Krakatit/Chapter 44

by Karel Čapek

CHAPTER XLIV

 

It was an overcast day and rain was falling in a fine drizzle. The Princess continued to cough and was alternately hot and cold, but she could not stay in bed. Impatiently she awaited Prokop’s answer. She looked out of the window to see if he might be coming, and again sent for Paul. The answer was always the same: Mr. Prokop was walking up and down his room. And did he say anything? No, nothing. She dragged herself from one wall to the other and then sat down again, rocking her body to and fro to calm her feverish anxiety. Oh, it was too much to be borne! Suddenly she began to write to him a long letter, entreating him to marry her, and saying that he must not give up a single one of his secrets, that she would enter his life and be faithful to him, whatever might happen. “I love you so much,” she wrote, “that there is no sacrifice which is too great for me to make for you. Test me, remain poor and unknown; I will follow you as your wife and never be able to return to the world which I left. I know that you only love me a little and that with a small part of your heart; but you will get used to me. I have been proud, wicked and passionate; now all is changed, all my familiar surroundings are strange to me, I have ceased to be——” She read the letter through and then tore it into pieces, moaning softly. It was evening. There were still no news of Prokop.

Perhaps he will come without announcing himself, she thought, and in impatient haste she put on her evening clothes, terribly agitated. She stood in front of her mirror and examined herself with burning eyes, horribly dissatisfied with her clothes, the way her hair was dressed, and everything possible. She covered her heated face with a thick layer of powder, and bedecked herself with jewels. But she seemed to herself to be ugly, impossible and awkward, “Hasn’t Paul come?” she asked every moment. At last he arrived: Nothing new; Mr. Prokop was sitting in darkness and had not ordered the lights to be lit.

It was already late and the Princess, utterly exhausted, was sitting in front of her glass. The powder was peeling off her burning cheeks, she looked positively grey and her hands were numb. “Undress me,” she ordered her maid weakly. The fresh, sturdy girl took off one ornament after another, loosened her clothes and wrapped her in a diaphanous peignoir. Just as she was about to begin combing the loose hair of the Princess, Prokop burst into the room, unannounced.

The Princess recoiled and became even more pale. “Go, Marie,” she breathed and drew the peignoir over her thin chest. “Why . . . have you come?”

Prokop leaned against a cupboard, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot. “So,” he said through his teeth, “that was your plan, eh? You arrange things for me nicely!”

She stood up as if she had been given a blow: “What—what are you saying?” Prokop ground his teeth. “I know what I’m saying. The idea was that . . . that I should give you Krakatit, eh? They’re getting ready for a war, and you, you,” he cried, “you are their tool! You and your love! You and your marriage, you spy! And I—I was to be lured into it so that you could kill, so that you could avenge yourselves——”

She sank into a chair with her eyes wide open with horror; her whole body was shaken by a terrible dry sob. He wanted to throw himself upon her, but she prevented him with a movement of her frozen hand.

“Who are you?” Prokop ground out. “You are a princess? Who persuaded you to this? Do you realize, you worthless creature, that you would have killed thousands and thousands of men, that you would have helped them to destroy cities, and that our world, our world and not yours, would have been obliterated! Obliterated, smashed to fragments, wiped out! Why did you do it?” he cried, and fell on his knees and crawled towards her. “What did you want to do?”

She raised to him a face full of horror and aversion and edged away from him. He bent his face over the spot where she had been sitting and began to cry with the heavy, crude sobs of a raw youth. She would have knelt next to him, but controlled the impulse to do so and retreated still further, pressing her convulsively twisted fingers to her breast. “So,” she whispered, “this is what you think?” .

Prokop was being suffocated by the weight of his pain. “Do you know,” he cried, “what war is? Do you know what Krakatit is? Have you never realized that I’m a man? And that—I have a contempt for you! That is why I was good to you! And if I had given up Krakatit it would all have been over; the Princess would have gone away, and I——” He sprang up, beating his head with his fists. “And to think that I wanted to do it! A million lives for the sake of—no, two million dead! Ten million dead! That—that for the sake of a marriage with a princess, eh? To lower oneself so far for that! I was mad! Aa-ah!” he roared, “I loathe you!”

He was terrible, like some monster, with froth on his lips, swollen face and the eyes of a madman. She pressed herself to the wall, deathly pale, with staring eyes and lips twisted with horror.

“Go,” she wailed, , go away!”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said hoarsely, “I shan’t kill you. I always loathed you; even when—even when you were mine, I was horrified and didn’t believe you even for an instant. And yet, yet I—I shan’t kill you. I—know quite well what I’m doing. I—I——” He looked round, picked up a bottle of eau de Cologne, poured a generous quantity of it over his hands and rubbed it on his forehead. “Aha!” he cried, “aha-ha! Don’t—be afraid! No—no——”

He calmed down a little, sat down on a chair and put his face in his hands. “Now,” he began hoarsely. “Now, now we must talk, eh? You see that I’m quiet. Not even . . . not even my fingers are trembling. . . .” He stretched out his hand to show her, but it trembled so that it was frightful to look at it. “We can . . . undisturbed, eh? I’m quite calm again. You can dress. Now . . . your uncle told me that . . . that I’m obliged . . . that it’s a question of honour for me to make it possible for you . . . to repair your slip and that I must . . . simply must . . . earn the right to a title . . . sell myself, and pay for the sacrifice which you——”

She got up deathly pale and wanted to say something. “Wait,” he interrupted her. “I haven’t yet— You all thought . . . and have your own ideas about honour. But you made a terrible mistake. I’m nota nobleman. I’m . . . the son of a cobbler. That doesn’t matter much, but . . . I’m a pariah, you understand? An absolutely commonplace person. I haven't any honour. You can drive me away like a thief or send me off to a fortress. I won’t give it up. I won’t give Krakatit up. You may think . . . that I’m base. You can tell them . . . what I think about war. I was in the war and I saw poison gases . . . and know what people are capable of. I won’t give up Krakatit. Why should I trouble to explain it all to you? You won’t understand me; you’re simply a Tartar princess and too lofty. . . . I only want to tell you I won’t give it up and I humbly thank you for the honour—incidentally, I’m engaged already; I certainly don’t know her, but I’ve betrothed myself to her—that’s my baseness again. I’m sorry that. . . I’m not worthy of your sacrifice.”

She stood as if petrified, digging her nails into the wall. It was painfully quiet. He got up slowly and heavily: “Have you anything to say?”

“No,” she said quietly and her large eyes continued to gaze into the distance. She looked exquisitely young and tender in her peignoir; he would have knelt down and kissed her trembling knees.

He approached her, wringing his hands. ‘“Princess,” he said in a controlled voice, “now they’ll take me away as a spy or something of the sort. I shan’t try to defend myself. I am prepared for whatever happens. I know that I shall never see you again. Have you anything to say to me before I leave?”

Her lips trembled, but she said nothing. Oh God! why was she staring like that into the distance?

He drew near her. “I loved you,” he said, “I loved you more than I am able to say. I am a base and rough man, but I can tell you that . . . that I loved you differently . . . I took you . . . and held on to you through fear that you might not be mine, that you would escape me; I wanted to make sure; I could never believe it; and so I——” Not realizing what he was doing, he placed his hand on her shoulder; she trembled under the thin peignoir. “I loved you . . . desperately . . .”

She turned her eyes on him. “Darling,” she whispered and her pale face was flushed for a moment. He bent down and kissed her trembling lips; she made no resistance.

“What,” he ground his teeth, “I love you now?” With rough hands he tore her from the wall and enveloped her in his embrace. She struggled as if she were mad, so powerfully that if he had released his grip she would have fallen on the floor. He held her more closely, staggering himself through her desperate resistance. She writhed with clenched teeth and hands pressed convulsively against his chest; her hair fell over her face and she bit it to prevent herself shrieking and tried to push him away as if she was having an attack of epilepsy. It was incredible and horrible; he was conscious of only one thing: that he must not let her fall on the ground and that he must avoid knocking any chairs over. What . . . what would he do if she evaded, him? He would sink through the earth for shame. He drew her to him and buried his lips in her tangled hair; he encountered a burning forehead. She turned away her head with revulsion and tried still more desperately to free herself of the iron grip of his arms.

“I’ll give up Krakatit,” he heard his own voice say, to his horror. “I’ll give it up, you hear? I’ll give up everything! A war, a new war, millions of dead. It’s all the same to me. Do you want me to? Say one word—I’m telling you, that I’ll give up Krakatit! I swear that I’ll . . . I love you, do you hear? What . . . whatever happens! Even . . . even if I had to destroy the whole world—I love you!”

“Let me go,” she wailed, struggling.

“I can’t,” he groaned, his face buried in her hair. “I’m the most miserable man on earth. I’m a traitor to the whole world. To the whole human race. Spit in my face, but don’t dr—drive me away! Why can’t I let you go? I’ll give you Krakatit, you hear? I’ve sworn to; but then forget me! Where—where’s your mouth? I’ma monster, but kiss me! I’m lost——” He swayed as if he were about to fall and now she could slip out of his grasp. He stretched out his arms vaguely and she threw the hair back from her face and offered him her lips. He took her in his arms, quiet and passive, and kissed her closed lips, her burning cheeks, her neck, her eyes; he was sobbing hoarsely and she made no effort to defend herself. Then he grew frightened by her motionless passivity, let her go and drew back. She staggered, passed her hand over her forehead, smiled weakly—and put her arms round his neck.