Prokop scarcely more than breathed the concluding words. He himself only understood with difficulty what he was saying; effortlessly it flowed out from some forgotten corner of memory. It was almost twenty years since he had heard that sweet melody of the Sixth Book. It afforded him almost physical relief to let it reel itself off in this manner; his head became lighter and clearer, he was almost in ecstasy in this pleasant weakness. An embarrassed smile trembled on his lips.
The girl smiled too, made a slight movement and said: “Well?” She made a step towards him and then burst out laughing. “What did you say?”
“I don’t know,” said Prokop uncertainly.
Then the door, which had not been completely closed, was burst open and there dashed into the room something small and shaggy which whined with delight and jumped on to Prokop’s bed.
“Honzik!” cried the girl apprehensively. “What are you doing?” But the little animal was already licking Prokop’s face and in excited joy had snuggled down into the coverlet. Prokop wiped his face with his hand and was disconcerted to find that he had a full beard. “Bu—but,” he stammered, and became silent with surprise. The dog was in the seventh heaven; with overflowing devotion he bit at Prokop’s hands, yelped, and snorted, thrusting his wet muzzle up to his chest.
“Honzik!” cried the girl, “you’re mad! Leave the gentleman alone!” and she ran to the bed and took the dog in her arms. “Honzik, you are stupid!”
“Leave him alone,” said Prokop.
“But you’ve got a bad hand,” objected the girl with great seriousness, pressing the struggling dog to her breast.
Prokop regarded his right hand doubtfully. Across the palm there stretched a broad scar covered with a new, thin, red membrane which was pleasantly itching. “Where … where am I?” said he in surprise.
“At our house,” said the girl, as if it were the most self-evident thing in the world, and Prokop was reassured at once. “At your house,” he said with relief, although he had no idea where that might be. “And how long?”
“Three weeks. And all the time—,” she wanted to say something but stopped herself. “Honzik has been sleeping with you,” she added hurriedly, and for some reason or other blushed, holding the dog as if it were a little child. “Do you know about it?”
“I don’t,” replied Prokop. “Have I been asleep?”
“All the time,” she said quickly. “You were able to have a full sleep.” Then she put the dog down on the ground and drew nearer to the bed. “Do you feel better. … Do you want anything?”
Prokop shook his head; he could think of nothing which he wanted.
“What’s the time?” he asked doubtfully.
“Ten. I don’t know what you are allowed to eat; wait till father comes. … Father will be so glad. … Don’t you want anything then?”
“A mirror,” said Prokop hesitatingly.
The girl burst out laughing and ran off.
There was a humming in Prokop’s head; he was continually trying to recall what had happened and it was continually escaping him. And now here was this girl again, she said something and handed him a mirror. Prokop tried to lift his hand; but it couldn’t be done. The girl placed the handle between his fingers but the mirror fell on to the coverlet. Then the girl suddenly became pale, grew anxious, and herself put the mirror in front of his eyes. Prokop looked and saw a face covered with hair and almost unrecognizable; he looked and was unable to understand and his lips began to tremble.
“Lie down, lie down again at once,” she ordered him in a tiny voice, almost crying, and quickly her hands placed the pillow ready for him. Prokop let himself fall on to his back and closed his eyes; just for a moment he would doze, he thought to himself, and then there would be a deep, lovely silence.
VIII
Someone pulled at his sleeve. “Well, well,” said this someone, “we mustn’t sleep any more, eh?” Prokop opened his eyes and saw an old gentleman with a pink-bald head and a white beard, gold spectacles up on his forehead, and an extraordinarily bright look in his eyes. “No more sleep, my friend,” he said. “You’ve done that long enough; you don’t want to wake up in the next world.”
Prokop looked darkly at the old gentleman; he wanted to dream on a little longer. “What do you want?” he said finally in an irritated tone. “And … with whom have I the honour? …”
The old gentleman burst out laughing. “Dr. Thomas, if you please. … You haven’t yet deigned to recognize me, eh? But don’t bother about that. What may your name be?”
“Prokop,” said the invalid ungraciously.
“Well, well,” said the doctor contentedly. “I thought that you were the Sleeping Beauty. And now, Mr. Engineer,” he said energetically, “we must have a look at you. Don’t get cross.” He whisked a thermometer from under Prokop’s armpit and made a self-satisfied noise. “Ninety-nine. You’re like a fly, man. We must feed you up, what? Don’t move.”
Prokop felt on his chest a bald pate and a cold ear, which moved from one shoulder to the other and from his stomach to his neck, accompanied by an animated grunting.
“Well, thank God,” said the doctor finally, and settled his spectacles on his nose. “We’ll fix up that little wheezing in the chest, and the heart—well, that’ll adjust itself, eh?” He bent over Prokop, poked his fingers through his hair and raised and lowered his eyelids with his finger. “No more sleeping, see?” he said, and at the same time looked at the pupils of his eyes. “We’ll get some books and do some reading. We’ll eat a little, drink a glass of wine and keep still. I shan’t bite you.”
“What’s the matter with me?”
