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; Bœtius 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 Bœtius,” 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.