Now things were better. Life returned to Prokop day by day. He felt a
dulness in his head and he was always a little as if in a dream. There
was nothing to do but to shew his appreciation of the doctor’s services
and go on his own way. He announced this decision one day after supper
but everybody received it in stubborn silence. Then the old man took
Prokop by the arm and led him into the consulting-room. After a certain
amount of beating about the bush he said gruffly that Prokop must not
leave, that it was better for him to rest, that the battle was not yet
won—in short, that he was to remain. Prokop vaguely defended himself; the
fact was that he did not yet feel himself in the saddle and that he was
a little demoralized by comfort. All talk of going away was postponed
indefinitely.
Every afternoon the doctor shut himself up in his consulting-room. “Come
in and see me, eh?” he said to Prokop casually. And Prokop found him
surrounded by all sorts of bottles, crucibles, and powders. “There’s
no apothecary in the town, you know,” explained the doctor, “I have to
prepare the medicines myself.” And with his fat, trembling fingers he
laid some powder on the pan of the small balance. His hand was uncertain,
the scales twisted and jumped about; the old gentleman became agitated,
wheezed, and small drops of sweat appeared on his nose. “I can’t see as
well as I used to,” he said, excusing his old fingers. Prokop watched for
a moment and then, saying nothing, took the scales from him. Two little
taps and the powder was weighed to a milligram. And a second and a third
powder in the same way. The delicate balance simply danced in Prokop’s
fingers. “Just look at that,” said the doctor with admiration and watched
Prokop’s crushed, knotty hands with their shapeless knuckles, broken
nails, and short stumps in the place of one or two missing fingers. “Your
fingers are wonderfully nimble, man!” In the course of a few moments
Prokop had spread some ointment, measured off some drops of liquid, and
heated a test-tube. The doctor glowed with pleasure, and stuck on the
labels. In half-an-hour all the medicines were ready, and, in addition,
there was a pile of powders in reserve. In a few days Prokop could read
the doctor’s prescriptions and make them up. _Bon!_
One evening the doctor was poking about in the garden in the loose soil.
Suddenly there was a frightful report in the house, and a moment after
the noise of falling glass. The doctor dashed indoors and in the passage
ran into the terrified Annie. “What has happened?” he cried.
“I don’t know,” replied the girl. “In the consulting-room.” ... The
doctor ran there and found Prokop on all fours picking potsherds and
pieces of paper off the floor.
“What have you been doing?” cried the doctor.
“Nothing,” said Prokop, and got up guiltily. “A test-tube burst.”
“And what, in God’s name, does this mean?” thundered the doctor, stopping
suddenly; a stream of blood was pouring from Prokop’s left hand. “How did
you tear your finger?”
“Only a scratch,” Prokop protested and hid his left hand behind his back.
“Show me,” cried the doctor and dragged him to the window. Half of one
finger was hanging by the skin. The doctor rushed to the cupboard for
his scissors and in the open door saw Annie, deathly pale. “What do you
want?” he rapped out. “Be off, quick!” Annie did not move; she pressed
her hands to her breast and looked as if she might swoon away any moment.
The doctor turned to Prokop. To begin with he did something with some
wadding and then snapped the scissors. “Light,” he shouted to Annie.
Annie dashed to the switch and turned it on. “And don’t stay here,”
roared the old gentleman, dipping a needle into some benzine. “What can
you do here? Some thread, quick!” Annie sprang to the cupboard and gave
him a box full of thread. “And now away with you!”
Annie looked at Prokop’s back and did something else instead; she stepped
closer, took the wounded hand and held it in both of hers. The doctor at
the moment was washing his hands; he turned to Annie and was going to
burst out with something but instead grunted: “All right, hold it firmly!
And nearer the light!” Annie held the hand, her eyes blinking. When there
was nothing to be heard but the doctor’s heavy breathing she ventured
to raise them. Below, where her father was working, all was bloody and
revolting. She hastily glanced at Prokop; his face was turned away and
twitched with pain. Annie shivered and swallowed her tears.
Meanwhile Prokop’s hand grew larger and larger; quantities of wadding,
silk, and a good kilometre of bandages; finally an enormous white lump.
Annie continued to hold the hand. Her knees shook; it seemed to her that
this terrible operation would never be over. Suddenly her head began to
swim and the next thing that she heard was her father saying: “Drink
this quickly!” She opened her eyes and found that she was sitting in the
arm-chair in the consulting-room and that her father was handing her a
glassful of some stuff or other while Prokop was standing behind him,
smiling and holding his bound hand, which looked like a huge doll, across
his chest. “Drink it up,” repeated the doctor through his teeth. She
swallowed the contents of the glass and nearly choked with coughing; it
was murderously strong cognac.
“And now you,” said the doctor, and gave the glass to Prokop. Prokop was
a trifle pale and valiantly awaited the scolding which was due to him.
Finally the doctor himself drank, cleared his throat and said, “What
exactly have you been doing?”
“An experiment,” said Prokop with the twisted smile of a guilty person.
“What? What experiment? Experiment with what?”
“Only ... something with potassium chlorate.”
“What were you making?”
“An explosive,” whispered Prokop with the humiliation of a sinner.
The doctor’s eyes moved to his bandaged hand. “And you’ve paid for it, my
friend! It might have torn your hand off, eh? Does it hurt? But it suits
you,” he added bloodthirstily.
“But, father,” said Annie, “leave him alone now!”
“What’s that to do with you?” grunted the doctor and caressed her with a
hand which smelt of carbolic and iodoform.
* * * * *
After that the doctor kept the key of the consulting-room in his pocket.
Prokop ordered a parcel of scientific books, went about with his arm in a
sling and spent the whole day in study. The cherries had already begun to
blossom, the sticky young leaves were glistening in the sun, the golden
lilies were putting out heavy buds. Annie went about the garden with a
buxom girl friend, their arms round one another’s waists, laughing all
the time. They put their red faces together, whispered something, burst
out laughing and began to kiss one another.
At last Prokop felt bodily well again. Like an animal, he basked in the
sun, blinking his eyes. Then he would sigh and sit down to work, but
would at once feel an inclination to move about and wander far into
the country, passionately giving himself up to the joy of breathing.
Sometimes he would meet Annie about the house or in the garden and try
to say something. Annie would look at him out of the corner of her eye
and not know what to do. Prokop would be equally at a loss and cover his
embarrassment by speaking in a gruff voice. He felt better, or at least
more sure of himself, when he was alone.
In the course of his studies he noticed that there was a great deal that
he had missed. There were all sorts of new developments, and he was
obliged to orientate himself again. Chiefly he was afraid of not being
able to remember his own work, for it was in connection with this that
his memory suffered most. He worked like a mule, or else gave himself up
to dreaming. He dreamt of new laboratory methods, and at the same time
he was fascinated by bold and delicate theoretical calculations. When
his dull brain proved incapable of splitting the thin hair of a problem
he would grow angry with himself. He was conscious of the fact that
his laboratory “destructive chemistry” opened up the most marvellous
vistas in the theory of the constitution of matter. He came up against
unexpected correlations, immediately afterwards to be oppressed by the
laboriousness of his methods. Disgusted, he would throw everything down
and plunge into reading some stupid novel; but even here he was haunted
by the atmosphere of the laboratory. Instead of words he read only
chemical symbols, mad formulæ full of elements hitherto undiscovered,
which disturbed him even in his sleep.