hourly. Whenever he saw her, he remembered at once how carefully she had wrapped up The Trousers of Herr von Bredow . The book had been in his library for years. Every time he passed it the sight of its back alone smote his heart. Yet he had left it, just as it was. Why had it not occurred to him to care for its improvement by providing it with a handsome wrapper? He had lamentably failed in his duty. And now came a simple housekeeper and taught him what was tight and seemly.
Or was she play-acting for his benefit? Perhaps she was merely flattering him into a sense of false security. His library was famous. Dealers had often besieged him for unique editions. Perhaps she was planning some vast robbery. He must find out how she acted when she was alone with the book.
One day he surprised her in the kitchen. His doubts tormented him; he longed for certainty. Once unmasked, he would throw her out. He wanted a glass of water; she had evidently not heard him calling. While she made haste to satisfy his wishes, he examined the table at which she had been sitting. On a small embroidered velvet cushion lay his book. Open at page 20. She had not yet read very far. She offered him the glass on a plate. It was then he saw that she had white kid gloves on her hands. He forgot to close his fingers round the glass; it fefl to the floor, the plate after it. Noise and diversion were welcome to him. He could not have brought a word to his lips. Ever since he was five years old, for thirty-five years, he had been reading. And the thought had never once crossed his mind, to put on gloves for the purpose. His embarrassment seemed ridiculous, even to himself. He pulled himself together and asked casually: 'You have not got very far yet?'
'I read every page a dozen times, otherwise you can't get the best out of it.'
'Do you like it?' He had to force himself to go on speaking, or he would have fallen to the ground as easily as the glass of water.
'A book is always beautiful. You need to understand it. There were grease spots on it, I've tried everything but I can't get them out. What shall I do now?'
'They were there before.'
'All the same, it's a pity. Excuse me, a book like this is a treasure.'
She did not say 'must cost a lot', she said 'is a treasure'. She meant its intrinsic value, not its price. And he had babbled to her of the capital which was locked up in his library! This woman must despise him. Hers was a generous spirit. She sat up night after night trying to remove old grease spots from a book, instead of sleeping. He gave her his shabbiest, most dog-cared and worn-out book out of sheer distaste, and she took it into loving care. She had compassion, not for men (there was nothing in that) but for books. The weary and heavy-laden could come to her. The meanest, the most forsaken and forgotten creature on the face of God's earth, she would take to her heart.
Kien left the kitchen in the deepest perturbation. Not one word more did he say to the saint.
In the lofty nails of his library he paced up and down and called on Confucius. He came towards him from the opposite wall, calm and self-possessed — it is easy to be self-possessed when you have been dead for centuries. With long strides Kien went to meet him. He forgot to make any obeisance. His excitement contrasted strangely with the bearing of the Chinese sage.
'I think that I am not wholly without education!' he shouted from a distance of five paces, 'I think I am not wholly without tact. People have tried to persuade me that education and tact are the same thing, that one is impossible without the other. Who tried to persuade me of this? You! He was not shy of Confucius; he called him 'you' straight out. 'Here comes a person without a spark of education and she has more sensibility, more heart, more dignity, more humanity than I or you and all your learned disciples put together!'
Confucius was not to be put out of countenance. He did not even forget to make his bow
Or was she play-acting for his benefit? Perhaps she was merely flattering him into a sense of false security. His library was famous. Dealers had often besieged him for unique editions. Perhaps she was planning some vast robbery. He must find out how she acted when she was alone with the book.
One day he surprised her in the kitchen. His doubts tormented him; he longed for certainty. Once unmasked, he would throw her out. He wanted a glass of water; she had evidently not heard him calling. While she made haste to satisfy his wishes, he examined the table at which she had been sitting. On a small embroidered velvet cushion lay his book. Open at page 20. She had not yet read very far. She offered him the glass on a plate. It was then he saw that she had white kid gloves on her hands. He forgot to close his fingers round the glass; it fefl to the floor, the plate after it. Noise and diversion were welcome to him. He could not have brought a word to his lips. Ever since he was five years old, for thirty-five years, he had been reading. And the thought had never once crossed his mind, to put on gloves for the purpose. His embarrassment seemed ridiculous, even to himself. He pulled himself together and asked casually: 'You have not got very far yet?'
'I read every page a dozen times, otherwise you can't get the best out of it.'
'Do you like it?' He had to force himself to go on speaking, or he would have fallen to the ground as easily as the glass of water.
'A book is always beautiful. You need to understand it. There were grease spots on it, I've tried everything but I can't get them out. What shall I do now?'
'They were there before.'
'All the same, it's a pity. Excuse me, a book like this is a treasure.'
She did not say 'must cost a lot', she said 'is a treasure'. She meant its intrinsic value, not its price. And he had babbled to her of the capital which was locked up in his library! This woman must despise him. Hers was a generous spirit. She sat up night after night trying to remove old grease spots from a book, instead of sleeping. He gave her his shabbiest, most dog-cared and worn-out book out of sheer distaste, and she took it into loving care. She had compassion, not for men (there was nothing in that) but for books. The weary and heavy-laden could come to her. The meanest, the most forsaken and forgotten creature on the face of God's earth, she would take to her heart.
Kien left the kitchen in the deepest perturbation. Not one word more did he say to the saint.
In the lofty nails of his library he paced up and down and called on Confucius. He came towards him from the opposite wall, calm and self-possessed — it is easy to be self-possessed when you have been dead for centuries. With long strides Kien went to meet him. He forgot to make any obeisance. His excitement contrasted strangely with the bearing of the Chinese sage.
'I think that I am not wholly without education!' he shouted from a distance of five paces, 'I think I am not wholly without tact. People have tried to persuade me that education and tact are the same thing, that one is impossible without the other. Who tried to persuade me of this? You! He was not shy of Confucius; he called him 'you' straight out. 'Here comes a person without a spark of education and she has more sensibility, more heart, more dignity, more humanity than I or you and all your learned disciples put together!'
Confucius was not to be put out of countenance. He did not even forget to make his bow
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