“No, I haven’t,” muttered Prokop, stupefied.
The old man shook his head in disappointment. “You want to see too much. You will have to live for a long time.” He blew out the little lamp and, muttering to himself, slowly covered the box up again. “Sit down on the coach-box, we’ll go on.” He pulled off the sack which was covering the horse’s back and put it over Prokop’s shoulders. “So that you shan’t be cold,” he said, and sat down next to him. He took the reins in his hand and whistled quietly. The horse set off at a gentle trot. “Hi! Now then,” sang the old man.
They passed along an avenue of birches, by cottages half drowned in the mist, a serene and sleeping countryside. “Grandfather,” Prokop found himself saying, “why has all this happened to me?”
“What?”
“Why have I come up against so many things?”
The old man reflected. “It only seems like that,” he said finally. “What happens to a man comes out of himself. It all winds out of you as if from a skein.”
“That isn’t true,” Prokop protested. “Why did I meet the Princess? Grandfather, perhaps … you know me. You know that I’ve been looking for … that other one, you understand? And yet it happened that—why? Tell me!”
The old man considered this, munching with his soft lips. “It was your pride,” he said slowly. “Sometimes it happens to a man like that, he doesn’t know why, but it’s because he has it in him. And he begins to throw himself about—” He illustrated what he was saying with the whip, so that the horse became uneasy and increased its pace. “P‑r‑r‑r, what, what?” he cried to it in a thin voice. “You see, it’s the same as when some little chap gives himself airs; he upsets everybody. And there’s no need to make such a fuss. Sit still and watch the road and you’ll get there all right.”
“Grandfather,” cried Prokop, half closing his eyes in pain, “have I done wrong?”
“Yes and no,” said the old man cautiously. “You’ve hurt people. If you had been sensible you wouldn’t have done it. One must be sensible. And a man must realize the meaning of everything. For instance … you can burn a hundred crown note, or use it to pay your debts. If you burn it it looks more, but … it’s the same with women,” he concluded unexpectedly.
“Did I behave badly?”
“What?”
“Was I wicked?”
“… You weren’t clean inside. A man … must think more than feel. And you threw yourself at everything.”
“Grandfather, that was through Krakatit.”
“What?”
“I … I made a discovery—and through that—”
“If it hadn’t been in you it wouldn’t have been in the discovery. A man does everything out of himself. Wait and consider; think and try and remember what your discovery came from and how it was made. Think about that carefully and then say what you know. Hi, no, no, no, p‑s‑s!”
The cart rumbled over the rough road, the white horse moving its legs in a tremulous and quaint trot. The light danced over the ground, lighting up trees and stones, while the old man bumped up and down on his seat, singing softly to himself. Prokop was rubbing his forehead. “Grandfather,” he whispered.
“Well?”
“I’ve forgotten!”
“What?”
“I … I’ve forgotten how to … make … Krakatit!”
“There you are,” said the old man calmly. “So you have found out something.”
LIV
To Prokop it was as if they were passing through the quiet countryside in which he had spent his childhood, but it was very foggy and the light from the lantern penetrated no further than the side of the road, beyond which there was a silent and unknown land.
“Hohohot,” cried the old man, and the horse turned off the road right into that veiled, silent world. The wheels dug into soft grass. Prokop made out a shallow valley, on each side of which were leafless thickets, between which was a beautiful meadow. “P‑r‑r‑r,” cried the old man and slowly got down from the coach-box. “Get out,” he said, “we’ve arrived.” He slowly undid the traces. “Nobody will come after us here.”
“Who?”
“… The police. There must be order … but they always want all sorts of papers … and permits … and where you are coming from … and where you are going. It’s all more than I can understand.” He unharnessed the horse, saying to him quietly: “Keep quiet and you shall have a piece of bread.”
Prokop stepped down from the cart, numbed by the journey. “Where are we?”
“Over there where there’s that hut,” said the old man vaguely. “You will sleep it off and be all right.” He took the lantern from the shaft and threw its light on to a small wooden shed, for hay or something of the sort, but decrepit, poor and crazy. “And I’ll make a fire,” he said in his singing voice, “and get you some tea. When you’ve sweated you’ll be well again.” He wrapped Prokop up in the sack and put down the light in front of him. “Wait while I fetch some wood. Stay here.” He was just on the point of going off when something occurred to him. He thrust his hand into his pocket and looked at Prokop interrogatively.
“What is it, grandfather?”
“I … don’t know if you would like to … I’m a star reader.” He brought his hand out of his pocket again.
