Prokop wandered about the park, irritable and yawning through lack of
sleep. He wondered what they wanted with him and contemplated with
dissatisfaction his huge, ungainly boots and worn-out trousers. Absorbed
in these reflections he very nearly walked on to the tennis court, where
the Princess was playing with two girls in white dresses. He hastily
turned aside and set off towards what he imagined was the end of the
park. But in that direction the park ended in a sort of terrace; a stone
balustrade and below it a wall nearly forty feet high. From the terrace
one had a view of the pine woods and of a soldier who was pacing up and
down below with a fixed bayonet.
Prokop then set off to the part of the park which sloped away from the
castle. There he found a lake with some bathing sheds, but overcoming the
temptation to bathe, he went on into a beautiful coppice of birch trees.
Here he came upon a lattice-work fence and a half effaced path leading to
a gate; the gate was not completely closed and it was possible to pass
through it into a pine wood. He walked quietly along over the slippery
pine cones until he reached the edge of the wood. And there, damnation,
was a fence surmounted by barbed wire, a good twelve feet high. How
strong, he wondered, was the wire? He tested it carefully with his hands
and feet until he noticed that his conduct had begun to interest a
soldier with a fixed bayonet who was standing on the other side.
“A hot day, eh?” said Prokop, to pass it off.
“You are not allowed here,” said the soldier; and Prokop swung round
and set off farther along the barbed-wire fence. The pine wood turned
into scattered young trees, behind which were a few sheds and stables,
evidently the yard belonging to the castle. He looked through the fence
and inside there immediately began a frightful howling, yelping and
barking, and a good dozen dogs, bloodhounds and wolfhounds, hurled
themselves at the fence. Four pairs of unfriendly eyes looked out of
four different doors. Prokop made some sort of greeting and wished to go
farther, but one of the servants ran after him, saying that “You’re not
allowed here,” after which he led him back to the gate at the end of the
birch wood.
All this put Prokop into a very bad frame of mind. Carson must tell him
which was the way out, he decided; he was not a canary, to be kept in
a cage. Making a detour to avoid the tennis court he made his way to
the road through the park, along which Carson had first led him to the
castle. No sooner had he reached it than a fellow in a flat cap, who
looked as if he had stepped out of a film, came up to him and asked where
the gentleman might be going.
“Outside,” said Prokop shortly; but “You’re not allowed here!” exclaimed
the fellow in the cap; “this is the road to the munition barracks and
anyone who wants to go along it must have a _laissez-passer_ from the
management. The gate leading outside directly from the castle is back
there on the main road and to the left, please.”
Prokop went along the main road and to the left, please, until he was
brought up by a large gate with a grating in it. The old doorkeeper went
forward to open it for him. “Have you a ticket, please?”
“What sort of ticket?”
“A pass.”
“What sort of pass?”
“A ticket, giving you permission to go out.”
Prokop became furious. “Am I in a prison, then?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders regretfully: “I was instructed this
morning, please.”
Poor wretch, thought Prokop, as if he could prevent anyone going out! A
movement of the hand——
From the window of the doorkeeper’s house there looked out a familiar
face, recalling that of Bob. Prokop left his train of thought unfinished,
turned back, and wandered again towards the castle. The devil, he said
to himself, they’re up to some curious tricks; it almost looks as if one
were a prisoner here. Good; I’ll discuss this with Carson. To begin with,
I’m not going to take any notice of their hospitality and shan’t join
them at dinner. I’m not going to sit down with those young ladies who
laughed at me behind my back on the tennis court. Infinitely dejected,
Prokop returned to the rooms which had been assigned to him and threw
himself down on a divan, giving himself up to his anger. A moment later
Mr. Paul knocked at the door and asked with great kindness and concern
whether the gentleman was going down to lunch.
“No, I’m not,” growled Prokop.
Mr. Paul bowed and disappeared. In a minute he had returned, pushing
before him a little table on wheels, covered with glasses, fragile
porcelain and silver. “What wine, please?” he asked tenderly. Prokop
muttered something so as to be left in peace.
Mr. Paul went on tiptoe to the door and there took from two white paws a
large dish. “_Consommé de tortue_,” he whispered and poured some out for
Prokop, upon which the dish was borne away in the white claws. By the
same route there arrived fish, meat, salad, and things which Prokop had
never eaten in his life and did not even know how to deal with; but he
was shy of exhibiting his embarrassment before Mr. Paul. To his surprise
his wrath had somehow disappeared. “Sit down,” he ordered Paul, savouring
the dry white wine with his nose and palate. Mr. Paul bowed considerately
but remained standing.
“Listen, Paul,” Prokop continued, “do you think that I’m in prison here?”
Mr. Paul politely shrugged his shoulders: “I am unable to say, please.”
“Which is the way out?”
Mr. Paul reflected for a moment. “Along the main road and then to the
left, please. Will the gentleman take coffee?”
“Well, perhaps.” Prokop burnt his throat with the superior Mocha, after
which Mr. Paul handed him all the perfumes of Araby, contained in a
cigar-box and a silver lighter. “Listen, Paul,” Prokop began again,
biting the end of a cigar, “thank you. Did you ever know a certain Thomas
here?”
Mr. Paul raised his eyes to heaven in an effort of recollection. “I
didn’t, please.”
“How many soldiers are there here?”
Mr. Paul considered and made a calculation. “In the main guard about
two hundred. That’s the infantry. Then the field militia, I don’t know
how many. In Balttin-Dortum a squadron of hussars. Some gunners at the
artillery ground in Balttin-Dikkeln.”
“Why do they have field militia here?”
“This is a military camp, please. In connection with the munition
factory.”
“Aha! And there’s only a guard just round this place?”
“Here there are only patrols, please. The chain is further away, behind
the wood.”
“What chain?”
“The protective zone, please. No one is allowed to go there.”
“And if anyone wants to leave the place——”
“Then he must obtain a permit from the camp commandant. Does the
gentleman require anything more?”
“No, thank you.”
Like a satiated Eastern potentate, Prokop stretched himself out on the
divan. Well, we shall see, he said to himself; so far things were not so
bad. He wished to reflect on the matter but instead could only remember
the way in which Carson had jumped about in front of him. Supposing he
hadn’t caught him? he thought and set off in pursuit. It was only a
question of a jump of about fifteen feet; but Carson soared up like a
grasshopper and flew smoothly over a clump of bushes. Prokop stamped
his feet and rose after him, but he had scarcely raised his feet when
he found himself skimming over the tops of the bushes. Another jump and
he was flying God knows whither, not worrying any more about Carson. He
glided about amongst trees, as light and as free as a bird; he tried a
few movements with his legs and found himself rising higher. This pleased
him inordinately. With powerful strokes he circled up and up. Below him,
like a beautiful map, there appeared the prospect of the castle park
with its arbours, lawns and serpentine paths; one could distinguish the
tennis courts, the pond, the roof of the castle, the birch wood; over
there was the yard with the dogs, and the pine wood and the wired fence,
and to the right began the munition sheds and behind them the high wall.
Prokop made his way through the air over the part of the park which he
had not yet visited. On the way there he saw that what he had regarded
as a terrace was really the old fortifications of the castle, a powerful
bastion with a moat, evidently formerly filled from the lake. He was
principally interested in that part of the park between the main entrance
and the bastion; there there were overgrown paths and wild bushes, and
a wall a good nine feet high, beneath which was some sort of a rubbish
heap; beyond was a kitchen garden and round it a wall in which was a
green gate; the other side of the gate ran the main road. “I’ll have a
look in that direction,” said Prokop to himself, and descended a little.
But at this point there appeared on the road a squadron of cavalry with
drawn sabres, advancing directly upon him. Prokop drew his knees up to
his chin, so that they should not slash at him; but through this movement
received such an impulse that he once more flew up to a height like an
arrow. When he looked down again he saw everything small as on a map;
down on the main road there was moving a tiny battery of artillery, the
polished muzzle of a gun was turned upwards, a small white cloud appeared
and bang! The first shell flew over Prokop’s head. They’re firing at me,
he thought, and quickly waved his arms so as to descend. Bang! Another
shell whizzed passed Prokop’s nose. He took to flight as quickly as he
was able. Bang! A third shell struck away his wings and Prokop shot head
downwards to earth and woke up. Some one was knocking at the door.
“Come in,” cried Prokop, and sprang up, not knowing what it was all about.
There entered the room a white-haired aristocratic-looking gentleman in
black, who bowed deeply.
Prokop remained standing and waited to see what the distinguished
gentleman might say.
“Drehbein,” said the minister (at least!) and bowed again.
Prokop bowed equally deeply. “Prokop,” he introduced himself. “What can I
do for you?”
“If you will kindly remain standing for a moment.”
“Please,” said Prokop, frightened as to what was going to happen to him.
The white-haired gentleman studied Prokop attentively for a moment; then
he walked round him and became absorbed in the contemplation of his back.
“If you would kindly draw yourself up a little.”
Prokop became as rigid as a soldier; what the devil——
“Allow me,” said the gentleman, and knelt down in front of Prokop.
“What do you want?” gasped out Prokop, recoiling.
“To take your measure.” And he drew out of his coat tails a tape measure
and began to consider Prokop’s trousers.
Prokop receded as far as the window. “Stop it, will you?” he said,
irritated. “I’ve ordered no clothes.”
“I’ve already received instructions,” said the gentleman respectfully.
“Listen,” said Prokop, recovering control of himself, “go to—I don’t want
any clothes and that’s that! Do you understand?”
“Please,” agreed Mr. Drehbein, and he squatted down in front of Prokop,
lifted his waistcoat and began to measure the top of his trousers. “Two
inches more,” he noted, getting up. “Allow me.” And he slipped his hand
along to Prokop’s armpit in a professional manner. “A little more free.”
“Good,” muttered Prokop and turned his back on him.
“Thank you,” said the gentleman and smoothed out a crease on the back of
his coat.
Prokop swung round, furious. “Take your hands away, man, or——”
“Excuse me,” said the gentleman and gently passed his arms round his
waist. Before Prokop had time to fell him to the ground he had loosened
his waistcoat strap, had stepped back and was regarding Prokop’s waist
with his head on one side. “So,” he said, completely satisfied and bowed
deeply. “I beg to take leave of you.”
“Go to the devil,” cried Prokop after him, and “It won’t be to-morrow
now,” he said to himself, after which he began to pace from one corner
of the room to the other. “Holy smoke, do these people imagine that I am
going to stay here for six months?”
Then there was a knock at the door and Mr. Carson entered with a
completely innocent face. Prokop, his hands behind his back, stopped
him and measured him with melancholy eyes. “Who are you, man?” he said
sharply.
Mr. Carson did not even blink, crossed his hands on his chest and bowed
like a Turk.
“Prince Aladdin,” he said, “I am a djin, your slave. Instruct me and
I will carry out your every wish. You’ve been to bye-byes? Well, your
Excellence, how do you like it here?”
“Enormously,” said Prokop bitterly. “I should only like to know whether
I’m a prisoner here, and if so, by what right.”
“A prisoner?” said Mr. Carson, astounded. “Good heavens, surely nobody’s
been preventing your going into the park?”
“No, but going out of the park.”
Mr. Carson shook his head sympathetically. “Unpleasant, eh? I’m terribly
upset that you’re dissatisfied. Did you bathe in the lake?”
“No. How do I get out?”
“By the main exit, of course. Go straight on and then to the left——”
“And there I’ve to show a pass, eh? Only that I have none.”
“A pity,” said Mr. Carson. “Such pretty country round about.”
“Mostly masses of soldiers.”
“A lot of soldiers,” agreed Mr. Carson. “Well said.”
“Listen,” burst out Prokop and his forehead twitched with anger, “do
you think that it’s pleasant to come upon a bayonet or a barbed-wire
entanglement every few yards?”
“Where’s that?” said Mr. Carson, astonished.
“Everywhere at the edge of the park.”
“And what in God’s name is taking you to the edge of the park? You can
walk about the middle; what more do you want?”
“So I am a prisoner?”
“God preserve us! So I shan’t forget it, here’s a pass for you. A
_laissez-passer_ to the factory, see? In case by any chance you would
like to have a look at it.”
Prokop took the pass from him and became amazed; on it was his
photograph, evidently taken the same day. “And with this I can get
outside?”
“No,” said Mr. Carson quickly. “I shouldn’t advise you to. Generally
speaking, I should be careful if I were you, eh? You understand? Come
and look,” he said from the window.
“What is it?”
“Egon is learning to box. Phew, he’s caught it! That’s Von Graun, see?
Aha! that kid’s got some spirit!”
Prokop looked with revulsion into the yard, where a half-naked lad,
bleeding from the mouth and nose, and sobbing with pain and anger, was
hurling himself again and again at an older opponent, to be thrown back
every time more bloody and pitiful than ever. What he found particularly
revolting was that the performance was being watched by the old Prince
from a bathchair, laughing for all he was worth, while Princess Willy was
chatting calmly all the time with a magnificently handsome man. Finally,
Egon collapsed into the sand completely stupefied and allowed the blood
to pour from his nose.
“Brutes!” roared Prokop, addressing the remark to no one in particular,
and clenched his fists.
“You mustn’t be so sensitive here,” said Mr. Carson. “Severe discipline.
Life ... as in the army. We don’t treat anybody gently here,” he added,
so pointedly that it seemed like a threat.
“Carson,” said Prokop seriously. “Am I here ... as it were ... in prison?”
“Good gracious, no! You’re only in a concern which is under supervision.
A powder factory isn’t quite the same sort of thing as a barber’s shop,
what? You must adapt yourself to the position.”
“I leave to-morrow,” Prokop burst out.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Carson and slapped him on the stomach. “A great
wag! You’ll come and see us this evening, eh?”
“I won’t go anywhere! Where’s Thomas?”
“What? aha! your Thomas. Well, at the moment a long way away. Here’s the
key of your laboratory. Nobody will disturb you. I’m sorry I’ve no time.”
“Carson!” Prokop wished to stop him, but he drew back before a gesture so
commanding that he did not venture to come nearer; and Mr. Carson slid
out of the room whistling like a trained starling.
Prokop made his way with his pass to the main entrance. The old man
studied it and shook his head; the pass, he said, was only valid for exit
C, the exit leading to the laboratories. Prokop went to exit C; the man
out of the film with a flat cap examined the pass and pointed: straight
ahead, then the third cross-road to the north. Prokop of course took
the first road to the south; but after five steps he was stopped by a
soldier: back and the third road to the left. Prokop ignored the third
road to the left and went straight ahead across a meadow; in a moment
three people appeared in front of him. He was not allowed to go this
way. Then he obediently went along the third road to the north, and when
he thought that there was no one watching him again turned off the road
between some munition sheds. Here he encountered a soldier with a fixed
bayonet who told him to go to cross-roads No. B11 Road N.6. Prokop tried
his luck at each cross-road; he was always stopped and sent back to road
B11 N.6; finally he learned reason and realized that a pass on which
were the letters “C3n.wF.H.A.V11.N6.barV.7.F.b!” had some secret and
unescapable significance which he was bound to recognize. So he now went
where they directed him. The munition sheds were left behind, and instead
were small concrete structures, all marked with numbers, evidently
experimental laboratories or something of the sort, distributed amongst
the sand dunes and pine woods. His path led to a completely isolated hut
numbered V.7. On the door was a brass plate marked “Eng. Prokop.” Prokop
brought out the key which Carson had given him and went inside.
He was confronted with a perfectly equipped laboratory for the chemistry
of explosives—so complete and modern that Prokop held his breath with
the delight of a specialist. On a nail there hung his old overall, in
the corner was a military palliasse like the one he had had in Prague,
and in the drawers of a magnificently appointed writing-table there
lay, carefully classified and catalogued, all his printed articles and
manuscript notes.