Volcano of Krakatau, Brooklyn Bridge, NotreDame, 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 men reflected. “It only seems like that,” he said finally. “What happens to a man comes
