peculiarity gave him back something of his self-respect. With joy he recognized that he still had a substantial share of integrity, and told himself that Thérèse deserved only his pity.

Kien rose up in flaming wrath. At the same moment he felt a terrific box on the ear. He had almost cried out 'Hush!' to the murderess on account of the corpse, which after all might not be a corpse yet. The she-burglar began to shout. She had Therese's voice. After three words he knew that murderess and corpse were one flesh. Conscious of his guilt he said not a word and let her beat him cruelly.

As soon as he was out of the house Thérèse had changed the beds, pushed away the Spanish screen, and set all the other furniture at sixes and sevens. During this work, which she performed in radiant mood, she said the same phrase over and over again: Let it kill him! Let it kill him! When he was not back at nine o'clock, she lay in her bed as all respectable people do, and waited for the moment when he switched on the light so as to ease herself of the store of abuse she had hoarded during his absence. If he should not put on the light but come straight to bed to her, she would put off her abuse until he had got it over. However, as a respectable woman, she reckoned more on the first probability. When he undressed himself with perfect self-possession next to her, her heart was in her mouth. So as not to forget her anger, she decided to repeat to herself, all the time their matrimonial bliss lasted,'Is this a man? This isn't aman!' When he suddenly fell on top of her, she made not a sound, she was afraid he might go away again. He lay on top of her for only a few moments; to her they felt like days. He did not move and was as light as a feather; she scarcely drew breath. Little by little her expectation gave way to bitterness. When he got up, she knew that he was escaping her. Like a creature possessed, she hit out at him, while she poured down upon him the foulest abuse.

Blows arc balm to a moral character which has been on the brink of committing a crime. As long as it did not hurt too much, Kien smote himself with Therese's hands and waited patiently for the ugly name which he had deserved. For what was he, when he thought the matter over carefully? A desecrater of the dead. He was astonished at the mildness of her reproaches; he would have expected very different words and, above all, the foul name which he had merited. Was she sparing him, or keeping it for the last? He had no particular objection to the more general terms which she used. As soon as she called him a desecrator of the dead, he would bow his head and fully confess his fault, an act which for a man of his distinction was of infinitely greater importance than a few blows.

But the few blows did not end; he began to find them superfluous. His bones ached and with so many commonplace dirty words she seemed to find no time for the right one. She was standing up now and belabouring him alternately with her fists and elbows. She was a tough creature; only after a few minutes did she notice a slight weariness in her arms, interrupted her screeching, which had hitherto consisted entirely of substantives, with a complete sentence — 'I won't have it !' — and pushed him off the bed, taking care however to grab hold of his hair so that he should not escape her. Sitting on the edge of the bed she continued to trample on him with her feet until her arms had a little recovered. Then she seated herself astride his body, interrupted herself again, this time with —'There's more to come!' —and cuffed his head alternately left and right. Gradually Kien lost consciousness. Long before, he had forgotten the trespass which he had committed against her. He regretted his length. Thin and small, he murmured, thin and small. Then there would have been so much less to hit. He shrank together. She hit wide. Was she still cursing? She hit the floor, she hit the bed, he heard the hard blows. She could hardly find him any more, he had made himself so small; that was why she was cursing. 'Abortion!' she cried. What a good thing he was! He was visibly dwindling; uncanny how fast. Already he had to search for himself; she'd never find him; he had grown so small, he couldn't see himself any more.

She went on striking hard and accurately. Then, pausing for breath, she said: 'Excuse me, I must have a rest,' sat up on the bed again and left the job to her feet, which performed it with less conscientiousness. Gradually they slowed down and at last stopped of their own accord. As soon as all her limbs had come to rest, Thérèse could not think of another word to say. She was silent. He did not move. She felt utterly exhausted. Behind his silence she scented new tricks. To protect herself from his attack, she began to threaten him: 'I'll have the law on you. I won't have it. A man mustn't assault his wife. I'm respectable, I'm a woman. You'll get ten years. The papers call it rape. I've got my proofs. I read the papers. Don't you dare move. Anyone can tell lies. I ask you, what are you after here? Another word and I'll fetch the caretaker to you. He'll have to protect me. A poor lone woman. Violence isn't everything. I'll have a divorce. The flat belongs to me. Criminals get nothing. Excuse me, I won't have a scene. I'm not asking for anything, am I? Ache in every limb, I do. Ought to be ashamed of yourself. Frightening a woman like that. I might be dead. Then you'd be in a mess. He hasn't even a night-shirt. It's no affair of mine. He sleeps without a night-shirt. That's telling. I've only to open my mouth and everyone'll believe me. I'm not going to jail. I ve got Mr. Puda. You can look out for yourself. You'll have Mr. Puda to reckon with. You won't get the better of him. I'll tell him straight. And this is what comes of love!'