“Yes,” he said uncertainly, somewhat oppressed by the serious behaviour of everybody. “Almost completely recovered, only—only—” Her steadfast gaze filled him with confusion and almost with anxiety; he felt uncomfortable and constrained.
“Do you want anything?” she asked, bending over him.
Her glance filled him with a terrible fear. “To sleep,” he whispered, so as to be free of it.
She looked inquiringly at the two gentlemen. One of them gave a brief nod and looked at her—with curious seriousness. She understood and turned still more pale. “Sleep now,” she said in a strangled voice and turned to the wall. Prokop looked round him in surprise. Mr. Paul had his napkin pressed to his lips, Holz was standing like a soldier, blinking his eyes, and Krafft was simply blubbering, leaning against a cupboard and blowing his nose noisily.
“But what—” cried Prokop, and tried to raise himself up, but one of the gentlemen placed on his forehead a hand which was so soft and kind, so reassuring and pleasant to the touch, that he at once calmed down and sighed with relief. A moment later he was asleep.
He awoke in a curious state of semiconsciousness. There was no light but that of the lamp on the table, and beside the bed the Princess was sitting, dressed in dark clothes, looking at him with gleaming, bewitching eyes. He quickly closed his own so as not to see her, so much was he embarrassed.
“Darling, how are you?”
“What’s the time?” he asked confusedly.
“Two.”
“In the day?”
“In the night.”
“Really,” he said in surprise, and began to weave again the dark thread of sleep. At moments he just opened his eyes, glanced at the Princess and went off again. Why was she looking at him so hard? Someone moistened his lips with a spoonful of wine; he swallowed it and mumbled something or other. Finally he fell into a deep, heavy sleep.
He awoke to find that one of the gentlemen in black was carefully listening to his heart. Five others stood round.
“Incredible,” said the dark gentleman. “He has a heart of iron.”
“Shall I die?” asked Prokop suddenly. The dark gentleman almost jumped with surprise.
“We shall see,” he said. “If you’ve been able to get through such a night. How long have you been going about with it?”
“With what?” said Prokop, astonished.
The dark gentleman waved his hand. “Quiet,” he said, “only quiet.” Prokop, although he felt miserably ill, could not help smiling; when doctors have no idea what to do they always prescribe quiet.
Then the one with the pleasant hands said to him: “You must believe that you will get better. Faith works miracles.”
XLII
He started out of his sleep covered with a terrible sweat. Where—where was he? The ceiling undulated and swung to and fro above him; no, no, no, it was falling, descending with a screw-like motion, slowly coming down like a gigantic hydraulic press. Prokop wanted to shout, but was unable to do so, and now the ceiling was so low that he could distinguish a transparent fly which was resting on it, the grain of the material with which it was covered, every inequality on its surface. And still it continued to descend and Prokop watched it with breathless horror, unable to make any sound louder than a hiss. The light went out, and black darkness took its place; now it would crush him. Prokop already felt the touch of the ceiling on his hair and uttered a voiceless cry. Aha! now he had found the door, pulled it open and dashed outside. Even there there was the same darkness, or rather not darkness, but fog, fog so thick that he was unable to breathe and began to suffocate, hiccuping with horror. Now I’m being strangled, he thought, and took to flight in terror, treading upon—upon—some sort of living bodies, which were still writhing. He bent down and felt beneath his hands a young breast. That—that was Annie, he thought, and passed his hand over her head; but instead of a head she had a box, a por‑ce‑lain box containing something slimy and spongy like a lung. He felt utterly revolted and tried to draw his hand away, but the thing adhered to it, attached itself and began to creep up his arm. It was Krakatit, a damp and resinous sepia with the gleaming eyes of the Princess, which were fixed on him agitatedly and passionately; the thing moved about his naked body looking for a place on which to sit down upon him. Prokop was unable to breathe, struggled with it, dug his fingers into this yielding, sticky matter—and woke up.
Mr. Paul was bending over him and placing a cold compress on his chest.
“Where’s—where’s Annie?” mumbled Prokop with relief and closed his eyes. Breathless and perspiring he found himself running across a ploughed field. He did not know where he was going in such a hurry but he hastened along until his heart was nearly splitting with the strain and he groaned with anxiety lest he should arrive too late. And here at last was the house; it had neither doors nor windows, only above it a clock, the hands of which marked five minutes to four. And Prokop knew in a flash that when the big hand reached twelve the whole of Prague would be hurled into the air. “Who’s stolen my Krakatit?” he roared, and tried to climb up the wall so as to stop the hand at the last minute. He sprang up and dug his nails into the plaster, but only slid down, leaving a long scratch on the wall. Screaming with horror, he flew off somewhere to get assistance. He burst into the stables, to find the Princess standing there with Carson. They were making love to one another with abrupt, mechanical gestures, like those of marionettes. When they saw him they joined hands and began to jump quicker, quicker and ever
