“That’s Boetius,” said Prokop hoarsely. “And above it … the Dragon and Cepheus, and over there is Cassiopeia, those four stars together. But you must look higher.”
Annie turned away from him and rubbed something away near her eyes. “There, where it’s clear,” said Prokop hesitatingly, “is Pollux, one of the twins. You mustn’t be angry with me. Maybe I was a bit rough with you, eh? I’m … something was worrying me, you see? You mustn’t take it to heart.”
Annie sobbed loudly. “And what’s … that one over there?” she said in a quiet, timid voice. “The brightest one of all, low down.”
“That’s Sirius, in the Great Dog. They also call it Alhaboa. And there right away to the left are Arcturus and Spica. There’s a falling star. Did you see it?”
“Yes. Why were you so angry with me this morning?”
“I wasn’t. I’m perhaps … sometimes … a bit crude; but I’ve had a hard life you know, too hard; always alone and … like an outpost. I can’t even talk properly. Today I wanted … to write something beautiful … a sort of scientific prayer, so that everybody should understand it. I thought that … that I’d read it to you; and then, everything dried up in me—one becomes ashamed of getting so excited. Or at least one should be able to say something. I’m stale, so to speak. You understand? I’m already growing grey.”
“But it suits you,” said Annie softly.
This aspect of the question took Prokop by surprise.
“Well, you know,” he said, in confusion. “It isn’t pleasant. It is already time … to bring one’s harvest home. What wouldn’t another do with all that I know! And I’ve got nothing, nothing, nothing from it all. I’m only … ‘berühmt’ and ‘célèbre’ and ‘highly esteemed’; and nobody here … knows anything about me. I think, you know, that my theories are pretty bad; I haven’t got a head for theory. But what I have discovered isn’t without value. My exothermic explosives … diagrams … and explosions of atoms … have a certain worth. And I have only published about a tenth of what I know. What wouldn’t another have done with it! I … don’t even understand their theories; they are so subtle, so rich … they only confuse me. My spirit is that of the kitchen. Put some stuff under my nose and I can tell by smelling it what to do with it. But to realize what follows from that … theoretically and philosophically, that I can’t do. I only know … facts; I create them; they’re my facts, do you understand? But still … I … feel some sort of truth in them; a great general truth … that changes everything … until it explodes. And this great truth is hidden in facts and not in words. And so one must go for facts, even if both one’s arms are torn off. …”
Annie, leaning against the wall, was scarcely breathing. Their gloomy guest had never said so much before—and, principally, had never spoken about himself. He had to struggle hard with words. There was wrestling within him an enormous pride, but also pain and shyness; and even when he spoke in terms of integral numbers Annie understood that something interior and humanly lacerated was taking place before her.
“But the worst of it is,” mumbled Prokop, “that sometimes … and especially now, it all seems to me to be stupid … and worthless. Even this final truth … in fact everything. It’s never happened to me before. Why? … Perhaps it would be wiser to give in … to everything”—(he indicated with his hands something surrounding them). “Simply to Life. A man mustn’t be happy; it softens him, you understand? Then everything else appears to be useless, small … and senseless. The best things … the best things are done by a man through desperation. Through anger, loneliness, being stunned. So nothing’s enough for him. I used to work like a maniac. But now, now I’ve begun to be happy. I’ve now learnt that perhaps … there’s something better than thinking. Here one only lives … and sees that it is something tremendous just to live. Like your Honzik, like a cat, like a chicken. Every animal understands that … and it seems to me so terrific, as if I have never lived before. And so … so I’ve again lost twelve years.”
His deformed right hand, sewn up God knows how many times, trembled on the wall. Annie was silent; she was resting her arms on the brick wall and looking up at the stars. Then something rustled in the shrubbery and Annie became frightened; she threw herself on Prokop’s shoulder. “What’s that?”
“Nothing; probably a marten; they come right into the yard after the chickens.”
Annie was reassured. Her young breasts, full and soft, were resting against Prokop’s right hand. She, perhaps, did not realize the fact herself, but Prokop was more aware of it than of anything else in the world. He was terribly afraid of moving his hand, for, in the first place, Annie would think that he had put it there on purpose, and in the second place, she would draw away from him. Curiously enough, as a result of this circumstance, he was unable to talk any further about himself and his wasted life. “I’ve—” he stammered in confusion, “I’ve never been so glad … so happy, as I am now. Your father is the finest man in the world, and you … you are so young. …”
“I thought that you found me … too stupid,” said Annie quietly and happily. “You never spoke like that with me before.”
“True, never before,” said Prokop gruffly. Both became silent. He felt against his hand the light rising and falling of her breasts. He kept perfectly still and held his breath, and she, it seemed, was also holding her breath and trembling quietly, her eyes fixed on some spot in the distance. Oh, to caress and embrace her! Oh, the ecstasy of touching her for the first time! Involuntary and burning delight! Had you ever any adventure more intoxicating than this unconscious and self-sacrificing devotion? Timid
