When he joined the company that evening, still not able to believe what
had happened, and in an acute state of tension, he found her looking
so beautiful that he scarcely knew her. She was conscious of the
burning glance with which he enveloped her, glowed with pleasure, and,
indifferent to the presence of the others, gave him ardent looks in
return. There was a new guest at the castle, named d’Hémon, a diplomat,
or something of the sort, Mongolian in appearance, with purple lips
and a short black beard. He was evidently thoroughly familiar with
physical chemistry; Becquerel, Planck, Niels Bohr, Milliken and similar
names simply poured out of his mouth. He had read about Prokop and was
extremely interested in his work. Prokop allowed himself to be diverted,
talked at some length and forgot for a moment to look at the Princess. As
a result he received such a kick on the shin that he positively jumped
and all but returned it. The kick was accompanied by a passionately
jealous glance. At that moment he was obliged to answer a stupid question
put by Prince Suwalski regarding the nature of this energy that they are
always talking about. He grasped the sugar-bowl and gave the Princess
such a bitter look that she imagined that he was going to throw it at
her. He then went on to explain to the Prince that if all the energy
which it contained could be liberated at the same moment it would be
sufficient to hurl Mont Blanc and Chamonix into the air; but that, as it
happened, such a thing could never take place.
“But you’ll do it,” said d’Hémon seriously and definitely.
The Princess leaned over towards them: “What were you saying?”
“I was saying that he will do it,” repeated Monsieur d’Hémon with perfect
simplicity.
“There you are,” said the Princess loudly, and sat down victoriously.
Prokop grew red and did not dare to look at her.
“And if he does do it,” she asked breathlessly, “will he be terribly
famous? Like Darwin?”
“If he does it,” said Monsieur d’Hémon without hesitation, “kings will
consider it an honour to carry his coffin. That is, if there are still
any kings.”
“Rubbish,” muttered Prokop, but the Princess glowed with inexpressible
delight. He would not have looked at her for anything in the world;
embarrassed, he mumbled something or other, crumbling a piece of sugar
in his fingers. Finally he ventured to lift his eyes. She looked at him
directly, with passionate love. “Do you?” she said to him under her
breath. He understood only too well what she meant: Do you love me?—but
he pretended that he had not heard and quickly looked at the tablecloth
instead. God! that girl’s mad, or else she deliberately wants.... “Do
you?” came to him across the table, still more loudly and urgently. He
nodded quickly and looked at her with eyes filled with happiness. Luckily
in the midst of the general conversation nobody noticed them; only
Monsieur d’Hémon preserved his discreet and remote expression.
The conversation roved all over the place until suddenly Monsieur
d’Hémon, evidently an exceptionally well-informed man, began to talk to
Von Graun about his genealogy up to the thirteenth century. The Princess
listened with extraordinary interest, whereupon the new guest talked
instead about her ancestry, without the slightest difficulty. “Enough,”
cried the Princess when he had reached the year 1007, when the first
Hagen founded a barony in Esthonia, having murdered somebody or other;
for the genealogical experts had been unable to go back any further.
But Monsieur d’Hémon continued: This Hagen or Agen the One-armed was
clearly a Tartar Prince, captured in the course of an expedition into
the district of Kamsk. Persian history mentions a certain Khan Agan, who
was the son of Giw Khan, King of the Turkomans, the Uzbeks, Sards and
Kirghiz, while he again was the son of Weiwus, the son of the conqueror
Li-taj Khan. This “Emperor” Li-taj is referred to in the Chinese
chronicles as the ruler of Turkoman, Altai and Western Thibet, who had
slain as many as fifty thousand people, amongst whom was a Chinese
Governor, round whose head he had had twisted a wet rope, until the bones
broke. Nothing was known of Li-taj’s ancestors. More might be discovered
if access was ever gained to the archives in Lhassa. His son, Weiwus, who
was regarded even by the Mongolians as being rather wild, was beaten to
death with tent-poles in Kara Butak. His son Giw Khan depopulated Chiv
and extended his activities as far as Itil or Astrachan, where he became
famous for having plucked out the eyes of two thousand people and driven
them into the Kuban Steppe. Agan Khan continued in his footsteps, having
sent out expeditions as far as Bolgar or the Simbirsk of to-day, where
he was taken prisoner, his right hand amputated and kept as a hostage
until the time when he was able to flee to Balt among the Livs who then
inhabited the district. There he was baptized by the German bishop,
Gotilly or Gutilly and—probably through religious zeal—murdered in the
cemetery in Verro the sixteen-year-old heir to the Pechorski barony,
taking his sister to wife. Through this bigamy he was able to extend his
territory as far as Lake Pejpus. See the chronicles of Nikifor, where he
is referred to as “Prince Agen,” while the Osel Chronicle alludes to him
as “Rex Aagen.” His descendants, concluded Monsieur d’Hémon quietly, were
driven out, but never dethroned.
Monsieur d’Hémon then got up, bowed, and remained standing. His remarks
produced an enormous sensation. The Princess simply drank in every one
of his words, as if this line of Tartar cutthroats was the finest in
the world. Prokop watched her with dismay; she did not even wince at
the story of four thousand eyes having been plucked out. Involuntarily
he looked for Tartar features in her face. She was extraordinarily
beautiful, drew herself up and enveloped herself in her own dignity;
suddenly there was such a distance between her and all the others that
they all became as formal as if it were a state banquet, not daring
to look at her directly. Prokop wanted repeatedly to strike the table,
say something rough, disturb this frozen scene. She sat with eyes cast
down, as if she were waiting for something, and across her face there
flashed something like impatience. The company looked at one another
interrogatively, at the dignified Monsieur d’Hémon, and at last one by
one rose to their feet. Prokop also stood up, not realizing what was
happening. What on earth could it mean? They all stood quite stiffly
with their arms at their sides looking at the Princess. Then she raised
her eyes like some one who is expressing thanks for homage, and they all
sat down. Only when Prokop was in his seat again did he realize with
consternation that they had all just made obeisance to their ruler. He
suddenly became so angry that he broke into a sweat. Heavens, that he
should have taken part in such a farce! How on earth was it possible that
they did not burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the comedy which
they had just played?
He was getting ready to laugh with the others, when the Princess rose.
All the others did the same, and Prokop was convinced that now the ice
would break. He looked around him and his eyes fell on the fat cousin,
who, his arms hanging down at his sides, was approaching the Princess,
inclined slightly forwards; surely it must all be a joke. The Princess
spoke to him and nodded her head; the fat cousin bowed and retired. What
was happening? Now the Princess gave a quick glance at Prokop, but he did
not move. The rest stood on tiptoe and watched him fixedly. Again the
Princess made a sign with her eyes; still he did not move. The Princess
stepped towards an old, one-armed major from the artillery, covered with
medals. The major was just drawing himself up when she turned aside and
was suddenly quite close to Prokop.
“Darling, darling,” she said in a clear soft voice, “do you——? You’re
getting angry again. I should like to kiss you.”
“Princess,” said Prokop in a thick voice, “what does this farce mean?”
“Don’t shout like that. It’s more important than you imagine. Do you know
that they now want to give me in marriage?” She trembled with horror.
“Darling, go away now. Go down the passage to the third room on the right
and wait there for me. I must see you.”
“Listen,” Prokop wanted to say, but she only inclined her head and moved
suavely across to the old major.
Prokop could not believe his eyes.
Could such things happen? Was it not really a carefully arranged
performance? Were the different people taking their rôles seriously? The
fat cousin took him by the arm and discreetly led him aside. “Do you know
what this means?” he whispered excitedly. “The old Hagen is paralyzed.
It’s a ruling family! Did you see that heir to a throne? There was to
be a marriage, but it didn’t come off. That man is certainly sent here
purposely. God, what a pedigree!” Prokop got free of him. “Excuse me,” he
mumbled, walked down the passage as slowly as possible and went into the
appointed room. It was a sort of little boudoir for drinking tea, with
shaded lights, everything lacquered, black porcelain and other rubbish.
Prokop strode about this miniature apartment with his hands behind his
back, buzzing like a blow-fly which hits its head against the glass of a
window-frame. _Sacra_, things were altered and for the sake of a lousy
Tartar pedigree which a decent person would be ashamed of.... A nice
reason! And on account of a handful of such Huns these idiots crawled
along on their bellies and she, she herself.... The blow-fly butted
the glass in a frenzy. Now.... This Tartar princess would come in and
say: Darling, darling all is over between us; you must realize that the
granddaughter of Li-taj Khan can’t love the son of a cobbler. Tap, tap;
he heard in his head the noise of his father’s hammer and he could almost
smell the odour of the leather and of the cobbler’s wax; and his mother,
in a blue apron, was standing, flushed, over the stove....
The blow-fly buzzed desperately. “We shall see, Princess! What have you
let yourself in for, man? When she comes you must knock your forehead on
the floor and say: Pardon, Tartar princess, I shall not show myself in
your presence again....”
In the little room there was a faint smell of quince, and the light was
dull and soft. The desperate fly continued to strike its head on the
glass and complain in a voice that was almost human. What have you let
yourself in for, idiot?
The Princess suddenly glided noiselessly into the room. At the door she
reached out for the switch and turned out the light. In the darkness
Prokop felt a hand which lightly touched his face and then passed round
his neck. He took the Princess in his arms; she was so supple and almost
incorporate, that he touched her fearfully as if she were something
fragile. She covered his face with her aerial kisses and whispered
something which he could not catch; he felt his hair being delicately
stroked. Then he felt her sinuous body yielding, the arm round his neck
pressed him more closely and her moist lips moved on his own, as if
they were speaking voicelessly. Trembling all over, she grasped Prokop
more and more firmly, pulled down his head, pressed herself to him with
her breasts and knees, twined both her arms round him; a passionate,
agonizing embrace, the moaning of a creature which is being suffocated;
they staggered in a convulsive, insane embrace. Never to leave go. To
devour one another! To fuse into one being or to die! She was sobbing
helplessly, but he freed himself from the terrible grip of her hands. She
swayed as if she were intoxicated, pulled a handkerchief out of her bosom
and wiped her lips, and without saying a word passed into the adjacent
room.
With a splitting head Prokop remained in the darkness. This last embrace
seemed to him to mean farewell.