The old man smiled. “Does it taste good? Ah, at last it’s boiling!” He bent over the kettle, raised it with an effort and limped off to the cart. In a moment he was back with a couple of mugs. “Just hold it a minute.” Prokop took one of the mugs; on it was painted in gold the name “Ludmila,” surrounded with a garland of forget-me-nots. He read the name twenty times and tears came into his eyes. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “is … that … her name?”
The old man looked at him with sad, tender eyes. “So that you know,” he said softly, “it is.”
“And … shall I never find her?”
The old man said nothing but only blinked rapidly. “Hold it out,” he said uncertainly, “I’ll give you some tea.”
Prokop held out the mug with a trembling hand and the old man carefully poured into it some strong tea. “Drink it while it’s warm,” he said gently.
“Th—thank you,” sobbed Prokop and took a sip of the sharp-tasting drink.
The old man stroked his long hair reflectively. “It’s bitter,” he said slowly, “it’s bitter, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like a bit of sugar?”
Prokop shook his head. He felt the bitter taste of tears, but his breast was filled with a generous warmth.
The old man sipped at his mug noisily. “And now look,” he said, so as to make things easier, “what I’ve got painted on mine.” He handed him his mug; on it was depicted an anchor, a heart and a cross. “That’s faith, love and hope. Don’t cry any more.” He stood over the fire with his hands clasped. “Dear one, dear one,” he said softly, “you will not achieve the highest and you will not release everything. You tried to tear yourself to pieces by force, but you have remained whole and you will neither save the world nor smash it to pieces. Much in you will remain closed up, like fire in a stove; that is good, it is sacrifice. You wanted to do too great things, and you will instead do small ones. That is good.”
Prokop knelt down in front of the fire, not daring to raise his eyes. He knew now that it was God the Father who was speaking to him.
“It is good,” he whispered.
“It is good. You will do things which will help people. He whose thoughts are full of the highest turns away his eyes from people. Instead you will serve them.”
“That is good,” whispered Prokop, on his knees.
“Now you see,” said the old man, pleased, and squatted down on his heels. “Tell me, what’s this—what do you call it? Your invention?”
Prokop raised his head. “I’ve … forgotten.”
“That doesn’t matter,” the old man reassured him. “You’ll take up other things. Wait a moment, what was it I was going to say? Aha! Why was there such a great explosion? That’s more people injured. But look about and search; perhaps you’ll find … well, perhaps only such pf‑pf‑pf,” he said, blowing out his soft cheeks, “you see? So that it should only be puf‑puf … and do something which will work for people, do you understand?”
“You mean,” muttered Prokop, “some sort of cheap energy, eh?”
“Cheap, cheap,” agreed the old man, delighted. “So that it could be very useful. And shine, and warm, you understand?”
“Wait,” said Prokop reflectively, “I don’t know—that would mean experimenting all over again … from the other end.”
“That’s it. Start from the other end and there you are. There, you see, you’ve something to begin with right away. But leave that other. I’ll get your bed ready.” He got up and limped off to the cart. “Hato hot ma‑ly,” he sang, “we’re going to bed.” He returned with a rough mattress. “Come along,” he said, took the lantern and led the way into the wooden shed. “There’s straw enough,” he croaked as he made the bed ready, “for all three of us. Praise be to God.”
Prokop sat down on the straw. “Grandfather,” he cried, amazed, “look!”
“What?”
“There, on the wall.” On each of the planks forming the side of the hut there had been written large letters in chalk. Prokop read them by the flickering light of the lantern: K … R … A … K … A … T. …
“That’s nothing, that’s nothing,” muttered the old man reassuringly and quickly rubbed them out with his cap. “That’s all over. Just lie down and I’ll cover you with a sack. So.”
He went to the doorway. “Dadada ma‑ly,” he sang in his trembling voice and the horse thrust its beautiful silver head through the door and rubbed its nose against the old man’s coat.
“Come in, come in,” he said, “and lie down.”
The old horse ambled into the shed, scratched with its hoofs the opposite wall and knelt down. “I’ll find a place between you,” said the old man, “he’ll breathe on you and you’ll be warm. So.”
He sat down quietly near the door. Behind him could still be seen the glow of the dying fire, and the pale blue eyes of the horse, turned on him. The old man muttered something to him, nodding his head. …
Prokop closed his eyes in bliss. “Why … why, it’s my old father,” he said to himself. “God! how old he’s grown! His neck’s become scraggy—”
“Prokop, are you asleep?” whispered the old man.
“No,” answered Prokop, trembling with love.
The old man began to sing gently a strained and quiet song: “Lalala hou, dadada pan, binkili bunkili hou ta ta. …”
Then Prokop fell into a sweet and healing sleep, free from all dreams.
Colophon
Krakatit
was published in by
Karel Čapek.
It was translated from Czech in by
Lawrence Hyde.
This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
Lukas Bystricky,
and is based on a transcription produced in by
Lukas Bystricky and Distributed Proofreaders
for
Project Gutenberg
and on digital scans from the
Internet Archive.
The cover page is adapted from
Apparatus and Hand,
a painting completed in by
Salvador Dalí.
The cover and title pages feature the
League Spartan and Sorts Mill Goudy
typefaces created in
