Krakatit/Chapter 46

by Karel Čapek

CHAPTER XLVI

 

He stood still and strained his ears in terror, fearing to hear the sound of the car crashing off the road somewhere at a corner. Was not that the sound of a motor in the distance? Was that terrible and deathly silence the end? Beside himself. Prokop dashed down the road after her. Running down the serpentine road, he finally reached the end of the slope. But not a trace of the car was to be seen. He rushed back again, examining the road on each side, clambered down, tearing his hands whenever he caught sight of anything conspicuous, but it always proved to be only a stone or a bush, and he again scrambled up and pounded along the road, staring into the darkness, in case he should come upon a pile of wreckage, and under it . . .

He was again back at the cross-roads; it was here that she had begun to disappear into the darkness. He sat down on a milestone. It was quiet, utterly quiet. Above him were the cold stars. Was the dark meteor of the car flying along somewhere? Would there never be a sound, the cry of a bird, the barking of a dog in a village, some sign of life? But everything was bathed in the majestic silence of death. And this was the end, the silent, dark and icy end of everything—a desert surrounded by darkness and silence—an icy desert in which time stood still. If only it were the end of the world! The earth would open and above the noise of the tempest would be heard the words of the Lord: I take you back to myself, weak and miserable creature; there was no purity in you and you set free evil forces. Loved one. I will make you a bed out of nothingness.

Prokop began to tremble beneath the crown of thorns of the universe. And now human suffering was nothing and had no value; he was a tiny, shrivelled up, trembling bubble at the bottom of an abyss. Good, good; you say that the world is infinite, but if I could only die!

In the east the sky began to go pale. The road and the white stones could already be seen clearly. Look, here were the marks of wheels in the dead dust. Prokop picked himself up, numb and cold, and started to walk. Downhill, towards Balttin.

He went on without stopping. Here was a village, an avenue lined with blackberries, a little bridge over a dark and silent river. The mist disappeared and the sun began to shine through; again a grey and cold day, red roofs, a herd of cows. How far might it be to Balttin? Sixteen, sixteen kilometres. Dry leaves, nothing but dry leaves.

A little after mid-day he sat down on a pile of pebbles; he could go no farther. A peasant’s cart approached; the driver drew up and looked at the exhausted man. “Can I give you a lift?” Prokop nodded gratefully and sat down next to him without a word. Later the cart drew up in a little town. “Here we are,” said the peasant. '“Where exactly are you going?” Prokop got down and went on by himself. How far might it be to Balttin?

It began to rain, but Prokop could go no farther and remained leaning against the wall of a bridge. Underneath was a cold, foaming current. Suddenly a car approached the bridge, slowed down and then stopped. Out of it sprang a man in a leather coat who came up to Prokop. “Where are you going?” It was Mr, d’Hémon, with goggles over his Tartar eyes and looking like an enormous shaggy beetle. “"I’m going to Balttin; they’re looking for you.”

“How far is it to Balttin?” whispered Prokop.

“Forty kilometres. What do you want there? They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest. Come along. I’ll take you away.”

Prokop shook his head.

“The Princess has left,” continued Mr, d’Hémon quietly. “Early this morning, with Uncle Rohn. Chiefly so that she should forget . . . a certain unpleasant experience in connection with running over somebody.”

“Is he dead?” breathed Prokop.

“Not yet. In the second place, the Princess, as you possibly know, has consumption seriously. They’re taking her to somewhere in Italy.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

Prokop stood up, swaying. “In that case——

“Will you come with me?”

“I don’t . . . know. Where?” “Where you like.” “I should like to go . . . to Italy.”

"Come along.” Mr, d’Hémon helped Prokop into the car, threw a fur rug over him and slammed the door to. The car started off.

And again the countryside began to unroll itself, but curiously, as if in a dream and backwards; a little town, an, avenue of poplars, pebbles, a bridge, a village. The snorting car climbed zig-zag fashion up a long hill; and here was the cross-roads where they had parted. Prokop raised himself up and would have jumped out of the car, but Mr, d’Hémon drew him back, and put the car into top speed. Prokop closed his eyes and now they were no longer going along the road but had mounted into the air and were flying. He felt the pressure of the air on his face and the impact of scraps of cloud like rags. The noise of the motor became a deep, prolonged roar. Below there was still probably the earth, but Prokop was afraid to open his eyes and see again the flying avenue. Quicker! To be smothered! Quicker still! His chest was constricted by terror and dizziness, he could hardly breathe, and gasped with delight at the wild way in which they tore through space. The car slipped up and down hills and valleys while from somewhere beneath their feet there came the cries of people and the whining of a dog. Sometimes they turned almost lying over on their sides, as if they had been caught up by a tornado. Now again they were flying straight ahead, pure speed, whizzing across country like an arrow.

He opened his eyes. Misty darkness, a row of lights shining through it, lights of a factory. Mr. d’Hémon drove the car in and out of the traffic in the streets, slipped through a suburb which seemed to be in ruins and they were again in the open. In front of the car stretched two long antennæ of light which fell on rubbish, mud, stones. The car whirled round corners, the exhaust drumming like a machine gun, and then threw itself at a long stretch of road as if it were winding it in. To the right and the left was a criss-cross pattern of narrow valleys between hills. The car turned off into it and plunged into woods, noisily twisting its way upwards and dropping head first into further valleys. The villages breathed rings of light into the thick fog and the car flew on, roaring and leaving behind it clouds of sparks, rushing down hills, and climbing in spirals higher, higher, higher. At last it jumped over something and lurched. Stop! They pulled up in black darkness; no, it was a house. Mr. d’Hémon stepped out of the car, breathing heavily, knocked at the door and engaged some people in conversation. A moment later he returned with a can of water and poured its contents into the hissing radiator; in the bright light of the car's lamps he looked in his fur coat like a devil from some story for children. Then he went round the car, felt the tyres, raised the hood and said something, but Prokop, utterly exhausted, was already half asleep. Then he again became conscious of the everlasting rhythmic vibration and fell asleep in the corner of the car, having no idea what was happening beyond the continuous shaking. He only recovered consciousness when the car had stopped in front of a brightly lighted hotel amongst stretches of snow. The air was sharp and cold.

He woke up numb and worn out. “This , this isn’t Italy,” he stammered, surprised.

“Not yet,” said Mr, d’Hémon, “but come and have something to eat.” He led Prokop, who was dazzled by so many lights, to an isolated table. A white tablecloth, silver, warmth, a waiter like an ambassador. Mr. d’Hémon did not even sit down, but walked up and down the room looking at the tips of his fingers. Prokop, heavy and sleepy, dropped into a chair; it was a matter of complete indifference to him whether he ate or not. All the same he drank some hot soup, poked at one or two dishes, scarcely able to hold the fork, twisted a glass of wine in his fingers and burnt his throat with some scalding coffee. Mr. d’Hémon still did not sit down but went on walking up and down the room, every now and then taking a mouthful as he went along. When Prokop had finished eating he gave him a cigar and lit up himself. “So,” he said, “and now to business.

“From now,” he began, still walking up and down, “I shall be for you simply . . . Comrade Daimon. I will introduce you to our people; they’re not far away. You mustn’t take them too seriously; amongst them there are desperadoes, people evading justice from all the corners of the world, fanatics, babblers, doctrinaires and dilettante salvationists. Don’t ask them for their programme; they are only material which we use for our purposes. The chief thing is that we can put at your disposal an extensive secret international organization which has its branches everywhere. The only programme is direct action. Through this we’ll get hold of everybody without exception. They’re already crying for it, like children for a new toy. Anyway they’ll find the fascination of a ‘new programme of action,’ ‘destruction inside the head’ irresistible. After the first successes they’ll follow you like sheep—especially if you weed out from their leaders the people I shall indicate to you.”

He spoke smoothly like an experienced orator, that is to say thinking all the time about something else, and with such self-evident truth that he made doubt or resistance impossible. It seemed to Prokop that he had heard him on some occasion or other before.

“Your situation is unique,” Daimon continued, still walking up and down the room. “You have already rejected the proposal of a certain Government, and you behaved like a sensible man. What can I offer you compared to what you can obtain by yourself? You’d be mad to hand over your secret to anybody. You have in your possession a means by which we can overcome all the powers of the earth. I have unlimited confidence in you. Do you want fifty or a hundred million pounds? You can have them within a week. It is enough for me that at present you are the sole owner of Krakatit. Our people have fourteen and a half ounces in their possession, brought by a Saxon comrade from Balttin, but these fools haven’t the slightest understanding of what your chemistry means. They keep it like a sacred relic in a porcelain box and three times a week nearly come to blows over the question of what government building they are going to blow up into the air. Anyway, you'll hear them. There’s no danger to you from that quarter. There’s not a scrap of Krakatit in Balttin. Mr. Thomas is evidently near to abandoning his experiments——”

“Where is George—George Thomas?” asked Prokop.

“At the Powder Works in Grottup. But they are already sick of him there with his everlasting promises. And even if by chance he does succeed in preparing it he won’t derive much benefit from the fact. I can answer for that. In short, you alone have Krakatit in your power and you won’t give it to anybody. You will have at your disposition human material and all the ramifications of our organization. I will give you a printing press which I maintain myself. And finally you will also have the use of what the newspapers refer to as the ‘Secret Wireless Station,’ that is, our illegal wireless station which, by means of so-called anti-waves or extinguishing sparks, causes your Krakatit to explode at a distance of from one to two thousand miles. Those are your cards. Do you want to play?”

“What . . . what do you mean?” said Prokop. “What am I to do with it all?”

Comrade Daimon stopped and looked at Prokop fixedly. “Do what you like. You will do great things. Who can suggest anything further to you?”