Monsieur d’Hémon then got up, bowed, and remained standing. His remarks produced an enormous sensation. The Princess simply drank in every one of his words, as if this line of Tartar cutthroats was the finest in the world. Prokop watched her with dismay; she did not even wince at the story of four thousand eyes having been plucked out. Involuntarily he looked for Tartar features in her face. She was extraordinarily beautiful, drew herself up and enveloped herself in her own dignity; suddenly there was such a distance between her and all the others that they all became as formal as if it were a state banquet, not daring to look at her directly. Prokop wanted repeatedly to strike the table, say something rough, disturb this frozen scene. She sat with eyes cast down, as if she were waiting for something, and across her face there flashed something like impatience. The company looked at one another interrogatively, at the dignified Monsieur d’Hémon, and at last one by one rose to their feet. Prokop also stood up, not realizing what was happening. What on earth could it mean? They all stood quite stiffly with their arms at their sides looking at the Princess. Then she raised her eyes like someone who is expressing thanks for homage, and they all sat down. Only when Prokop was in his seat again did he realize with consternation that they had all just made obeisance to their ruler. He suddenly became so angry that he broke into a sweat. Heavens, that he should have taken part in such a farce! How on earth was it possible that they did not burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the comedy which they had just played?
He was getting ready to laugh with the others, when the Princess rose. All the others did the same, and Prokop was convinced that now the ice would break. He looked around him and his eyes fell on the fat cousin, who, his arms hanging down at his sides, was approaching the Princess, inclined slightly forwards; surely it must all be a joke. The Princess spoke to him and nodded her head; the fat cousin bowed and retired. What was happening? Now the Princess gave a quick glance at Prokop, but he did not move. The rest stood on tiptoe and watched him fixedly. Again the Princess made a sign with her eyes; still he did not move. The Princess stepped towards an old, one-armed major from the artillery, covered with medals. The major was just drawing himself up when she turned aside and was suddenly quite close to Prokop.
“Darling, darling,” she said in a clear soft voice, “do you—? You’re getting angry again. I should like to kiss you.”
“Princess,” said Prokop in a thick voice, “what does this farce mean?”
“Don’t shout like that. It’s more important than you imagine. Do you know that they now want to give me in marriage?” She trembled with horror. “Darling, go away now. Go down the passage to the third room on the right and wait there for me. I must see you.”
“Listen,” Prokop wanted to say, but she only inclined her head and moved suavely across to the old major.
Prokop could not believe his eyes.
Could such things happen? Was it not really a carefully arranged performance? Were the different people taking their roles seriously? The fat cousin took him by the arm and discreetly led him aside. “Do you know what this means?” he whispered excitedly. “The old Hagen is paralyzed. It’s a ruling family! Did you see that heir to a throne? There was to be a marriage, but it didn’t come off. That man is certainly sent here purposely. God, what a pedigree!” Prokop got free of him. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, walked down the passage as slowly as possible and went into the appointed room. It was a sort of little boudoir for drinking tea, with shaded lights, everything lacquered, black porcelain and other rubbish. Prokop strode about this miniature apartment with his hands behind his back, buzzing like a blowfly which hits its head against the glass of a window-frame. Sacra, things were altered and for the sake of a lousy Tartar pedigree which a decent person would be ashamed of. … A nice reason! And on account of a handful of such Huns these idiots crawled along on their bellies and she, she herself. … The blowfly butted the glass in a frenzy. Now. … This Tartar princess would come in and say: Darling, darling all is over between us; you must realize that the granddaughter of Li-taj Khan can’t love the son of a cobbler. Tap, tap; he heard in his head the noise of his father’s hammer and he could almost smell the odour of the leather and of the cobbler’s wax; and his mother, in a blue apron, was standing, flushed, over the stove. …
The blowfly buzzed desperately. “We shall see, Princess! What have you let yourself in for, man? When she comes you must knock your forehead on the floor and say: Pardon, Tartar princess, I shall not show myself in your presence again. …”
In the little room there was a faint smell of
