He ran along the main road, breathing heavily, passed over the top of
the hill, and descended into a valley. The ruddy flow disappeared behind
him. There disappeared also the objects lit up by the dull glow and the
shadows thrown by it. It was as if everything was drifting confusedly
away, motionless, as if it were being carried on the breast of an immense
river, a river untroubled by any wave and unvisited by any bird. He
grew afraid of the beat of his own feet in the midst of this silent and
immense flux of everything; he relaxed his pace, trod more softly, and
went on through the milky darkness.
In front of him on the road he saw the twinkling of a light. He wanted
to avoid it, stopped and hesitated. A lamp on a table, the remains of
fire in a stove, a lantern looking for a path, while some worn-out moth
beat its wings against the flickering light. He approached it without
hurrying, as if not sure of himself. He stopped, warmed himself from a
distance at the unsteady fire, came nearer with a fear that he would
again be driven away. A short distance away he stopped again; it was
a cart with a covering of cloth. On one of the shafts was hanging a
lighted lantern which threw trembling handfuls of light on to a white
horse, white stones, and the white stumps of birch trees at the side of
the road. On its head the horse had a rough sack and was crunching some
oats. It had a long, silver mane and a tail which had never been clipped.
At its head there stood a little old man with a white beard and silver
hair. He also in colouring was coarse and pale, like the covering over
the cart. He stamped about, reflecting, saying something to himself and
twisting the white mane of the horse in his fingers.
Then he turned round, looking blindly into the darkness, and asked in a
trembling voice: “Is that you, Prokop? Come along, I’ve been waiting for
you.”
Prokop was not surprised, but only inordinately relieved. “I’m coming,”
he said, “but I’ve been running!”
The old man stepped up to him and took hold of him by the coat. “You’re
quite wet,” he said reproachfully. “You mustn’t catch cold.”
“Old man,” said Prokop hoarsely, “do you know that Grottup has exploded?”
The old man shook his head regretfully. “And what a lot of people must
have been killed! You ran away, eh? Sit down on the coach-box, I’ll give
you a lift.” He stumped over to the horse and slowly removed the sack of
oats. “Hi, hi, that’s enough,” he mumbled. “We must get along, we’ve a
guest.”
“What have you got in the cart?” asked Prokop.
The old man turned round to him and smiled. “The world,” he said.
“Haven’t you ever seen the world?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then I’ll show you—wait.” He put the nose-bag away and, without
hurrying, began to undo the covering on the other side. Then he threw it
back, revealing a box into which had been inserted a spy-hole covered
with a glass. “Wait a moment,” he said, looking for something on the
ground. He picked up a small branch, squatted on his heels over the
light, and lit the wick, all this slowly and seriously. “Now, burn
nicely, burn,” he said to it, sheltering it with his hands. Then he
placed it inside the box, lighting it up. “I use oil,” he explained.
“Some of them have carbide ... but that carbide hurts the eyes. And then
one day it explodes and there you are; besides, you might hurt somebody.
And oil, that’s like in a church.” He bent down to the little window, and
peered through it with his pale eyes. “You can see nicely,” he whispered,
delighted. “Have a look. But you must bend down, so as to be ... little
... like a child. That’s right.”
Prokop stooped down to the spy-hole. “The Grecian Temple in Girgent,”
began the old man, “on the island of Sicily, dedicated to God or to Juno.
Look at those pillars. They are made so carefully that a whole family can
eat on each stone. Think what work that means! Shall I go on turning?—The
view from the Mountain of Penegal in the Alps at sunset. Then the snow is
lit up with a strange and beautiful light, as it’s shown there. That’s
an Alpine light and that other mountain is called Latemar. Further?—The
sacred city of Benares; the river is sacred and cleanses the sinful.
Thousands of people have found there what they sought.”
The pictures were carefully drawn and coloured by hand. The colours had
faded a little and the paper had a tinge of yellow, but the charming,
variegated effect of the blues, greens, yellows and reds of the people’s
clothing and the pure azure of the sky remained; every blade of grass was
drawn with love and care.
“That sacred river is the Ganges,” concluded the old man reverently, and
turned the handle further. “And this is Zahur, the most beautiful castle
in the world.”
Prokop simply glued his eye to the hole. He saw a magnificent castle
with graceful cupolas, lofty palms, and a blue waterfall. A tiny figure
with a turban in which was stuck a feather, with a purple coat, yellow
pantaloons, and a Tartar sabre was greeting with a low bow a lady dressed
in white, who was leading by the bridle a prancing horse. “Where ...
where is Zahur?” whispered Prokop.
The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Somewhere over there,” he said
uncertainly, “where it is most beautiful. Some find it and some do not.
Shall I go on?”
“Not yet.”
The old man drew away a little and stroked the leg of the horse. “Wait,
nonono, wait,” he said gently. “We must show it him, see? Let him enjoy
himself.”
“Turn on, grandfather,” said Prokop. He saw in succession the harbour
at Hamburg, the Kremlin, a polar landscape with the Northern Lights,
the Volcano of Krakatau, Brooklyn Bridge, Notre-Dame, a native village
in Borneo, Darwin’s house, the wireless station in Poldhu, a street in
Shanghai, the Victoria Falls, the Castle of Gernstein, the petroleum
wells in Baku. “And this is the explosion in Grottup,” explained the
old man, and Prokop saw coils of reddish smoke being thrown high up in
the air by a yellow flame. In the midst of the smoke and flames could
be discerned fragments of human bodies. “More than five thousand people
perished. It was a great disaster,” sighed the old man. “That’s the last
picture. Well, have you seen the world?”
“No, I haven’t,” muttered Prokop, stupefied.
The old man shook his head in disappointment. “You want to see too much.
You will have to live for a long time.” He blew out the little lamp and,
muttering to himself, slowly covered the box up again. “Sit down on the
coach-box, we’ll go on.” He pulled off the sack which was covering the
horse’s back and put it over Prokop’s shoulders. “So that you shan’t be
cold,” he said, and sat down next to him. He took the reins in his hand
and whistled quietly. The horse set off at a gentle trot. “Hi! Now then,”
sang the old man.
They passed along an avenue of birches, by cottages half drowned in the
mist, a serene and sleeping countryside. “Grandfather,” Prokop found
himself saying, “why has all this happened to me?”
“What?”
“Why have I come up against so many things?”
The old man reflected. “It only seems like that,” he said finally. “What
happens to a man comes out of himself. It all winds out of you as if
from a skein.”
“That isn’t true,” Prokop protested. “Why did I meet the Princess?
Grandfather, perhaps ... you know me. You know that I’ve been looking for
... that other one, you understand? And yet it happened that—why? Tell
me!”
The old man considered this, munching with his soft lips. “It was your
pride,” he said slowly. “Sometimes it happens to a man like that, he
doesn’t know why, but it’s because he has it in him. And he begins to
throw himself about——” He illustrated what he was saying with the whip,
so that the horse became uneasy and increased its pace. “P-r-r-r, what,
what?” he cried to it in a thin voice. “You see, it’s the same as when
some little chap gives himself airs; he upsets everybody. And there’s no
need to make such a fuss. Sit still and watch the road and you’ll get
there all right.”
“Grandfather,” cried Prokop, half closing his eyes in pain, “have I done
wrong?”
“Yes and no,” said the old man cautiously. “You’ve hurt people. If you
had been sensible you wouldn’t have done it. One must be sensible. And
a man must realize the meaning of everything. For instance ... you can
burn a hundred crown note, or use it to pay your debts. If you burn it it
looks more, but ... it’s the same with women,” he concluded unexpectedly.
“Did I behave badly?”
“What?”
“Was I wicked?”
“... You weren’t clean inside. A man ... must think more than feel. And
you threw yourself at everything.”
“Grandfather, that was through Krakatit.”
“What?”
“I ... I made a discovery—and through that——”
“If it hadn’t been in you it wouldn’t have been in the discovery. A man
does everything out of himself. Wait and consider; think and try and
remember what your discovery came from and how it was made. Think about
that carefully and then say what you know. Hi, no, no, no, p-s-s!”
The cart rumbled over the rough road, the white horse moving its legs
in a tremulous and quaint trot. The light danced over the ground,
lighting up trees and stones, while the old man bumped up and down on
his seat, singing softly to himself. Prokop was rubbing his forehead.
“Grandfather,” he whispered.
“Well?”
“I’ve forgotten!”
“What?”
“I ... I’ve forgotten how to ... make ... Krakatit!”
“There you are,” said the old man calmly. “So you have found out
something.”