Auto-da-fé by Elias Canetti Page B

at a divan bed. His eyes had been gliding over the bookshelves, and the divan bed with them. The mussel from the seashore lay on it, gigantic and blue. Wherever his eyes rested, the divan bed rested too, oppressed and clumsy. It looked as if it had to bear the whole burden of the bookshelves. When Kien found himself in the neighbourhood of the real divan bed, he would twist his head round and the bed would come gliding all the way back to its right place. Now that he had made a resolution on his word of honour, he examined it more accurately and at greater length. His eyes indeed, out of habit no doubt, still wandered from time to time. But in the end they came to rest. The divan bed, the real live divan bed was empty and had neither mussels nor burdens upon it. But suppose it were made to carry a burden? Suppose it were covered with a layer of beautiful books? Suppose it were covered all over with books, so that it could not be seen at all?
    Kien obeyed his inspired impulse. He collected a mass of books together and carefully piled them up on the divan. He would have preferred to select some from the top shelves but time was short; she had said she would be back directly. He renounced the idea, left the step-ladder as it was and made do with selected works from the lower shelves. He laid four or five heavy volumes one on top of another, fondled them briefly and hurried off in search of others. Inferior works he rejected, so as not to hurt the woman's feelings. True she knew nothing about them, but he selected carefully on her behalf all the same, for she had insight and sensibility where books were concerned. She would be coming directly. As soon as she saw the divan bed covered with books, orderly woman that she was, she would go up to it and ask where the volumes belonged. In this way he would lure the unsuspecting creature into the trap. A conversation would easily arise on the titles of the books. Step by step he would go on ahead, guiding her gradually on the way. The shock which lay before her was the crowning event in a woman's life. He would not frighten her, he would help her. There was only one way of acting, boldly and with determination. Precipitancy was hateful to him. He blessed the books in silence. If only she didn t scream.
    A little while before he had heard a faint sound as though the door in the fourth room had been opened. He took no notice, he had more important things to do. He contemplated the armoured divan from his writing desk, to see the effect, and his heart overflowed with love and gratitude towards the books. Then he heard her voice:
    'Here I am.'
    He turned round. She was standing on the threshold of the neighbouring room, in a dazzling white petticoat with wide lace insertions. He had looked first for the blue, the danger. Horrified, his eyes travelled up her figure; she had kept on her blouse.
    Thank God. No skirt. Now there would be no need to crush anything. Was this respectable? But how fortunate. I would have been ashamed. How could she bring herself to do it? I should have said: Take it off. I couldn't have done it. So naturally she stood there. As though we had known each other for a long time. Naturally, my wife. In every marriage. How did she know? She was in service. With a married couple. She must have seen things. Like animals. They know what to do by nature. She had no books in her head.
    Thérèse approached swinging her hips. She did not glide, she waddled. The gliding was simply the effect of the starched skirt. She said gaily: 'So thoughtful? Ah, men!' She held up her little finger, crooked it menacingly and pointed down at the divan. I must go to her, he thought, and did not know how but found himself standing at her side. What was he to do now — lie down on the books? He was shaking with fear, he prayed to the books, the last stockade. Thérèse caught his eye, she bent down and, with one all-embracing stroke of her left arm, swept the books on to the floor. He made a