Prokop read a lot, or at least pretended to. His scarred, heavy face did not reveal much, especially nothing of his desperate secret struggle with his disturbed memory. The last few years of study had particularly suffered; the most simple formulae and processes were lost and Prokop jotted down in the margin of his book fragments of formulae which came into his head when he was least thinking of them. Then he would leave the book and go to play billiards with Annie, since this was a game during which one had no need to talk. Annie was impressed by his leathery and impenetrable seriousness. He played with concentration, aimed with his eyebrows severely drawn together, and when the ball, as if on purpose, went in the wrong direction he opened his mouth in astonishment and indicated the proper destination with a movement of his tongue.
Evenings by the lamp. Most talkative of the three was the doctor, an enthusiastic scientist without any knowledge of the subject. He was especially fascinated with the deeper mysteries of the universe: radio activity, the boundlessness of space, electricity, relativity, the origins of matter and of prehistoric man. He was an out-and-out materialist, and just for this reason experienced a sweet and secret fear when confronted with unsolved problems. Occasionally Prokop could not contain himself and corrected the German naivete of his views. The old gentleman listened piously, and began to have an inordinate admiration for Prokop, especially when he could no longer understand what he was talking about—potentials of resonance or the quantum theory. Annie sat quietly, resting her chin on her hands. She did not even blink and, large-eyed, looked at Prokop and her father in turn.
And the nights, the nights were wide and quiet, as everywhere in the country. Now and then one could hear the rattle of chains from the cowshed or, nearer or farther away, the barking of a dog. A falling star flashed across the sky, the spring rain hissed in the garden or water dropped with a silver note into the deserted well. A clear, deep cold came in through the open window and one fell into a blessed sleep, untroubled by dreams.
X
Now things were better. Life returned to Prokop day by day. He felt a dullness in his head and he was always a little as if in a dream. There was nothing to do but to show his appreciation of the doctor’s services and go on his own way. He announced this decision one day after supper but everybody received it in stubborn silence. Then the old man took Prokop by the arm and led him into the consulting-room. After a certain amount of beating about the bush he said gruffly that Prokop must not leave, that it was better for him to rest, that the battle was not yet won—in short, that he was to remain. Prokop vaguely defended himself; the fact was that he did not yet feel himself in the saddle and that he was a little demoralized by comfort. All talk of going away was postponed indefinitely.
Every afternoon the doctor shut himself up in his consulting-room. “Come in and see me, eh?” he said to Prokop casually. And Prokop found him surrounded by all sorts of bottles, crucibles, and powders. “There’s no apothecary in the town, you know,” explained the doctor, “I have to prepare the medicines myself.” And with his fat, trembling fingers he laid some powder on the pan of the small balance. His hand was uncertain, the scales twisted and jumped about; the old gentleman became agitated, wheezed, and small drops of sweat appeared on his nose. “I can’t see as well as I used to,” he said, excusing his old fingers. Prokop watched for a moment and then, saying nothing, took the scales from him. Two little taps and the powder was weighed to a milligram. And a second and a third powder in the same way. The delicate balance simply danced in Prokop’s fingers. “Just look at that,” said the doctor with admiration and watched Prokop’s crushed, knotty hands with their shapeless knuckles, broken nails, and short stumps in the place of one or two missing fingers. “Your fingers are wonderfully nimble, man!” In the course of a few moments Prokop had spread some ointment, measured off some drops of liquid, and heated a test-tube. The doctor glowed with pleasure, and stuck on the labels. In half-an-hour all the medicines were ready, and, in addition, there was a pile of powders in reserve. In a few days Prokop could read the doctor’s prescriptions and make them up. Bon!
One evening the doctor was poking about in the garden in the loose soil. Suddenly there was a frightful report in the house, and a moment after the noise of falling glass. The doctor dashed indoors and in the passage ran into the terrified Annie. “What has happened?” he cried.
“I don’t know,” replied the girl. “In the consulting-room.” … The doctor ran there and found Prokop on all fours picking potsherds and pieces of paper off the floor.
“What have you been doing?” cried the doctor.
“Nothing,” said Prokop, and got up guiltily. “A test-tube burst.”
“And what, in God’s name, does this mean?” thundered the doctor, stopping suddenly; a stream of blood was pouring from Prokop’s left hand. “How did you tear your finger?”
“Only a scratch,” Prokop protested and hid his left hand behind his back.
“Show me,” cried the doctor and dragged him to the window. Half of one finger was hanging by the skin. The doctor rushed to the cupboard for his scissors and in the open door saw Annie, deathly pale. “What do you want?” he rapped out. “Be off, quick!” Annie did not move; she pressed her hands to her
