The doctor turned to Prokop. To begin with he did something with some wadding and then snapped the scissors. “Light,” he shouted to Annie. Annie dashed to the switch and turned it on. “And don’t stay here,” roared the old gentleman, dipping a needle into some benzine. “What can you do here? Some thread, quick!” Annie sprang to the cupboard and gave him a box full of thread. “And now away with you!”
Annie looked at Prokop’s back and did something else instead; she stepped closer, took the wounded hand and held it in both of hers. The doctor at the moment was washing his hands; he turned to Annie and was going to burst out with something but instead grunted: “All right, hold it firmly! And nearer the light!” Annie held the hand, her eyes blinking. When there was nothing to be heard but the doctor’s heavy breathing she ventured to raise them. Below, where her father was working, all was bloody and revolting. She hastily glanced at Prokop; his face was turned away and twitched with pain. Annie shivered and swallowed her tears.
Meanwhile Prokop’s hand grew larger and larger; quantities of wadding, silk, and a good kilometre of bandages; finally an enormous white lump. Annie continued to hold the hand. Her knees shook; it seemed to her that this terrible operation would never be over. Suddenly her head began to swim and the next thing that she heard was her father saying: “Drink this quickly!” She opened her eyes and found that she was sitting in the armchair in the consulting-room and that her father was handing her a glassful of some stuff or other while Prokop was standing behind him, smiling and holding his bound hand, which looked like a huge doll, across his chest. “Drink it up,” repeated the doctor through his teeth. She swallowed the contents of the glass and nearly choked with coughing; it was murderously strong cognac.
“And now you,” said the doctor, and gave the glass to Prokop. Prokop was a trifle pale and valiantly awaited the scolding which was due to him. Finally the doctor himself drank, cleared his throat and said, “What exactly have you been doing?”
“An experiment,” said Prokop with the twisted smile of a guilty person.
“What? What experiment? Experiment with what?”
“Only … something with potassium chlorate.”
“What were you making?”
“An explosive,” whispered Prokop with the humiliation of a sinner.
The doctor’s eyes moved to his bandaged hand. “And you’ve paid for it, my friend! It might have torn your hand off, eh? Does it hurt? But it suits you,” he added bloodthirstily.
“But, father,” said Annie, “leave him alone now!”
“What’s that to do with you?” grunted the doctor and caressed her with a hand which smelt of carbolic and iodoform.
After that the doctor kept the key of the consulting-room in his pocket. Prokop ordered a parcel of scientific books, went about with his arm in a sling and spent the whole day in study. The cherries had already begun to blossom, the sticky young leaves were glistening in the sun, the golden lilies were putting out heavy buds. Annie went about the garden with a buxom girl friend, their arms round one another’s waists, laughing all the time. They put their red faces together, whispered something, burst out laughing and began to kiss one another.
At last Prokop felt bodily well again. Like an animal, he basked in the sun, blinking his eyes. Then he would sigh and sit down to work, but would at once feel an inclination to move about and wander far into the country, passionately giving himself up to the joy of breathing. Sometimes he would meet Annie about the house or in the garden and try to say something. Annie would look at him out of the corner of her eye and not know what to do. Prokop would be equally at a loss and cover his embarrassment by speaking in a gruff voice. He felt better, or at least more sure of himself, when he was alone.
In the course of his studies he noticed that there was a great deal that he had missed. There were all sorts of new developments, and he was obliged to orientate himself again. Chiefly he was afraid of not being able to remember his own work, for it was in connection with this that his memory suffered most. He worked like a mule, or else gave himself up to dreaming. He dreamt of new laboratory methods, and at the same time he was fascinated by bold and delicate theoretical calculations. When his dull brain proved incapable of splitting the thin hair of a problem he would grow angry with himself. He was conscious of the fact that his laboratory “destructive chemistry” opened up the most marvellous vistas in the theory of the constitution of matter. He came up against unexpected correlations, immediately afterwards to be oppressed by the laboriousness of his methods. Disgusted, he would throw everything down and plunge into reading some stupid novel; but even here he was haunted by the atmosphere of the laboratory. Instead of words he read only chemical symbols, mad formulae full of elements hitherto undiscovered, which disturbed him even in his sleep.
XI
That night he dreamed; it seemed to him that he was studying a highly technical article in the Chemist. He came across the symbol An Ni and did not know what to make of it. He reflected, bit his knuckles and suddenly realized that it stood for Annie. And then he saw her in the room, smiling, with her arms clasped at the back of her head. He went across to her, took her in his arms and began to kiss her on the lips. Annie fought wildly with her elbows and knees while he held her brutally and with one hand tore her clothes into long strips. He already had his hands on
