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A whim, a caprice is to blame for his marriage. He entered into it against his will. He cannot forgive himself. It irritates him the more that he can only believe in the Categorical Imperative and not in God. Otherwise he could transfer the blame to Him. He thinks of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel to get some idea of God. There is no other credible Bible God to be found anywhere else in pictorial art. He needs Him in order to abuse Him. Aloud George uttered some non-committal sentence as far as possible removed from his thoughts.

'Why for all time? We were speaking of termites who have got the better of sex. It is therefore neither an inevitable nor an invincible evil.'

'Yes, and just such another miracle as the love riot in the termite hill and the burning of my library, which is impossible, out of the question, inconceivable, stark madness, treason unparalleled to priceless treasures such as no one else has gathered together, sheer scandal, an obscenity, something you must not even mention to me in jest, let alone presume, you can see now, I'm not mad. I'm not even a little unbalanced, I've gone through a lot, there's nothing wrong in getting excited, why do you sneer at me, my memory is perfect, I know everything I want to know, I am master of myself, why? — even if I married once I never had a single love affair, and you, what haven't you done in love, love is a leprosy, a disease, inherited from the first living organisms, others marry twice, three times, I had nothing to do with her, you insult me, you've no right to say it, a madman might do such a thing but I shan't set my library on fire, clear out, if you insist on it, go back to your Bedlam, where are your wits, you answer everything I say with Yes, or Amen! So far I've heard not one personal expression of thought from you, you rattle, you think you know everything! I can smell your contemptuous thoughts. They stink. He s mad, you think, because he abuses women! I'm not the only one! I'll prove that to you! Takeaway your filthy ideas! You even learnt to read from me, you squirt. You don't even know Chinese. Very well, I'll have my divorce later. I must rehabilitate my honour. A wife isn't necessary for a divorce. Let her turn in her grave. She's not even in a grave. She doesn't deserve a grave. She deserves hell! Why is there no Helh One must be founded. For women and womanizers, like you. What I say is the truth! I am a serious person. You are going away now and won't bother with me any more. I am alone. I have a head. I can look after myself. I'll not leave the books to you. I'd sooner burn them. But you'll die first, you're already worn out, that's your disgusting way of life, only listen to yourself, to the way you talk, without force in long involved sentences, you're always polite, you woman, you're like Eve, but I'm not God, those ways cut no ice with me! Take a rest from all this femininity! Maybe you'll become human again. Miserable, unclean creature! I'm sorry for you. If I had to change places with you, do you know what I'd do? I have not got to, but if I had to, if there were no other way, if the natural law was merciless—I would know a way out. I'd burn your lunatic asylum, till it flamed like daylight, with all its inhabitants, with me too, but not my books! Books are worth more than lunatics, books are worth more than men, you don't understand that because you're a play-actor, you need applause, books are dumb, they speak yet they are dumb, that is the wonder, they speak and you hear them more swiftly than if you had to hear them with ears. I'll show you my books, not now, later. You'll say you're sorry for your revolting suggestion, or I'll throw you out!'

George did not interrupt him, he wanted to hear it all. Peter spoke with such haste and excitement, that no friendly word would have held him up. He had stood up: as soon as he spoke of books, his small gestures expanded, grew determined. George regretted the image which, for the lack of another, he had chosen to illustrate the termites and their happy sexlessness in order to lure his brother's thoughts into the desired direction; it had proved, unfortunately, a bad choice. The mere thought that he could set fire to his books, burned Peter more than fire itself. He loved his library so dearly; it was his substitute for human beings. He might have been spared this painful vision: but still it had not been in vain. From it George learnt that there was a cure for the woman, more certain than poison; it was this overwhelming love which had only to be brought into play against that hatred and it would be extinguished and destroyed. It would be worth living for the sake of books which even from an imagined danger he would protect with such passion. Quickly and noiselessly I shall throw out the woman, George decided, and the caretaker with her, remove from the flat anything which may remind him of them, go through the library in case anything's missing, put his financial affairs in order — he's probably got little or nothing left — lead him back to the bosom of his books, fan his old love for a day or two, direct his attention to work which he had intended before, and then leave this dry fish to himself in his own dreary element — he finds it gay enough. At the end of six months I'll call on him again. I owe him these little attentions though he is my brother and I despise his ridiculous profession. I've discovered all I need to know about his married life. His judgments, which he thinks objective, are as transparent as water. First I must calm him down. He is calmest when he can disguise his hatred under the names of mythical or historical women. Behind these ramparts of his memory he feels safe against the woman upstairs. She could not make him a single answer on those scores. Fundamentally he is limited and has a petty character. His hatred gives him a kind of vigour. Perhaps a little of that will be left over for his later theses.

'You interrupted yourself. You wanted to say something important.' George broke gently, with a soft expectant voice, into Peter's staccato exclamations. So much gravity and officiousness disarmed his rage. He sat down once more, searched in his head and found, in a very little time, the requisite connecting thread.

'Just such another wonder as the love riot in the ant-heap and the impossible burning of my library would have been the destruction of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo himself. He might possibly — in spite of four years work — at the command of some crazy pope, have peeled off or painted over one figure after another. But Eve, this Eve, he would have protected against a hundred Swiss Guards. .She is his testament.'

'You have a nose for the testaments of great artists. History justifies you too, not only Homer and the Bible. Let's forget Eve, Delilah, Clytaemnestra and even Penelope, whose ruthlessness you have proved. They are formidable examples, outstanding figures for the demonstration of your point, but, who knows if they ever lived? A Cleopatra proves a thousand times more to us, amateurs of history.'

'Yes — I have not forgotten her, I had not got so far. Good, we'll omit the intervening ones ! You are not as thorough as I am. Cleopatra has her sister murdered — every woman fights every woman. She deceives Antony — every woman deceives every man. She exploits him and the Asiatic provinces of Rome for her own luxuries — every woman lives and dies for her love of luxury. She betrays Antony at the first moment of danger. She talks him into believing that she will burn herself alive. He kills himself meanwhile. She does not burn herself. But she has a mourning robe ready to hand, it suits her, dressed in it she tries to entangle Octavian. He was astute enough to lower his eyes. I dare swear he never saw her. The sly young fellow was in full armour. Otherwise she would have tried the touch of her skin, would have clung to him at the very moment when Antony was breathing his last. He was a man, Octavian, a fine man, he protected his body with armour and his eyes by casting them down! He is said to have answered not a word to her siren songs. I have a suspicion he may even have stopped his ears as Odysseus did for his part. Now, she couldn't captivate him through his nose alone. He could rely on his nose. Probably his olefactory organ was ill-developed. A man, a man I admire! Caesar yields to her, not he. And in the meantime she had grown a great deal more dangerous owing to her age, more importunate I mean.'

He even reproaches his wife her age, understandably enough, thought George. For a very long time he went on listening. Hardly a misdeed of womankind, whether historically vouched for or merely traditional was passed over. Philosophers explained their contemptuous opinions. Peter's quotations were reliable, and, since he spoke like a school master, imprinted themselves deeply on his brother's mind. Many a phrase, corrupted by time-honoured tradition, he would correct as he went along. You can always learn, even from a pedant. Much was new to George. Thomas Aquinas had said: 'Women are weeds which grow quickly, incomplete men; their bodies only come earlier to ripeness because they are ofless value, nature takes less pains with them. And in which chapter does Thomas More, the first modern communist, treat of the marriage laws of his Utopia? In the chapter on slavery and crime! Attila, King of the Huns, was called by a woman, Honoria, the Emperor's sister, into Italy her own homeland, which he very largely plundered and laid waste. A few years later the widow of that same Emperor, Eudoxia, married, after her husband's death, his murderer and successor, and called in the Vandals to Rome itself. Rome owed that notorious sack to her, as Italy owed the ravages of the Huns to her sister-in-law.'

Little by little Peter's anger grew less. He spoke ever more calmly, and cited appalling crimes almost casually. The material was more ample than his hatred. So as to omit nothing — his chief characteristic was still his accuracy — he divided it scrupulously into periods, peoples and thinkers. Only a little was left for each person. An hour ago Messalina would have heard a great deal more of herself. Now she got off lightly with a few lines of Juvenal. Even the mythology of certain negro tribes seemed to be saturated with contempt for women. Peter found his allies wherever they were. He could forgive the ignorance of illiterates if they agreed with him about women.

George used a small pause for recollection, to make a proposal; he offered it respectfully and with unchanged expectation, though it concerned simply a meal. Peter agreed: he would prefer to eat out of the house. He had seen enough of the closet. They went into the nearest restaurant. George felt, sidelong, that he was being closely watched. Scarcely had he opened his mouth before Peter was back on his hyenas. But soon his sentences gave way to silence. Then George too fell silent. For a few moments both rested from their vigilance. In the restaurant Peter ceremoniously took his place. He fidgeted on his chair until he had completely turned his back on a neighbouring lady. Immediately after another appeared, still older and more anxious to be looked at: even a Peter interested her; grateful for the attention which she soon hoped to attract, she took no exception to a skeleton. The head waiter, a gentleman of distinguished appearance, stood before George, whom he took for the benefactor of the hungry guest, and took his order. With inconspicuous nods in the direction of the beggar, he recommended two sorts of dish, nourishing for the poor fellow, and more refined for his benefactor. Suddenly Peter got up and declared curtly: 'We will leave this place!' The waiter was full of regret. He ascribed the blame to himself and overflowed with courtesies. George felt himself painfully moved. Without any explanation, they went. 'Did you see the hag?' asked Peter in the street. 'Yes.' 'She was looking at me. Atme! I am not a criminal. How can she have thought of such a thing, to look at me! What I have done, I am ready to answer for.'

In the second restaurant George took a private cubicle. Over their meal Peter went on with his interrupted lecture, long and tedious, his eyes always on the watch to see if his brother was listening. He lost himself in commonplaces and hackneyed stories. His speech limped along. Between sentences he fell asleep. Soon he would be separating his words by whole minutes. George ordered champagne. If he spoke more quickly he would be done sooner. Besides, I shall learn his last secrets, if he's got any. Peter refused to drink. He abhorred alcohol. Then he drank all the same. Or else, he said, his brother might think he had something to hide from him. He had nothing to hide. He was truth itself. His misfortune came from his love of truth. He drank freely. His learning shifted to another sphere. He revealed an astonishing knowledge of historic murder trials. With passion he defended the right of men to set aside their wives. His speech transformed itself naturally into that of the defending counsel, pleading before the court the reasons why his client had been forced to kill his fiendish wife. Her fiendishncss was clear from the immoral life which she would so willingly have led, from her provocative way of dressing, from her age which she tried to conceal, from the vulgar words which were her entire vocabulary, and above all from her sadistic violence which went so far as the most brutal beating. What man would not have killed such a woman; All these arguments Peter pursued at length and with deep emphasis. When he had finished he stroked his chin with satisfaction, like a true barrister. Then he pleaded in general for the murderers of less gifted women.

George learnt nothing new of the case of his brother. The opinion which he had already formed remained, in spite of the alcohol, intact. Injuries to pedantic heads are easily repaired. They arise from an excess of logic, and by logic they are cured. These cases were the only ones which George did not care for; they were not real cases. A man who is the same lit-up as he is stone-cold aeserves the lowest possible opinion. What an all-devouring lack of imagination in this Peter! A brain of lead, moulded out of letters, cold, rigid, heavy. Technically a miracle perhaps; but are there miracles in our technical times? The boldest thought to which a philologist can bring himself is that of murdering his wife. And even then the wife has to be more or less a monster, a good twenty years older than the philologist in question, his own evil image, a person who treated men as he treated the texts of great poets. If he were to carry out the murder, if he were to raise his hand against her and not draw it back at the last moment, if he were to go to his destruction for this crime, to sacrifice to his revenge manuscripts, texts, library, all the furniture of his lean heart — then hold his memory in honour! But he prefers to pay her off. He telegraphs first to his brother. He asks help for no murder. He will live and work another thirty years. In the annals of some science or other he will shine as a star of the first magnitude for all earthly eternity. Grandchildren, turning over the pages of the Transactions of this or that Sinological Society (for grandchildren of this kind too will be born) will come across his name. He has the same name himself. He ought to change it. Fifty years hence the Chinese National Government will honour him with a statue. Children, graceful, delicate creatures with slant eyes and smooth skin (when they laugh the hardest houses bend down) play in a street called after him. In their eyes (children are a bunch of riddles, they and everything around them) the letters of his name will become a mystery, he a mystery who during his life was so obvious, transparent, understandable and understood, who, if he ever was an enigma, was an enigma immediately solved. What luck that people do not usually know after whom their streets are called! What luck that they know so little altogether!