Krakatit/Chapter 11

by Karel Čapek

CHAPTER XI

 

That night he dreamed; it seemed to him that he was studying a highly technical article in the Chemist. He came across the symbol An Ni and did not know what to make of it. He reflected, bit his knuckles and suddenly realized that it stood for Annie. And then he saw her in the room, smiling, with her arms clasped at the back of her head. He went across to her, took her in his arms and began to kiss her on the lips. Annie fought wildly with her elbows and knees while he held her brutally and with one hand tore her clothes into long strips. He already had his hands on her young flesh. Annie struggled desperately, her hair fell over her face, and now, now she suddenly became weak and drooped. . . . Prokop threw himself upon her; but instead found in his arms nothing but long rags and bandages. He tore them and ripped them up, trying to disengage himself from them, and then he woke up.

He was exceedingly ashamed of his dream, dressed quietly, sat down at the window and waited for the dawn. There is no frontier between night and day. The sky becomes the slightest bit pale; there is still neither light nor sound; but the signal has been given to nature to awake! Now, while it is still night, morning has begun. The cocks crow, the animals move in their sheds. The sky turns to pearl, grows brighter and then rose-coloured; the earliest red streak appears in the east; the birds begin to chirp and the first man to go to work sets out with a swinging step.

The man of science also sat down to work. For a long time he bit his penholder, and then decided to set down the first words. For this was to be a big affair, the result of twelve years of experiment and reflection, work really paid for with his own blood. Of course this would only be a rough draft, or rather a sort of physical philosophy or poem, or a confession of faith. It would be a picture of the world composed of figures and equations. But these figures of an astronomical order measured something other than the sublimity of the firmament; he was calculating the instability and destructibility of matter.

Everything that exists is a dull, latent explosive; but whatever the index of its inertia may be, it represents only an insignificant fraction of its explosive power. Everything which takes place, the movement of the stars, tellurian work, entropy, active and insatiable life itself, all this is only on the surface, while invisibly and incalculably there is gnawing beneath it that explosive force which is called matter. Consider now that the cord which binds it is nothing more than a cobweb on the limbs of a sleeping titan. Give him strength to disturb it and he will tear the surface off the globe, and hurl Jupiter on to Saturn. And you, humanity, you are only a swallow which laboriously builds a nest under the roof of the cosmic powder magazine; you twitter in the eastern sun while in the casks beneath you there vibrates silently the terrible potential of explosion . . .

Naturally Prokop did not write these things down; to him they were only a secret melody, which lent wings to the heavy phrases of the technical exposition. For him there was more phantasy in a bare formula and more blinding beauty in an index of explosiveness. And so he wrote his poem in symbols, figures, and the frightful jargon of scientific terminology.

He did not come down to breakfast. Annie came in and silently brought it to him. He thanked her, and then remembered his dream and was somehow unable to look at her. He stared obstinately into a corner. God knows how it was possible, but he nevertheless saw every golden hair on her bare arms. He had never noticed them so much before.

Annie was standing quite near him. “Are you going to write?” she asked in some uncertainty.

“I am,” he muttered and wondered what she would say if he were suddenly to put his head on her breast.

“The whole day?”

“The whole day.”

She was moving off, greatly impressed. She had firm, small and broad breasts, a fact of which she was probably unaware. But what did it matter!

“Is there anything you want?”

“No, nothing.”

It was silly. He would have liked to bite her arm or something. Women never seem to realize how much they disturb men.

Annie shrugged her shoulders, a little offended. “All right then.” And she was gone.

He got up and began to walk up and down the room. He was angry with himself and with her; and, the chief thing, he did not want to write any more. He collected his thoughts; but it simply would not go. He grew annoyed, and, in a bad frame of mind, strode from wall to wall with the regularity of a pendulum. One, two hours. Downstairs there was a rattling of plates; they were preparing lunch. He sat down at his papers again and put his head in his hands. A moment afterwards the servant came in and brought him his meal.

He pushed the food away almost untouched and cast himself irritably on the bed. It was clear that they had already had enough of him, that he also was tired of it all and that it was time to depart. Yes, the very next day. He made a few plans for his future work, without realizing why the process was so painful, and why he felt ashamed, and ended by falling into a deep sleep. He woke up late in the afternoon, with his soul clogged and his body demoralized by abominable slothfulness. He wandered about the room, yawned and, unable to think, became infinitely bored. It grew dark, and he did not even light the lamp.

The servant brought him his supper. He left it to grow cold and listened to what they were doing downstairs. He heard the chink of forks, the doctor grumbling and, directly after supper, slam the door of his room. All became quiet.

Convinced that he would meet nobody, Prokop pulled himself together and went into the garden. It was a moist and clear night. The lilac was already in blossom; Beetius stretched his starry arms across the sky; it was quiet but for the distant barking of a dog. Something white was leaning against the stone wall in the garden. Of course it was Annie.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he remarked, in order to say something, and leant against the wall next to her. Annie said nothing but only turned her face away and her shoulders trembled in an anxious and unaccustomed manner.

“That’s Beetius,” said Prokop hoarsely. “And above it . . . the Dragon and Cepheus, and over there is Cassiopeia, those four stars together. But you must look higher.”

Annie turned away from him and rubbed something away near her eyes. “There, where it’s clear,” said Prokop hesitatingly, “is Pollux, one of the twins. You mustn’t be angry with me. Maybe I was a bit rough with you, eh? I’m . . . something was worrying me, you see? You mustn’t take it to heart.”

Annie sobbed loudly. “And what’s . . . that one over there?” she said in a quiet, timid voice. “The brightest one of all, low down.”

“That’s Sirius, in the Great Dog. They also call it Alhaboa. And there right away to the left are Arcturus and Spica. There’s a falling star. Did you see it?”

“Yes. Why were you so angry with me this morning?”

“I wasn’t. I’m perhaps . . . sometimes . . . a bit crude; but I’ve had a hard life you know, too hard; always alone and . . . like an outpost. I can’t even talk properly. To-day I wanted . . . to write something beautiful . . . a sort of scientific prayer, so that everybody should understand it. I thought that .. . . that I’d read it to you; and then, everything dried up in me—one becomes ashamed of getting so excited. Or at least one should be able to say something. I’m stale, so to speak. You understand? I’m already growing grey.”

“But it suits you,” said Annie softly.

This aspect of the question took Prokop by surprise.

“Well, you know,” he said, in confusion. “It isn’t pleasant. It is already time . . . to bring one’s harvest home. What wouldn’t another do with all that I know! And I’ve got nothing, nothing, nothing from it all. I’m only . . . ‘berühmt’ and ‘célèbre’ and ‘highly esteemed’; and nobody here . . . knows anything about me. I think, you know, that my theories are pretty bad; I haven’t got a head for theory. But what I have discovered isn’t without value. My exothermic explosives . . . diagrams . . . and explosions of atoms . . . have a certain worth. And I have only published about a tenth of what I know. What wouldn’t another have done with it! I . . . don’t even understand their theories; they are so subtle, so rich . . . they only confuse me. My spirit is that of the kitchen. Put some stuff under my nose and I can tell by smelling it what to do with it. But to realize what follows from that . . . theoretically and philosophically, that I can’t do. I only know . . . facts; I create them; they’re my facts, do you understand? But still . . . I . . . feel some sort of truth in them; a great general truth . . . that changes everything . . . until it explodes. And this great truth is hidden in facts and not in words. And so one must go for facts, even if both one’s arms are torn off. . . .”

Annie, leaning against the wall, was scarcely breathing. Their gloomy guest had never said so much before—and, principally, had never spoken about himself. He had to struggle hard with words. There was wrestling within him an enormous pride, but also pain and shyness; and even when he spoke in terms of integral numbers Annie understood that something interior and humanly lacerated was taking place before her.

“But the worst of it is,” mumbled Prokop, “that sometimes . . . and especially now, it all seems to me to be stupid . . . and worthless. Even this final truth . . . in fact everything. It’s never happened to me before. Why? . . . Perhaps it would be wiser to give in . . . to everything”—(he indicated with his hands something surrounding them). “Simply to Life. A man mustn’t be happy; it softens him, you understand? Then everything else appears to be useless, small . . . and senseless. The best things . . . the best things are done by a man through desperation. Through anger, loneliness, being stunned. So nothing’s enough for him. I used to work like a maniac. But now, now I’ve begun to be happy. I’ve now learnt that perhaps . . . there’s something better than thinking. Here one only lives . . . and sees that it is something tremendous just to live. Like your Honzik, like a cat, like a chicken, Every animal understands that . . . and it seems to me so terrific, as if I have never lived before. And so . . . so I’ve again lost twelve years.”

His deformed right hand, sewn up God knows how many times, trembled on the wall. Annie was silent; she was resting her arms on the brick wall and looking up at the stars. Then something rustled in the shrubbery and Annie became frightened; she threw herself on Prokop’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Nothing; probably a marten; they come right into the yard after the chickens.”

Annie was reassured. Her young breasts, full and soft, were resting against Prokop’s right hand. She, perhaps, did not realize the fact herself, but Prokop was more aware of it than of anything else in the world. He was terribly afraid of moving his hand, for, in the first place, Annie would think that he had put it there on purpose, and in the second place, she would draw away from him. Curiously enough, as a result of this circumstance, he was unable to talk any further about himself and his wasted life. “I’ve——” he stammered in confusion, “I’ve never been so glad . . . so happy, as I am now. Your father is the finest man in the world, and you . . . you are so young . . .”

“I thought that you found me . . . too stupid,” said Annie quietly and happily. “You never spoke like that with me before.”

“True, never before,” said Prokop gruffly. Both became silent. He felt against his hand the light rising and falling of her breasts. He kept perfectly still and held his breath, and she, it seemed, was also holding her breath and trembling quietly, her eyes fixed on some spot in the distance. Oh, to caress and embrace her! Oh, the ecstasy of touching her for the first time! Involuntary and burning delight! Had you ever any adventure more intoxicating than this unconscious and self-sacrificing devotion? Timid and delicate body, like a drooping bud! If you could realize the agonizing tenderness of this rough youth's hand which, without moving, is caressing and holding you!

Annie suddenly drew herself up with an unnatural movement. Ah! girl, you haven't realized anything!” “Good-night,” said Annie quietly, her face pale and indistinct, and rather stiffly she gave him her hand. He stretched out his own faintly, as if it were broken, and stared fixedly in another direction. Didn’t she really wish to linger a little? No, she was already going. She hesitated; no, she stood still and pulled at the edges of some leaves. What more was there to be said? Good-night, Annie, and sleep better than I shall.

For there was certainly no question of going to bed now. Prokop threw himself down on the seat and put his head in his hands. Nothing, nothing had succeeded. Annie was pure and unconscious as a young doe, but enough of that; he was not a raw lad. Then a light showed in a window on the first floor. It was Annie in her bedroom.

Prokop’s heart beat wildly. He knew that it was shameful to watch her secretly; certainly as a guest he should not do such a thing. Finally he attempted to cough so that she should hear him; but somehow he found this to be false, and sat motionless like a statue, unable to take his eyes from the golden window. Annie moved to and fro, bent down, took a long time to do something or other. Aha! she was making her bed. Then she stood at the window, looking into the darkness, her hands behind her head exactly as he saw her in his dream. Now, now he would so gladly have liked to call to her; why did he not do so? But it was too late. Annie turned away and began to move about again. She was still there; no, she was sitting with her back to the window and slowly and reflectively taking her shoes off. Now, at least, he might depart, but instead he climbed up on to the seat, so as to see better. Annie turned round, already half undressed; she raised her bare arms and began to comb her hair. She moved her head and it all fell over her shoulder, gave it a shake and all this wealth of hair tumbled over her face and she set to work with the comb and brush until her head was as smooth as an onion.

Annie, a white virgin, stood motionless, with bent head, and braided her hair into two plaits. Her eyes were lowered and she whispered something to herself, smiled, and became ashamed. The strap of her chemise threatened to slip down. Plunged in reflection, she rubbed her white shoulder with a sort of delight, trembling with the cold.

The shoulder strap slipped still more dangerously, and the light was extinguished.

Never had he seen anything more white, more beautiful than that lighted window.