Go to bed, old bachelor; you’ve saved yourself from being insulted; this young, stupid girl would laugh at you. More or less decided in his mind, Prokop stumped upstairs to his bedroom; the only thing which oppressed him was that he was obliged to go past Annie’s door. He went on tiptoe; perhaps the child was already sleeping. And suddenly he stopped with his heart beating wildly. The door of Annie’s room … was not closed. Inside there was darkness. What could this mean? And then inside he heard something like weeping.
He had an impulse to rush into the room; but something stronger sent him hurriedly downstairs and out into the garden. He stood in the thick shrubbery, pressing his hand to his heart, which was beating hard. Thank Christ that he did not go in to her! Annie was certainly kneeling, half dressed and crying into her pillow; why? And if he had gone in what would have happened? Nothing; he would have smoothed, smoothed her bright hair, already loose on her shoulders—O God! why did she leave the door open?
A light shadow glided out of the house towards the garden. It was Annie. She was dressed and her hair was not loose, but she pressed her hand to her temples to cool her burning forehead; and she was still sobbing from her recent crying. She went past Prokop as if she had not seen him, but made no resistance when he took her by the arm and led her to the seat. Prokop mustered a few words of consolation (but, in God’s name, on account of what?) Then suddenly he felt her head on his shoulder; once more she cried convulsively and in the midst of her sobs assured him that “it was nothing.” Prokop put his arms round her as if he were her uncle and not knowing what to say muttered something to the effect that she was a good girl and wonderfully lovable; upon which the sobs changed to long sighs (he felt somewhere on his arm a hot dampness) and it was all right. O Night, Queen of heaven, you lighten the breast of the afflicted and loosen the heavy tongue; you quicken, bless, endow with wings the quietly beating heart, oppressed and silent; the thirsty can drink of your endlessness. At some tiny point of space, somewhere between the pole and the Southern Cross, the Centaur and Lyra, something tender is taking place; some man for no reason at all feels himself to be the sole protector of this girl, with her face moist with tears, strokes her head and says—what exactly?—that he is so happy, so happy, that he loves so dearly, so terribly dearly this creature which is sobbing on his shoulder, that he will never leave her, and so on, in that vein.
“I don’t know what happened to me,” said Annie through her tears. “I—I so wanted to talk to you before. …”
“And why did you cry?” asked Prokop.
“Because you took such a long time to come to me,” ran the surprising answer.
Something in Prokop weakened, the will or something of the sort. “Do … you … love me?” he said with difficulty, and his voice was as confused as that of a boy of thirteen. The head buried itself in his shoulder quickly and nodded.
“Perhaps … I should have come to you,” whispered Prokop, crestfallen. The head shook decidedly. “Now … I feel better,” sighed Annie after a moment. “Here it is so beautiful!” Most people would find it difficult to understand what there was attractive about a man’s shabby coat, smelling of tobacco; but Annie thrust her head into it and for nothing in the world would she have turned to look up at the stars, so pleasant was it in this dark and smoky resting place. Her hair tickled Prokop under the nose and had about it an exquisite fragrance. Prokop smoothed her drooping shoulders, smoothed her young neck and breast, and encountered nothing but palpitating devotion; then, forgetting everything, he roughly and brutally seized her head and began to kiss her on her moist lips. And, lo! Annie defended herself wildly, became quite paralyzed with fear and gasped out “No, no, no!” She again buried her face in his coat and he could almost hear the frightened beating of her heart. Prokop suddenly realized that she had probably been kissed for the first time.
Then he became ashamed of himself, grew extraordinarily serious and did not venture to do more than smooth her hair. This one may do … God, she’s still just a child and quite naive! And now not a word that might besmirch this innocent young creature; not a thought which would coarsely interpret the confused emotions of this evening! In truth he did not know what he was saying; it had a crude melody and no syntax; it touched in turn upon the stars, love, God, the beauty of the night and some opera or other the name of which Prokop was quite incapable of recalling, but the notes of which were sounding intoxicatingly in his head. A few moments after it seemed to him that Annie had fallen asleep; he remained silent until he felt again on his shoulder the exquisite breath of sleepy attention.
At last Annie drew herself up, folded her hands in her lap and became reflective. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,” she said. “It seems to me impossible that it should have happened.”
Across the sky a star fell in a streak of light. There was a scent of honeysuckle, the peony slept closed up in a ball, a heavenly breath rustled through the tops of the trees. “I should like to stay here,” whispered Annie.
Once more Prokop had a silent struggle with temptation. “Good night, Annie,” he said. “If … your father were to return. …”
Annie obediently stood up. “Good night,” she said and hesitated; and they stood opposite one another, not
