REVELATIONS

When Fischerle, violently winking, appeared of a sudden through the glass door, he was greeted by Kien with a benign smile. The compassionate office which he had recently taken upon himself had mellowed his soul and called forth noble metaphors. His soul inquired what might be the meaning of those flashing melancholy beacon-lights; in the torrential flood of his love he had forgotten all previously arranged signals. Kien's faith, unshaken as his distrust of book-blaspheming humanity, was browsing in beloved pastures. He was regretting the weakness of Christ, that mysterious prodigal. Gifts of food and wine, healing of the halt and the blind, parable after parable went through his head; how many books, he thought, might have been saved by these miracles: he felt that his present state of mind resembled that of Christ. He too would have acted in the same fashion; only in its objects did Christ's love seem to him an aberration, like that of the Japanese. Since the philologist in him still lived, he decided to devote himself, when peaceful times should again bless the land, to a fundamentally new textual examination of the gospels. It was possible that Christ had in fact not referred to men at all, and the barbarian hierarchy had falsified the original words of their founder. The unexpected appearance of Logos in the Gospel of St. John gave abundant grounds for doubt, all the more since the usual explanations refer it back to a Greek influence. He felt himself equipped with enough knowledge to guide Christianity back to its true sources, and though he was not to be the first to pour the true words of the Saviour out to humanity, whose ears were always ready to receive them, he might hope, nevertheless, on a sufficient inner conviction, that the indications he set down would be final.

Fischerle's indications of a threatening danger, on the other hand, went unrecognized. For a time he continued his warning winks, alternatively closing his right and his left eye. At last he threw himself on Kien, clutched his arm and whispered 'Police!' the most awesome word he knew. 'Run! I'll go first! he said, and placed himself, contrary to his promise, once more at the door to see the effect of his words. Kien cast a dolorous glance upwards, not to Heaven, to Hell rather, on the sixth floor. He vowed to return to this sanctified antechamber, if possible, even to-day. With all his heart he scorned the vile pharisecs who persecuted him. As a true saint he did not forget, before setting his long legs in motion, to thank the dwarf with a stiff but profound inclination. If he should forget his duty out of cowardice, he vowed his own library to a fiery death. He ascertained that his enemies had not in fact shown themselves. What did they fear? The moral force of his pleadings? He pleaded for no sinners, he pleaded for guiltless books. Meanwhile let them injure but one hair of one of these, and they would learn to know a very different side of him. He knew his Old Testament too, and reserved his vengeance. Fiends, he cried, ye keep watch for me in secret places, but with uplifted brow I forsake this sink of iniquity. I fear not, for countless millions fight on my side. He pointed upwards. Then, slowly, he betook himself to flight.

Fischerle did not let him out of his sight. He had no intention of handing his money out of Kien's pocket to any crook. He feared the appearance of unknown pawn-addicts and propelled Kien to further speed with both nose and arms. From the hesitative conduct of the other he drew a kind of guarantee for his future. The creature evidently had character and had certainly taken it into his head to get the reward money back in this and no other way. He had not diought him capable of so much logic and was filled with admiration. He proposed to further the plans laid by this man of character. He would help Kien to get rid of his capital down to die last penny, in the shortest time and without too much trouble. But since it would be a pity to break up a fortune which had been in the first place a very respectable one, Fischerle must take good care that no unauthorized person interfered. Business affairs between two men of character were their own concern and no one else's. He accompanied each step of Kien's with a joyful bob of his hump, pointed here and there to a dark corner, put his finger to his lips and walked on tiptoe. When they passed an official — by chance it happened to be the hog in charge of the valuations in the book section — he attempted a bow, and shot his hump towards him. Kien too bowed, out of sheer cowardice; he sensed that this so-called human being, who had come down the stairs a quarter of an hour before, functioned as a fiend on high, and trembled lest he should be forbidden his station at the window.

At long last Fischerle had forced him as far as the square behind the church, and drawn him into the porch. 'Saved!' he mocked. Kien was astounded at the magnitude of the danger in which he had been. Then he embraced the dwarf and said in a soft, caressing voice: 'If it were not for you ... ' 'You'd be in clink long ago!' Fischerle completed the sentence. 'Are my actions then such as to bring me into collision with the law?' 'Everything brings you into collision with the law. You get yourself a meal because you re hungry, and they take you up for stealing again. You help a poor devil to a pair of shoes, he goes off in the shoes and you've aided and abetted. You go to sleep on a bench, dream away for ten years, and they wake you up because you did something ten years ago — wake you up, indeed! Take you up, more like! You try to help a few poor innocent books and they put a cordon right round the Theresianum, one of them in every corner, you ought to have seen their new revolvers ! There's a major in charge of them, I ran right between his legs. What d'you think he's got down there, so low that none of the tall people walking by should notice — a warrant. The president of the police has drawn up a special warrant because you're sort of high-up. You know yourself who you are, I don't need to tell you ! Eleven o'clock sharp you're to be taken, alive or dead, inside the Theresianum. Once you're outside nothing's allowed to happen to you. Outside you're not a criminal any more. Eleven o'clock sharp. And how late is it now? Three minutes to eleven. Look for yourself!'

'Good. I promise. Only speak!'

'You've promised then. Did you sec his belly?'

'Yes — but the smell, the smell.'

'In a minute. Didn't you notice anything about his belly?'

'No.'

'People say it has corners.'

'What's the meaning of that?' Kien's voice faltered. Something unheard of was coming.

'They say — I must prop you up or there'll be an accident — they say, he gets fat on books.'

'He —'

' — devours books!'

Kien gave a great cry and fell to the ground. In his fall he dragged the dwarf with him; he hurt himself on the pavement and for revenge went on talking. 'What do you expect, says the hog — I've heard him with my own ears — what am I to do with this muck? Muck, he said, he always calls books muck, muck's good enough for him to eat. What d'you expect, he says, this muck Ties about here for months, I'd as soon get something out of it, eat myself full once in a while. He's written his own cookery book, full of different recipes, he's looking for a publisher now. There are too many books in the world, he says, and too many empty stomachs. I owe my belly to my cookery, he says, I'd like everyone to have a belly like mine, and I want all books to vanish; if I had my way all books would have to go! You can burn them, of course, but that does no one any good. So cat them up, say I, raw with oil and vinegar like salad, or baked in a batter like schnitzel, with salt and pepper, or with sugar and cinnamon; a hundred and three receipts the hog's got, finds a new one every month; it's a sin and a shame, that's what I say.'

While Fischerle was croaking out these words without a moment's pause, Kien lay writhing on the ground. He smote the pavement with his flcshlcss fists as though to prove that the hard crust of the earth itself was softer than the heart of man. Sharp anguish rent his bosom; he wanted to cry aloud, to save, to deliver, hut instead of his lips, his fists only spoke, and they rang but faintly. They smote each paving stone in turn, omitting none. They smote themselves bloody; he frothed at the mouth and the blood from his fists mingled with it, so close to the earth were his trembling lips. When Fischerle had finished, Kien got up, swayed, clung to the hump and, after he had moved his lips once or twice in vain, shrieked out shrill across the square: 'Ca-ni-bals! Ca-ni-bals!' He stretched out his free arms in the direction of the Theresianum. With his other foot he pounded the pavement which, only a moment before, he had all but kissed.

Inside the church the hawker was still in his first energetic burst. Suddenly up popped Fischerle with his rich business friend, pushed the walking-stick on to a bench, said aloud: 'Are you mad?' looked about him and went on talking in a low voice. The hawker was very much frightened, for he had cheated Fischerle, and the business friend knew of how much. He crept as far as he could away from them and hid himself behind a column. Secure in the darkness he watched them, for an acute intuition told him why they had come: they were either bringing or fetching away the parcel.

In the dark, narrow church Kien came gradually to himself. He felt the proximity of another being, whose soft-voiced reproaches infused him with warmth. What was being said, he did not understand, but it quieted him. Fischerle worked desperately hard; he had overshot his target by a long way. While he poured out soothing words he was trying to make out what sort of a man precisely he had there sitting beside nim. If the creature was mad, then he was generously mad; if he only pretended to be, then he was the boldest crook in the world. A crook who lets the police come right up to him without running away, who has to be rescued by force from the arms of the police, who makes his grief credible to a flowerwoman so that she gives him roses for nothing, who risks 950 schillings without wasting a word on them, who will listen to the most monstrous lies from a hunchback without knocking him down! A world champion among crooks! To do down such a master of his craft is a pleasure; opponents of whom you have to be ashamed are what Fischerle can't stand. He's all for equality in every match, and since Kien has turned out to be his partner for financial reasons, he must regard him as his equal.

All the same he treated him as though he were an utter fool; he wanted it this way — well, he could have it. To distract his thoughts he asked him, as soon as he began to breathe more easily, about the events of the morning. Kien was not unwilling to free himself from the comfortless oppression, which burdened his soul since he had heard the worst, by the recollection of happier moments. He propped up his shoulders, ribs and the rest of his bones against the pillar which closed the end of the pew and smiled the weakly smile of an invalid who was on the road to recovery but must be spared as much as possible. Fischerle was willing to spare him. An opponent of such mettle was to be cherished. He clambered up on to the bench, knelt there and pressed his ear to the near neighbourhood of Kien's mouth: in case anyone should hear him. 'So that you don't overtire yourself,' he said. Kien no longer accepted things naturally. The least friendly movement of a fellow being seemed a miracle.

'You are hardly human,' he breathed, lovingly.

'A deformity is hardly human, is that my fault?'

'Man is the only deformity,' Kien tried his voice a tone stronger. He and the dwarf were looking into each other's eyes, so he forgot there were things he shouldn't have mentioned in the dwarf's presence.

'No,' said Fischerle, 'man isn't a deformity, or I'd be a man!'

'No, I won't have that. Man is the only beast!' Kien grew louder, forbade and ordered.

Fischerle took this skirmishing — as he thought it — for the greatest joke. 'And why isn't that hog a man then?' There, that's a facer.

Kien leapt up. He was invincible. 'Because hogs can't defend themselves! I protest against this violation! Men are men and hogs are hogs! All men are merely men! Your hog is only aman! Woe to the man who dares presume to be a hog! I will destroy him! Ca-ni-bals! Ca-ni-bals!'

The church echoed with wild lamentations. It seemed empty. Kien let himself go. Fischerle was caught off his guard; in a church he felt uncertain of himself. He almost pushed Kien out again into the square. But there the police were on the watch. If the church fell down, he wasn't going to walk into the arms of the police! Fischerle knew terrible stories of Jews buried in the wreckage of falling churches because they had no business to be there. His wife the Capitalist had told them to him because she was devout and wanted to convert him to her faith. He had no articles of faith, or only one — that 'Jew' is a genus of criminal which carries its punishment with it. In his extremity he looked at his hands, which he held always at about the level of an imaginary chessboard, and noticed the roses and how he had crushed them under his right arm. He pulled them out and screeched: 'Roses, beautiful roses, beautiful roses!' The church was suddenly full of screeching roses; from the heights of the nave, from the transepts, the choir and the tower, from all directions, red birds fluttered down on Kien.

(The hawker cowered in terror behind his column. He grasped that there was a row between the business friends and was delighted because in a quarrel one of them was sure to drop the parcel. All the same he'd have liked them well outside; the noise was deafening, maybe a riot would break out, any sort of scum will join in that sort ofthing and someone might steal his parcel.)

Kien's canibals were suffocated by the roses. His voice was already tired with earlier efforts and could, not compete with the dwarf's. As soon as he became fully conscious of the word 'Roses' he broke off his outcry and turned, half astonished, half ashamed, towards Fischerle. How did the flowers get there; he surely ought to be somewhere else; flowers are harmless, they live on water and fight, on earth and air, are not human, have never injured a book, are diemselves eaten, are destroyed by human beings; flowers need protection, they must be guarded from men and animals, where's the difference, beasts, beasts, here, there, some eat plants, others eat books, the only natural ally of the book is the flower. He took the roses from Fischerle's hand, remembered their sweet smell which he knew from Persian love poetry, and raised them to his eyes; it was true, they did smell. This soothed him completely. 'Call him hog as often as you please,' he said. 'But spare at least these flowers!' 'I brought them here specially for you,' said Fischerle, glad not to have to raise his voice in church any more. 'Cost a fortune, they did. And got all crushed on account of your screaming. What can poor flowers do for diat kind?' He decided from now on to agree with everything Kien said. Contradiction was too dangerous. Such boldness might well land him in the Eolice court. The recipient of the gift sank down exhausted on the ench, leaned up once more against the column, and while moving the roses up and down before his eyes as carefully as if they were books, began to recount the happy events of the morning.

The time when, calm and all unknowing, he had ransomed victim after victim in that light forecourt where not a soul could escape him, seemed as remote as his youth. He could clearly recall the men and women whom he had helped back towards a better life — was it but an hour ago? — and he was astonished at the precision of his memory which on this occasion was outdoing itself. 'Four great parcels might have found their way into the hog's belly or been hoarded for some later fire. But I saved them. Shall I take credit to myself? I think not. I have grown more modest. Why then should I talk of it? Perhaps only so that you too, you who wish for all or nothing, should recognize the value of an act of benevolence be it of never so small a compass.' In these words one might detect the calm which comes after storm. His voice, otherwise dry and hard, sounded at this moment both gentle and fragrant. It was very quiet in the church. Between separate sentences he paused often and then, softly, took up the tale again. He described the four lost souls to whom he had extended his help. Their figures, surmounting the sharp outlines of their parcels, were blurred a little; first he described the parcels, their wrapping, shape and presumable contents, he had not in any case actually investigated. The parcels were so neat, their bearers so modest and shamefaced, he would not for anything have cut off their retreat. To what purpose would be his work of redemption if he were harsh? All but the last were creatures of rare goodness, who held their friends tenderly, and demanded great sums so that they might be left in possession of their books. Without a doubt, they would all of them have come away from the top floor with their books intact, their firm determination was plain to see; they took the money from him and withdrew, speechless, profoundly moved. The first, probably a working man, shouted at nim as soon as he spoke, taking him doubtless for some wretched tradesman in books; never had harsh words sounded sweeter to him. Next came a lady whose appearance had strangely recalled to him some other acquaintance; she had imagined herself to be mocked by some attendant fiend, blushed crimson and said not a word. Soon after came a blind man, who collided with a common woman, the wife of one of the door-keeping fiends. He saved himself from her arms and clung to his parcel, and then, with astonishing confidence, came to a stand before his benefactor. A blind man with books is a deeply moving spectacle; they cling desperately to their one comfort and some, to whom braille means Uttle, for far too little has been printed in it, will never give up, will never admit the truth, to themselves. You may see them with open books in our print before them. They cheat themselves and imagine that they read. We have too few of these, for if ever any deserved the gift of sight it is surely these blind ones. For their sake one could wish the dumb letters spoke. The demands of the blind man were the highest, he granted them but was too delicate to say why, and pretended that it was on account of that wayward woman. Why remind him of his misfortune? To comfort him, it was better to show him his blessings. Had he a wife of his own, every moment of his life he would be colliding with her and wasting his time; that is the way of women. The fourth, an insignificant fellow less devoted to his books which bobbed up and down on his arm, asked — as one would have guessed — little and betrayed by his words a touch of vulgarity.

From this recital the dwarf discovered that not a penny had slipped through his net, which would have annoyed him seriously. He confirmed the common appearance of the last of the four, whom he had met coming out of the door. The man was undoubtedly a hawker and would come back next day. They must settle with him.

The last words were overheard by the hawker; he had grown used to their tones of voice. After the noisy quarrel had died down, he had slunk inquiringly but slowly nearer towards them, and came up at exactly that moment when their talk turned to him. He was indignant at the dwarf's treachery and with all the greater energy resumed his business as soon as the two had left the church.

Fischerle nerved himself for a heavy sacrifice. He led Kien into the nearest hotel, so as to get him into proper trim for the next day, and suppressed his annoyance at the enormous tip which Kien saw fit to pay out of his money. When Kien settled the bill for two rooms — where one would have been quite good enough — he added 50 per cent of the entire sum in tips as if Fischerle, as far as his own part of the bill was concerned, would have agreed to such folly, and then, perfectly aware of his crime, looked smiling into his face; he would gladly have knocked his block off. Weren t these overheads superfluous? What difference did it make if he gave the porter one schilling or four? In a few days, whatever happened, the whole lot would be in , Fischerle's pockets on the way to America. The porter was no richer for the trifle, and Fischerle was poorer. And he had to be friends with a dirty double-crosser like this ! Not a doubt of it, he was annoying him on purpose so that he should lose patience within sight of the goal, forget himself and provide an excuse for being sacked. He'd see him damned first! To-night he'd spread out that packing paper and pile up these books, would wish him good night and let him shout out all those idiotic names to him before he went to sleep, he'd get up in the morning at six, at an hour when tarts and criminals even are still fast asleep, pack up the books and go on playing his part. The worst game of chess would be better. The great gawk couldn't think that he, Fischerle, believed in all these impossible books. He only did it to impress him; very well Fischerle d be impressed for as long as he needed to be impressed and not a second longer. As soon as he'd got all of his passage money, he'd tell him where he got off. 'Tell you what you are, call yourself a gentleman,' he'd screech, 'a common crook you are! That's what you are!'

All the afternoon, worn out with the exertions of the morning, Kien passed in bed. He did not undress for he was not anxious to make a to-do about this untimely repose. To Fischerle's repeated question, whether he was to start unloading the books, he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. His interest in his private library, which was safe in any case, had much declined. Fischerle noticed the change. He sniffed out some trap of which he must find out the reason, or if not a trap a loophole through which a few painful blows might be directed at Kien. Time and again he asked about the books. Weren't they getting very heavy for the head librarian? His present position was one to which neither his head nor his books were accustomed. Not that he wanted to interfere, but he couldn't approve of disorder in anyone's head. Wouldn't it be advisable to ask for extra pillows so that the head might at least be propped upright? If Kien turned his head round, the dwarf cried out with every sign of terror: 'For God's sake take care!' Once he even jumped up and held his hands under his right ear to catch the books. 'They're falling out!' he said reproachfully.

Little by little he managed to induce in Kien the mood he wanted. Kien remembered his duties, forbade himself any superfluous talk and lay stiff and still. If only the little fellow would be quiet. His words and looks made him uneasy, as if the library were in great danger, which was not at all the case. Pedantry can be disagreeable. So to-day he found it more suitable to think of those millions whose life was threatened. Fischerle seemed too meticulous. He was — doubtless on account of his hump — much too much concerned about his body and transferred this feeling to that of his master. He called things by name which were better not mentioned, and clove fast to hair, eyes and ears. What for? The head itself naturally includes all these trivialities, and only petty natures busy themselves with externals. Hitherto he had not been so tedious.

But Fischerle gave him no peace. Kien's nose began to run; after he had left it a while to its own devices, he determined, out of his love for order, to take steps to deal with the large, heavy drop at its tip. He drew out his handkerchief and made to wipe it. But Fischerle gasped aloud: 'Stop! Stop! Wait till I come!' He tore the handkerchief out of his hand — he had none himself— cautiously approached the nose and gathered the drop as though it had been a pearl of great price. 'Tell vou what,' he said, 'I'm not staying with you! You were going to blow your nose and the books would have come pouring out! The state they'd have been in, I don't need to tell you. You've no heart for your books! I'm not staying with anyone like that!' Kien was speechless. In his heart he knew the dwarf was right. For that very reason his impertinent manner was all the more exasperating. It was as if his own voice had spoken out of Fischerle. Under the pressure of the books, which he did not even read, the dwarf was changing before his very eyes. Kien's old theory was receiving notable confirmation. Before he could contrive a reply, Fischerle was croaking on; his master's acquiescence astounded him. He risked nothing and, by scolding away, relieved his heart of all his irritation at those shameless tips. 'Think of it, now, suppose I blow my nose! What would you say? You'd fire me on the spot! A man of intellect doesn't act so. You buy off books you don't even know, and you treat your own worse than a dog. All in good time you won't have a penny left. That doesn't matter, but suppose you've no books either, what 11 you do then? Do you want to beg in your old age? Not me. And you call yourself a book racket! Look at me! Am I a book racket; No! And how do I treat books? Perfectly, that's how I treat them, like a chess player with the queen, like a tart with her fancy man, what else shall I say so you'll understand: like a mother with a baby !' He was trying to talk his old talk, but couldn't get his tongue round it. Nothing but high-class words came to him, and because they were high-class he said to himself, 'They'll do!' and was pleased with them.

Kien stood up, came close up to him and said, not without dignity, 'You are a shameless deformity! Leave my room at once! You are dismissed.'

'Grateful, aren't you! You Jewish swine!' shrieked Fischerle. 'You can't expect better from a Jewish swine! Leave my room at once or I'll call the police. I paid. Refund my expenses or I'll have the law on you! At once!'

Kien hesitated. He was under the impression that he had paid, but in money matters he was never sure of himself. He had moreover a feeling that the dwarf was trying to cheat him, but even if he dismissed a faithful servant he intended at least to take his advice to heart and tp endanger the books no further. "What have you spent on my behalf?' he asked, and his voice was noticeably more uncertain.

Fischerle, who had suddenly become aware of the weight of the hump on his back, drew a deep breath. Because things were going badly for him, because he might never make America, because his own stupidity had brought things to this pass, because he hated himself, himself, and his smallness, his pettiness, his insignificant future, his defeat within sight of victory, his miserable earnings (compared with the majestic whole which he could so easily have netted within a few days), because he would so gladly have taken these preliminary earnings, this trifle only fit to spit on, and thrown it at Kien's head, if it hadn't been such a waste, together with the so-called sh— library: because of all this he would renounce the money which Kien had laid out for the rooms and the porter. He said: 'I renounce it!' So hard was this sentence for him that the way in which he spoke it gave him more dignity than all Kien's height and harshness. Injured humanity rang in his renunciation and the consciousness of having meant all well and been grossly misunderstood.

Then Kien began to understand. He had not hitherto paid the dwarf a farthing of salary, emphatically not, not a word had been spoken on the matter, and yet, instead of asking for his expenses back again, he renounced them. He had dismissed him because his disinterested care for the library had forced him to utter unseemly expressions. He had abused him for his deformity. Only a few hours ago this deformity had saved his life when the entire police force of the capital had been called out against him. He owed the dwarf not only organization and safety, but even inspiration for his acts of benevolence. Out of carelessness he had flung himself on the bed without seeing to the sleeping quarters of the books, and when his servant, as was his duty, reminded him of the inconvenient position and the possible danger to the books, he threw him out of his room. No indeed, he had not sunk so low that, out of sheer obstinacy in his error, he would hold out against the very spirit of his library. He laid his hand with friendly pressure on Fischerle's hump, as much as to say: no matter, others have humpbacked minds; absurd, there are no odiers, for the others are mere human beings, only we two, we happy two, are different. Aloud he said:

'It is time to unpack, dear Mr. Fischerle!'

'Just what I say,' answered the other, forcing his tears back with difficulty. America rose, gigantic, before him, rejuvenated, and not to be submerged by a small-minded double-crosser like Kien.