“Stand up, I beg you!”
She squatted down on her heels, folded her hands in her lap and looked at him as if entranced. Now … she was no longer like the one with the veil; he recalled the sobbing Annie. “Don’t cry any more,” he said gently and uncertainly.
“You are beautiful,” she whispered admiringly. He grew red and muttered something or other. “Go … to bed,” he gulped and stroked her burning cheek.
“Do you hate me?” she whispered, blushing.
“No, nothing of the sort.” She did not move, and gazed at him with anxious eyes. He bent down and kissed her. She kissed him back clumsily, in confusion, as if she were kissing a man for the first time. “Go to bed,” he muttered, worried, “I’ve still … something which I must think out.”
She got up obediently and quietly began to undress. He sat down in a corner so as not to disturb her. She took off her clothes without any shame, but also without the least frivolity. Simply, without hurrying, she laid aside her underclothes, slowly took the stockings off her strong and well-shaped legs. She became reflective, looked down on the ground, like a child began to observe her long toes, and glanced at Prokop. She laughed and whispered: “I’m being quiet.” Prokop in his corner was hardly breathing: it was again she, the girl with a veil; this powerful, beautiful and developed body belonged to her; she would lay aside her clothing piece by piece in the same lovely and serious way, her hair would fall like that over her composed shoulders, she would reflectively stroke her full arms in the same manner. … He closed his eyes, his heart beating violently. Have you never seen her, closing your eyes in the most complete solitude, seen her standing in the quiet light of the lamp amongst her family, turning her face towards you and saying something which you couldn’t somehow catch? Have you never, rubbing your hands between your knees, seen beneath your eyelids the constrained movement of her hand, a simple and noble movement in which was the whole of the peaceful and silent joy of home? Once she appeared to you, seen from behind, her head bent over something, and on another occasion you saw her reading by the light of the evening lamp. Perhaps this now was only a continuation and would disappear if you were to open your eyes, and you would be left with nothing but solitude.
He opened his eyes. The girl was lying in bed, covered up to her chin, her eyes turned towards him in passionate and submissive love. He came over to her, and bent over her face, studying her features with sharp and impatient attention. She looked at him interrogatively and made room for him at her side. “No, no, no,” he muttered and stroked her lightly on the forehead. “Go to sleep.” She obediently closed her eyes and hardly seemed to breathe.
He returned to his corner on tiptoe. No, she’s not like her, he assured himself. He had an idea that she was watching him through her half-closed eyes. This tortured him; he could not even think. He became irritated, and turned his head away. Finally he sprang up and crossed the room softly to look at her. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing very quietly; she was beautiful and unresisting. “Sleep,” he whispered. She made a tiny movement of assent with her head. He turned out the light, and rubbing his hands returned on tiptoe to his corner near the window.
After a long, painful interval he crept to the door like a thief. Would she wake? He hesitated with his hand on the catch, opened it with a beating heart, and stole out into the yard.
It was not yet day. Prokop looked about amongst the slag heaps, and then climbed over the fence. He dropped on to the ground, brushed the dirt off his clothes and made for the main road.
It was all that he could do to see his way. He looked about him, trembling with cold. Where, where exactly should he go? To Balttin?
He went on for a few steps and then stopped, looking down at the ground. Now to Balttin? Assailed by a fit of rough, tearless crying he turned back.
To Grottup!
LII
The paths of the world twist in a curious way. If you were to follow out all your steps and all the journeys you have made, what an intricate design they would make! For by his steps everyone traces out his map of the world.
By the time that Prokop found himself standing in front of the grille before the factories at Grottup, it was already evening. The factory consisted of a great stretch of sheds, illuminated by the dull globes of arc lamps; the lights were still showing from one or two windows. Prokop thrust his head through the bars of the grille and cried: “Hallo!”
The doorkeeper, or perhaps the guard, came up. “What do you want? It’s forbidden to enter.”
“Excuse me, is Mr. Engineer Thomas still with you?”
“What do you want with him?”
“I must speak to him.”
“… Mr. Thomas is still in the laboratory. You can’t see him.”
“Tell him … tell him that his friend Prokop is waiting for him … that he has something which he wishes to give him.”
“Get farther away from the grille,” muttered the man, and called someone.
A quarter of an hour later someone in a long white coat came up to the grille.
“Is that you, Thomas?” cried Prokop in a low voice.
“No, I’m the laboratory assistant.
