He rushed out and saw that it was already evening; two or three people were getting out at a tiny station with blinking lights behind which was an unknown and foggy darkness. They told Prokop that he could only get to Tynice by a post-wagon, if there was still room in it. The post-wagon proved to consist of a coach-box behind which was a trough for packages, and the postman and some passenger or other had already taken their seats.
“Will you take me to Tynice, please?” said Prokop.
The postman shook his head in infinite dejection. “Can’t be done,” he answered after a moment.
“Why … how is that?”
“There’s no more room,” said the postman, having considered the matter.
Tears of self-pity came into Prokop’s eyes. “How far is it … on foot?”
The postman reflected sympathetically. “Well, an hour,” he said.
“But I … can’t walk it! I’ve got to get to Dr. Thomas’s!” protested Prokop, crushed.
The postman thought for a moment. “Are you … going … as a patient?”
“I feel bad,” mumbled Prokop; actually, he was trembling with weakness and fever.
The postman again considered the matter and shook his head. “But it can’t be done,” he said finally.
“If only you could make … a little room. …”
On the coach-box there was no sound. The postman pulled at his beard; then, without saying a word, he got down, did something at the side and silently went off to the station. The passenger on the coach-box remained motionless.
Prokop was so exhausted that he was obliged to sit down on the edge of the pavement. “I shall never get there,” he felt desperately; “I shall remain here until … until. …”
The postman returned from the station bringing with him an empty tub. Somehow he attached it to the platform of the coach-box and looked at it reflectively. “Sit down there,” he said finally.
“Where?” asked Prokop.
“Well … on the coach-box.”
By some superhuman effort, as if some magical power were lifting him up, Prokop got on to the coach-box. The postman did something with the reins and there he was sitting in the tub with his legs hanging down over the side. “Hey,” said he.
The horse made no movement, but only trembled.
The postman made another thin, guttural “r‑r‑r.” The horse whisked its tail.
“R‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r.”
The post-wagon moved off. Prokop convulsively gripped a railing at his side; he felt that it was beyond his strength to keep his place on the coach-box.
“R‑r‑r‑r‑r.” It seemed that this high, whirring note somehow galvanized the old horse. It limped along, twitching its tail.
“R‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r.” They were going along an avenue of bare trees. It was pitch dark, save where the flickering strip of light from the lantern moved over the mud. Prokop clung to the railing feeling that he had already completely lost control of his body, that he must be careful not to fall, that he was infinitely weak. Some lighted window or other, an avenue, a dark field. “R‑r‑r‑r.” The horse trotted along, moving its legs stiffly and unnaturally, as if it had already been dead for a long time.
Prokop cast a surreptitious glance at his fellow-traveller. He was an old man with a scarf wrapped round his neck. All the time he was chewing something, rolling it about in his mouth and periodically spitting. And then Prokop remembered that he had seen this face somewhere before. It was the loathsome face from the dream, which ground its rotten teeth until they crumbled and then spat them out in fragments. It was wonderful and horrible.
“R‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r.” There was a turn in the road, they climbed up a hill and then descended again. Somebody’s estate—the barking of a dog—a man passing along the road and wishing them good night. The houses increased in number; they were reaching the top of the hill. The post-wagon swung round, another high “R‑r‑r‑r‑r” and it suddenly drew up.
“This is where Dr. Thomas lives,” said the postman.
Prokop wished to say something but was unable to do so. He wanted to let go of the railing, but could not. His fingers were frozen.
“Well, here we are,” said the postman again. Once more he called out, and Prokop slipped down from the coach-box, trembling with his whole body. As if performing a remembered action, he opened the gate and rang at the door. Inside there was to be heard a fierce barking and a young voice called out: “Honzik, quiet!” The door opened and, scarcely able to move his tongue, Prokop inquired, “Is the doctor at home?”
A moment of silence; then the young voice said, “Come in.”
Prokop stood in the warm sitting-room. On the table was a lamp, supper was laid, there was a smell of beech wood. An old gentleman with his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead rose from the table, came over to Prokop and said: “Well, what can I do for you?”
Prokop tried to remember dully what exactly it was that he had come for. “I … that is to say …” he began, “is your son at home?”
The old gentleman looked at Prokop attentively. “He isn’t. What do you want with him?”
“George …” mumbled Prokop, “I’m … his friend and I am bringing him. … I have to give him. …” He hunted about in his pocket and found the sealed package. “It’s … an important
