for a scholar's strength consists in concentrating all doubt on to his special subject. Here he must let doubt surge over him in a ceaseless and unrelenting tide; in all other spheres and in life as a whole he must accept current ideas. He may question with full justification the existence of the philosopher Lieh Tse. But he must take on trust the earth's circuit round the sun and the moon's round us.
Kien had graver things to consider and to overcome. The bedroom suite filled him with aversion. It disturbed him by constantly standing there, it wormed its way into his treatises. The amount of space it usurped contrasted with the pettiness of its meaning. He was delivered over to it, to these blockish lumps, what did he care where he washed or where he slept? Soon he would find himself discussing his meals, like nine-tenths of human kind; and the more plentiful they are the more they talk about them.
He had become absorbed in the reconstruction of a damaged text; the words rustled in the undergrowth. Keen as a hunter, his eye alert, eager yet cool, he picked his way from phrase to phrase. He needed a book and got up to fetch it. Even before he had it, that damnable bed crossed his mind. It broke the taut connections, it put miles between him and his quarry. Wash-stands confused the fairest trails. By broad daylight he saw himself asleep. Resuming his seat, he had to start again from the beginning, to find his way once more into the preserve, to recapture the mood. Why this waste of time? Why this despoiling of his energy and concentration?
Little by little he conceived loathing for the hulking bed. He could not change it for the divan; the divan was worse. He could not put it in another room; the other rooms belonged to that woman. She would never have agreed to give up what she had once got into her possession. He felt this, without discussing it with her. He would not even open negotiations with her. For he had gained one priceless advantage over her. For weeks not a word had passed between them. He took care not to break that silence. He would not rashly give her courage for more chattering; rather he would endure bed-table, wash-stand and bed. To give full sanction to the existing situation, he avoided her rooms. Such books as he needed thence, he would gather up at midday or in the evenings, after his meals, since, as he assured himself, he had legitimate business in the dining-room. During meals he looked past her. He was never wholly free of a lurking fear that she might suddenly say something. But distasteful as she was to him, he had to give her her due: she kept to the letter of the contract.
When washing, Kien closed his eyes at the touch of water. This was an old custom of his. He pressed his lids together more tightly than was necessary, to prevent the infiltration of the water. He could not safeguard his eyes too thoroughly. His old custom stood him in good stead with the new wash-stand. On waking in the morning, he rejoiced at the thought of washing. For at what other time was he released from the oppression of the furniture? Bending over the basin, he was blind to every one of these traitor objects. (Whatever diverted his attention from his work was fundamentally traitorous.) Plunging into the basin, his head under water, he liked to dream of earlier years. Then a still and secret emptiness had reigned. Happy conjectures fluttered about his rooms, colliding with no projecting surfaces. A divan, by itself, created little disturbance; it might hardly be there at all, a mirage on a far horizon, appearing only to vanish again.
Naturally enough Kien developed a taste for keeping his eyes shut. His washing concluded, still he did not open them. For a little longer he continued his blissful fantasy of the vanished furniture. Before he reached the wash-stand, as soon as he got out of bed, he closed his eyes, savouring in advance the relief so soon to be his. Like those people who determine to overcome a weakness,
Kien had graver things to consider and to overcome. The bedroom suite filled him with aversion. It disturbed him by constantly standing there, it wormed its way into his treatises. The amount of space it usurped contrasted with the pettiness of its meaning. He was delivered over to it, to these blockish lumps, what did he care where he washed or where he slept? Soon he would find himself discussing his meals, like nine-tenths of human kind; and the more plentiful they are the more they talk about them.
He had become absorbed in the reconstruction of a damaged text; the words rustled in the undergrowth. Keen as a hunter, his eye alert, eager yet cool, he picked his way from phrase to phrase. He needed a book and got up to fetch it. Even before he had it, that damnable bed crossed his mind. It broke the taut connections, it put miles between him and his quarry. Wash-stands confused the fairest trails. By broad daylight he saw himself asleep. Resuming his seat, he had to start again from the beginning, to find his way once more into the preserve, to recapture the mood. Why this waste of time? Why this despoiling of his energy and concentration?
Little by little he conceived loathing for the hulking bed. He could not change it for the divan; the divan was worse. He could not put it in another room; the other rooms belonged to that woman. She would never have agreed to give up what she had once got into her possession. He felt this, without discussing it with her. He would not even open negotiations with her. For he had gained one priceless advantage over her. For weeks not a word had passed between them. He took care not to break that silence. He would not rashly give her courage for more chattering; rather he would endure bed-table, wash-stand and bed. To give full sanction to the existing situation, he avoided her rooms. Such books as he needed thence, he would gather up at midday or in the evenings, after his meals, since, as he assured himself, he had legitimate business in the dining-room. During meals he looked past her. He was never wholly free of a lurking fear that she might suddenly say something. But distasteful as she was to him, he had to give her her due: she kept to the letter of the contract.
When washing, Kien closed his eyes at the touch of water. This was an old custom of his. He pressed his lids together more tightly than was necessary, to prevent the infiltration of the water. He could not safeguard his eyes too thoroughly. His old custom stood him in good stead with the new wash-stand. On waking in the morning, he rejoiced at the thought of washing. For at what other time was he released from the oppression of the furniture? Bending over the basin, he was blind to every one of these traitor objects. (Whatever diverted his attention from his work was fundamentally traitorous.) Plunging into the basin, his head under water, he liked to dream of earlier years. Then a still and secret emptiness had reigned. Happy conjectures fluttered about his rooms, colliding with no projecting surfaces. A divan, by itself, created little disturbance; it might hardly be there at all, a mirage on a far horizon, appearing only to vanish again.
Naturally enough Kien developed a taste for keeping his eyes shut. His washing concluded, still he did not open them. For a little longer he continued his blissful fantasy of the vanished furniture. Before he reached the wash-stand, as soon as he got out of bed, he closed his eyes, savouring in advance the relief so soon to be his. Like those people who determine to overcome a weakness,
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