Auto-da-fé by Elias Canetti

allow herself to be seen. Why should she be so modest, he thought, I shall let her go afterwards, as far as I'm concerned I shall shut her up again, I shan't hurt her, I promise I shan't, if she's deaf then God can surely explain to her what I'm promising. He argued with her for several hours. But his words were as impotent as his fingers. He hated roundabout methods, he liked to reach his goal the direct way. Towards evening a great ship passed by, far out at sea. His eyes devoured the huge black letters on its side and read the name Alexander . Then he laughed in the midst of his rage, pulled on his shoes in a twinkling, hurled the mussel with all his strength to the ground and performed a Gordian dance of victory. Now her shell was utterly useless to her. His shoes crushed it to pieces. Soon he had the creature stark naked on the ground, a miserable fleck of fraudulent slime, not an animal at all.
    Thérèse without her shell — without her dress —did not exist. It was always immaculately ironed. It was her binding, blue cloth. She set great store by a good binding. Why did the folds not crumple up after a time? It was evident that she ironed it very often. Perhaps she had two. There was no visible difference. A clever woman. I must not crush her skirt. She would faint with grief. What shall I do if she suddenly faints? I shall ask her to excuse me beforehand. She can iron her skirt again immediately afterwards. While she is doing it I shall go into another room. Why does she not simply put on the other one though? She puts too many difficulties in my way. She was my housekeeper, I have married her. She can buy herself a dozen skirts and change more often. Then it will be quite sufficient to starch them less stiffly. Exaggerated hardness is absurd. The people in the tram were right.
    It was not easy going up the stairs. Without noticing it, he slackened lus pace. On the second floor he thought he was already at his own door at the top, and started back. The little Metzger boy came running down the stairs singing. Hardly had he seen Kien, when he pointed to Thérèse and complained: 'She won't let me in! She always shuts the door in my face. Scold her, Professor!'
    'What is the meaning of this?' asked Kien threateningly, grateful for a scapegoat in the hour of need.
    'You said I could come. I told her you said so.'
    '"Her". Who is that?'
    'Her.'
    'Her?'
    'Yes, my mother said, she's no right to be rude, she's only a servant.'
    'Miserable brat!' shouted Kien and reached out to box his ears. The child ducked, tripped, fell forwards and to save himself from shooting down the stairs clutched at Therese's skirt. There was the sound of starched linen cracking.
    'What!' cried Kien, 'more impertinence!' The brat was making fun of him. Beside himself with rage, he gave him a couple of kicks, dragged him panting to his feet by the hair, boxed his ears once or twice with his bony hands and pushed him out of the way. The child ran up the stairs whimpering. 'I'll tell mother! I'll tell mother!' A door on the floor above was opened and closed again. A woman's voice was heard raised in protest.
    'It's a shame for the beautiful skirt,' Thérèse excused the violence of the blows, stood still and looked in a special way at her protector, It was high time to prepare her for what was to come. Something must be said. He too stood still.
    'Yes, indeed, the beautiful skirt. "Youth's a stuff will not endure," ' he quoted, happy for the chance of indicating in the words of a beautiful ancient poem what must later come to pass. A poem was always the best way of saying something. Poems can be found for every occasion. They call things by the most formal of names and yet they are perfectly comprehensible. As he walked on up the stairs, he turned back towards her and said:
    'A beautiful poem, don't you think?'
    'Oh yes, poems are always beautiful. You've got to understand them, though.'
    'Many things need understanding,' he said slowly, and