Krakatit/Chapter 54

by Karel Čapek

CHAPTER LIV

 

To Prokop it was as if they were passing through the quiet countryside in which he had spent his childhood, but it was very foggy and the light from the lantern penetrated no further than the side of the road, beyond which there was a silent and unknown land.

“Hohohot,” cried the old man, and the horse turned off the road right into that veiled, silent world. The wheels dug into soft grass. Prokop made out a shallow valley, on each side of which were leafless thickets, between which was a beautiful meadow. “P-r-r-r,” cried the old man and slowly got down from the coach-box. “Get out,” he said, “we’ve arrived,” He slowly undid the traces. “Nobody will come after us here.”

“Who?”

“. . . The police. There must be order . . . but they always want all sorts of papers . . . and permits . . . and where you are coming from . . . and where you are going. It’s all more than I can understand.” He unharnessed the horse, saying to him quietly: “Keep quiet and you shall have a piece of bread.”

Prokop stepped down from the cart, numbed by the journey. “Where are we?”

“Over there where there’s that hut,” said the old man vaguely. “You will sleep it off and be all right.” He took the lantern from the shaft and threw its light on to a small wooden shed, for hay or something of the sort, but decrepit, poor and crazy. “And I’ll make a fire,” he said in his singing voice, “and get you some tea. When you’ve sweated you’ll be well again.” He wrapped Prokop up in the sack and put down the light in front of him. “Wait while I fetch some wood. Stay here.” He was just on the point of going off when something occurred to him. He thrust his hand into his pocket and looked at Prokop interrogatively.

“What is it, grandfather?”

“I . . . don’t know if you would like to . . . I’m a star reader.” He brought his hand out of his pocket again. Through his fingers there was peering a little white mouse with red eyes. “I know,” he babbled on quickly, “that you don’t believe in such things, but . . . he’s a pretty little chap—Would you like to?”

“I should.”

“That’s good,” said the old man, delighted. “S-s-s-s-s—ma—la, hop!” He opened his hand and the little mouse nimbly ran along his sleeve up to his shoulder, sniffed delicately at his hairy ear and hid in his collar.

“He’s a beauty,” breathed Prokop.

The old man’s face glowed with pleasure. “Wait and see what he can do,” and he ran to the cart, rooted about in it, and returned with a box full of tickets arranged in series. He gave the box a shake, gazing with his shining eyes into the distance. “Show him, mouse, show him his love.” He whistled between his teeth like a bat. The mouse sprang up, ran along his arm, and jumped on to the box. Holding his breath. Prokop watched its rosy little paws searching among the tickets. Finally it took one in its little teeth and tried to pull it out. Somehow or other it succeeded, shook its head and at once seized the next one, pulling that out also. Then it sat up on its hind legs, gnawing at its tiny paws.

“This is your love,” whispered the old man, elated. Out with it.”

Prokop took hold of the ticket and bent over the light. It was the photograph of a girl . . . the one whose hair was all loose; her lovely breast was bare, and the eyes were the same, passionate and deep—Prokop recognized her. “Grandfather, that’s not the one!”

“Show me,” said the old man with surprise, taking the picture out of his hand. “Ah, that’s a pity,” he croaked regretfully. “Such a beauty! Lala. Lilitko, that isn’t the one, nanana ks ks ma—la!” He put the photograph back in the box and again softly whistled. The little mouse looked about with its red eyes, again took the same ticket in its teeth and tugged with its head. But the ticket would not come out; instead it pulled out the next.

Prokop took up the picture; it was Annie, a photograph taken in the village; she did not know what to do with her arms, had her Sunday clothes on and stood there silly and beautiful—“That’s not her,” whispered Prokop. The old man took the picture from him, smoothed it and appeared to be saying something to it. He looked at Prokop uneasily and sadly and again gave a faint whistle.

“Are you angry?” asked Prokop shyly.

The old man said nothing and looked musingly at the mouse. Again the little creature tried to pull out the same ticket; but no, it was impossible and it extracted the next one instead. This was a picture of the Princess. Prokop moaned and let it fall on to the ground. The old man silently bent down and picked it up.

“Let me try myself,” cried Prokop hoarsely, and thrust his hand into the box. But the old man stopped him: “That’s not allowed!”

“But she . . . she’s there,” said Prokop through his teeth. “The right one’s there!”

“Everybody’s there,” said the old man, caressing the box. “Now you shall have your planet.” He whistled quietly, and the mouse ran along his arm and drew out a green slip of paper. A moment later it was back again; evidently Prokop frightenéd it. “Read it to yourself,” said the old man, carefully putting the box away. “I’ll be fetching some wood—and don’t be worried.”

He stroked the horse’s side, stowed the box away in the bottom of the cart and set off for the thicket. His light-coloured coat disappeared in the darkness. The horse watched him for a moment and then jerked his head and followed him. “Ihaha,” the old man could be heard saying, “so you want to come with me? Ah! Hoty, hotyhot, ma-ly!”

They disappeared in the fog and Prokop remembered the green ticket. “Your planet,” he read by the flickering light. “You are an honourable man, with a good heart and more learned than others in your profession. You will have to suffer a lot of opposition, but if you avoid impetuousness and arrogance you will obtain the respect of your neighbours and an exalted position. You will lose much but you will later be rewarded. Your unlucky days are Tuesdays and Fridays. Saturn Conj. b. b. Martis. DEO gratias.”

The old man loomed out of the darkness with his arms full of sticks. Behind him appeared the white head of the horse. ‘Well,’ he whispered tensely and with a certain amount of the shyness of an author, “did you read it? Is it a good planet?”

“It is, grandfather.”

“There you are,” said the old man, relieved, “everything will turn out all right, praise be to God.” He put down the armful of brushwood and, muttering happily, lit a fire in front of the hut. Then he again rummaged in the cart, produced a kettle and stumped off for some water. “In a minute, in a minute,” he murmured. “Boil, boil, we have a guest.” He ran about like an agitated hostess. In a moment he had come back again with some bread and bacon, at which he sniffed with delight. “And salt, salt,” he cried, slapping himself on the forehead. He ran back to the cart. At last he had settled down by the fire. He gave Prokop the larger portion and himself slowly munched every mouthful. Prokop was suffering from smoke in the eyes or something of the sort; tears ran down his face as he ate. The old man gave every other mouthful to the horse, whose head was bent over his shoulder. And suddenly, through a veil of tears, Prokop recognized him: it was the old, wrinkled face which he had always seen on the wooden ceiling of his laboratory! How often had he not looked at it when going off to sleep! And, in the morning when he woke up it was completely different—nothing but knots, dampness and dust.

The old man smiled. “Does it taste good? Ah, at last it’s boiling!” He bent over the kettle, raised it with an effort and limped off to the cart. Ina moment he was back with a couple of mugs. “Just hold it a minute.” Prokop took one of the mugs; on it was painted in gold the name “Ludmila,” surrounded with a garland of forget-me-nots. He read the name twenty times and tears came into his eyes. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “is . . . that . . . her name?”

The old man looked at him with sad, tender eyes. “So that you know,” he said softly, “it is.”

“And . . . shall I never find her?”

The old man said nothing but only blinked rapidly. “Hold it out,” he said uncertainly, “I’ll give you some tea.”

Prokop held out the mug with a trembling hand and the old man carefully poured into it some strong tea. “Drink it while it’s warm,” he said gently.

“Th—thank you,” sobbed Prokop and took a sip of the sharp-tasting drink.

The old man stroked his long hair reflectively. “It’s bitter,” he said slowly, “it’s bitter, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like a bit of sugar?”

Prokop shook his head. He felt the bitter taste of tears, but his breast was filled with a generous warmth.

The old man sipped at his mug noisily. “And now look,” he said, so as to make things easier, “what I’ve got painted on mine.” He handed him his mug; on it was depicted an anchor, a heart and a cross. “That’s faith, love and hope. Don’t cry any more.” He stood over the fire with his hands clasped. “Dear one, dear one,” he said softly, “you will not achieve the highest and you will not release everything. You tried to tear yourself to pieces by force, but you have remained whole and you will neither save the world nor smash it to pieces. Much in you will remain closed up, like fire in a stove; that is good, it is sacrifice. You wanted to do too great things, and you will instead do small ones. That is good.”

Prokop knelt down in front of the fire, not daring to raise his eyes. He knew now that it was God the Father who was speaking to him.

“It is good,” he whispered.

“It is good. You will do things which will help people. He whose thoughts are full of the highest turns away his eyes from people. Instead you will serve them.”

“That is good,” whispered Prokop, on his knees.

“Now you see,” said the old man, pleased, and squatted down on his heels. “Tell me, what’s this—what do you call it? Your invention?”

Prokop raised his head. “I’ve . . . forgotten.”

“That doesn’t matter,” the old man reassured him. “You'll take up other things. Wait a moment, what was it I was going to say? Aha! Why was there such a great explosion? That’s more people injured. But look about and search; perhaps you’ll find . . . well, perhaps only such pf-pf-pf,” he said, blowing out his soft cheeks, “you see? So that it should only be puf-puf . . . and do something which will work for people, do you understand?”

“You mean,” muttered Prokop, “some sort of cheap energy, eh?”

“Cheap, cheap,” agreed the old man, delighted. “So that it could be very useful. And shine, and warm, you understand?”

“Wait,” said Prokop reflectively, “I don’t know—that would mean experimenting all over again . . . from the other end.”

“That’s it. Start from the other end and there you are. There, you see, you’ve something to begin with right away. But leave that other. I’ll get your bed ready.” He got up and limped off to the cart. “Hato hot ma-ly,” he sang, “we’re going to bed.” He returned with a rough mattress. “Come along,” he said, took the lantern and led the way into the wooden shed. “There’s straw enough,” he croaked as he made the bed ready, “‘for all three of us. Praise be to God.”

Prokop sat down on the straw. “Grandfather,” he cried, amazed, “look!”

“What?”

“There, on the wall.” On each of the planks forming the side of the hut there had been written large letters in chalk. Prokop read them by the flickering light of the lantern: K . . . R . . . A . . . K . . . A . . . T . . .

“That’s nothing, that’s nothing,” muttered the old man reassuringly and quickly rubbed them out with his cap. “That’s all over. Just lie down and I’ll cover you with a sack. So.”

He went to the doorway. “Dadada ma-ly,” he sang in his trembling voice and the horse thrust its beautiful silver head through the door and rubbed its nose against the old man’s coat.

“Come in, come in,” he said, “and lie down.”

The old horse ambled into the shed, scratched with its hoofs the opposite wall and knelt down. “I’ll find a place between you,” said the old man, “he’ll breathe on you and you’ll be warm. So.”

He sat down quietly near the door. Behind him could still be seen the glow of the dying fire, and the pale blue eyes of the horse, turned on him. The old man muttered something to him, nodding his head. . . .

Prokop closed his eyes in bliss. “Why . . . why, it’s my old father,” he said to himself. “God! how old he’s grown! His neck’s become scraggy——

“Prokop, are you asleep?” whispered the old man.

“No,” answered Prokop, trembling with love.

The old man began to sing gently a strained and quiet song: “Lalala hou, dadada pan, binkili bunkili hou tata. . . .”

Then Prokop fell into a sweet and healing sleep, free from all dreams.