And now Mr. Paul wheeled Prokop about the park in a bathchair. Mr. Holz proved superfluous, but was active, as he had revealed great talent as a masseur, and Prokop felt a beneficial explosive force flowing from his powerful fingers. If the Princess came across the patient in the park she said something with complete and precisely calculated politeness, and Prokop to his annoyance never understood how she managed to do it, for he himself was always either too rough or too friendly. The rest of the household regarded Prokop as a marvel; this gave them the right not to take him seriously, and allowed him to be as rude to them as he liked. On one occasion, the Princess drew up near him with the whole of her escort; she left the gentlemen to wait, sat down by Prokop’s side, and asked him about his work. Prokop, wishing to be as obliging to her as possible, embarked on a long technical explanation, as if he were giving a lecture before an international chemical congress. Prince Suwalski and some cousin or other began to laugh and nudge one another, at which Prokop grew furious, turned to them, and said that it was not them whom he was addressing. All eyes turned on Her Excellency, for it was her task to put this unpolished plebeian in his place; but the Princess smiled indulgently, and sent them off to play tennis. While she was looking after them with eyes narrowed to a slit Prokop scrutinized her out of the corner of his eye; for the first time he really noticed what she was like. She was rigid, thin, and with an excess of pigmentation in her colouring, strictly speaking not beautiful. She had small breasts, ungainly legs, magnificent hands indicative of race, a scar on her proud forehead, deep-set eyes with a sharp glance, dark brown under her sharp nose, full and haughty lips; well, yes, after all almost pretty. What were her eyes really like?
Then she turned fully round and Prokop became confused. “They say that you are able to discover the character of things by touching them,” she said quickly. “Krafft was talking about it.” Prokop smiled at this feminine description of his peculiar chemotaxis. “Well, yes,” he said, “one feels how much force a thing has; that’s nothing.” The Princess gave a quick glance at his hand, and then looked round the park; there was nobody about.
“Show me,” muttered Prokop, and opened his scarred hand. She laid on it the smooth tips of her fingers; a sort of flash passed through Prokop, his heart began to beat violently, and the mad idea came into his head: “Supposing I closed my hands!” Then he proceeded to knead and press in his rough paw the firm, burning flesh of her hand. His head suddenly became filled with a drunken giddiness; he saw the Princess close her eyes and draw her breath sharply through her half-open lips, while he also closed his eyes and, setting his teeth, whirled down into the swirling darkness. Her hand struggled feverishly and wildly with its thin sinuous fingers, fingers which were writhing to get free, which twisted like serpents, which dug their nails into his skin, and then suddenly pressed convulsively against his flesh; Prokop’s teeth chattered with ecstasy; the trembling fingers played on his wrist, red circles appeared before his eyes, a sudden sharp and burning pressure and the thin hand tore free from his grasp. Exhausted, Prokop opened his eyes; there was a noisy beating inside his head; the green and golden garden again presented itself to his eyes, which were blinded by the light of day. The Princess had grown deathly pale, and bit her lips with her sharp teeth; through the slits of her eyes there flashed a boundless resistance.
“Well?” she said sharply.
“Virginal, unfeeling, libidinous, proud and capable of violent anger—inflammable as tinder—and wicked. You are wicked; you are fiery through your very cruelty, arrogant and heartless; you are wicked and overcharged with excitability; inaccessible, filled with curiosity, hard, hard on yourself, fire and ice, ice and fire—”
The Princess nodded silently. “Yes.”
“Of no use to anybody; haughty, incapable of loving, poisoned and burning—ardent, and everything around you leaves you indifferent.”
“I must be severe with myself,” whispered the Princess. “You don’t know—” She waved her hand and got up. “Thank you. I will send Paul to you.”
Having thus relieved himself of his personal offended bitterness, Prokop began to think of the Princess more kindly. Finally he became annoyed that she now evidently avoided him. He prepared some friendly phrases to say to her at the first opportunity, but the opportunity did not offer itself.
At the castle there arrived Prince Rohn, known as Mon Oncle Charles, the brother of the late Princess, a refined and polished cosmopolitan, amateur of everything possible, très grand artiste, as they say. He had written a number of historical novels, and was an extraordinarily pleasant personality. He exhibited a particular liking for Prokop, and spent whole hours with him. Prokop profited a great deal from his contact with this charming old gentleman, acquired from him a certain finish, and realized that there were other things in the world besides destructive chemistry. Mon Oncle Charles possessed an enormous fund of anecdotes. Prokop turned the conversation on to the Princess, and heard with interest what a malicious, madcap, proud, and magnanimous girl she was, how on one occasion she had fired at her dancing master and on another had wanted to have a piece of her skin cut off for transplantation on to the limb of a nurse who had received some burns; when permission to do this was refused, in her rage she smashed a window of the most valuable glass.
