before he was spoken to. In spite of these incredible accusations, he did not even raise his eyebrows. Beneath them, his eyes, very ancient and black, were wise as those of an ape. Deliberately he opened his mouth and uttered the following saying:
'At fifteen my inclination was to learning, at thirty I was fixed in that path, at forty I had no more doubts — but only when I was sixty were my ears opened.'
Kien had this sentence firmly fixed in his head. But as an answer to his violent attack, it disturbed him greatly. Quickly he compared the dates to see if they fitted. When he was fifteen he had been secretly devouring book after book, much against his mother's will, by day at school, and by night under the bedclothes, with a tiny pocket torch foi sole wretched illumination. When his younger brother George, set to watch by his mother, woke up by chance during the night, he never failed to pull the bedclothes off him, experimentally. The fate of his reading programme for the ensuing nights depended on the speed with which he could conceal torch and book underneath his body. At thirty he was fixed in the path of knowledge. Professorial chairs he rejected with contempt. He might have lived comfortably on the income from his paternal inheritance. He preferred to spend the capital on books. In a few more years, three perhaps, it would all be spent. He never even dreamed of the threatening future, he did not fear it. He was forty. Until this day he had never known a doubt. But he could not get over The Trousers of Herr von Bredow . He was not yet sixty, otherwise his ears would have been opened. But to whom should he open them?
Confucius came a step closer to him, as if he had guessed the question, bowed, although Kien was at least two heads taller, and gave him the following confidential advice:
'Observe the manner of men's behaviour, observe the motives of their actions, examine those things in which they find pleasure. How can anyone conceal himself! How can anyone conceal himself!'
Then Kien grew very sad. What had it availed him to know these words by heart? They should be applied, proved, confirmed. For eight long years he had had a human being in the closest proximity, and all for nothing. I knew how she behaved, he thought, I never thought of her motives. I knew what she did for my books. I had the evidence of it daily before my eyes. I thought, she did it for money. Now that I know what she takes pleasure in, I know her motives better. She takes the grease spots off wretched and rejected books for which no one else has a good word to say. That is her recreation, that is her rest. Had I not surprised her in the kitchen, out of shameful mistrust, her deeds would never have come to light. In her solitude she had embroidered a pillow for her foster-child and laid it softly to rest. For eight long years she never wore gloves. Before she could bring herself to open a book, and this book, she went out and bought with her hard-earned money a pair of gloves. She is not a fool, in other things she is a practical woman, she knows that for the price of the gloves she could have bought the book, new, three times over. I have committed a great sin, I was blind for eight years.
Confucius gave him no time to think again. 'To err without making amendment is to err indeed. If you have erred, be not ashamed to make the fault good.'
It shall be made good, cried Kien. I will give her back her eight lost years ! I will marry her ! She is the heaven-sent instrument for preserving my library. It there is a fire I can trust in her. Had I constructed a human being according to my own designs, the result could not have been more apt for the purpose. She has all the elements necessary. She is a born foster-mother. Her heart is in the right place. There is room for no illiterate fools in her heart. She could have had a lover, a baker, a butcher, a tailor, some kind of barbarian, some kind of an ape. But she cannot bring herself to it. Her
'At fifteen my inclination was to learning, at thirty I was fixed in that path, at forty I had no more doubts — but only when I was sixty were my ears opened.'
Kien had this sentence firmly fixed in his head. But as an answer to his violent attack, it disturbed him greatly. Quickly he compared the dates to see if they fitted. When he was fifteen he had been secretly devouring book after book, much against his mother's will, by day at school, and by night under the bedclothes, with a tiny pocket torch foi sole wretched illumination. When his younger brother George, set to watch by his mother, woke up by chance during the night, he never failed to pull the bedclothes off him, experimentally. The fate of his reading programme for the ensuing nights depended on the speed with which he could conceal torch and book underneath his body. At thirty he was fixed in the path of knowledge. Professorial chairs he rejected with contempt. He might have lived comfortably on the income from his paternal inheritance. He preferred to spend the capital on books. In a few more years, three perhaps, it would all be spent. He never even dreamed of the threatening future, he did not fear it. He was forty. Until this day he had never known a doubt. But he could not get over The Trousers of Herr von Bredow . He was not yet sixty, otherwise his ears would have been opened. But to whom should he open them?
Confucius came a step closer to him, as if he had guessed the question, bowed, although Kien was at least two heads taller, and gave him the following confidential advice:
'Observe the manner of men's behaviour, observe the motives of their actions, examine those things in which they find pleasure. How can anyone conceal himself! How can anyone conceal himself!'
Then Kien grew very sad. What had it availed him to know these words by heart? They should be applied, proved, confirmed. For eight long years he had had a human being in the closest proximity, and all for nothing. I knew how she behaved, he thought, I never thought of her motives. I knew what she did for my books. I had the evidence of it daily before my eyes. I thought, she did it for money. Now that I know what she takes pleasure in, I know her motives better. She takes the grease spots off wretched and rejected books for which no one else has a good word to say. That is her recreation, that is her rest. Had I not surprised her in the kitchen, out of shameful mistrust, her deeds would never have come to light. In her solitude she had embroidered a pillow for her foster-child and laid it softly to rest. For eight long years she never wore gloves. Before she could bring herself to open a book, and this book, she went out and bought with her hard-earned money a pair of gloves. She is not a fool, in other things she is a practical woman, she knows that for the price of the gloves she could have bought the book, new, three times over. I have committed a great sin, I was blind for eight years.
Confucius gave him no time to think again. 'To err without making amendment is to err indeed. If you have erred, be not ashamed to make the fault good.'
It shall be made good, cried Kien. I will give her back her eight lost years ! I will marry her ! She is the heaven-sent instrument for preserving my library. It there is a fire I can trust in her. Had I constructed a human being according to my own designs, the result could not have been more apt for the purpose. She has all the elements necessary. She is a born foster-mother. Her heart is in the right place. There is room for no illiterate fools in her heart. She could have had a lover, a baker, a butcher, a tailor, some kind of barbarian, some kind of an ape. But she cannot bring herself to it. Her
Similar Books
