# Krakatit/Chapter 53

CHAPTER LIII
He ran along the main road, breathing heavily, passed over the top of the hill, and descended into a valley. The ruddy flow disappeared behind him. There disappeared also the objects lit up by the dull glow and the shadows thrown by it. It was as if everything was drifting confusedly away, motionless, as if it were being carried on the breast of an immense river, a river untroubled by any wave and unvisited by any bird. He grew afraid of the beat of his own feet in the midst of this silent and immense flux of everything; he relaxed his pace, trod more softly, and went on through the milky darkness.
In front of him on the road he saw the twinkling of a light. He wanted to avoid it, stopped and hesitated. A lamp on a table, the remains of fire in a stove, a lantern looking for a path, while some worn-out moth beat its wings against the flickering light. He approached it without hurrying, as if not sure of himself. He stopped, warmed himself from a distance at the unsteady fire, came nearer with a fear that he would again be driven away. A short distance away he stopped again; it was a cart with a covering of cloth. On one of the shafts was hanging a lighted lantern which threw trembling handfuls of light on to a white horse, white stones, ​and the white stumps of birch trees at the side of the road. On its head the horse had a rough sack and was crunching some oats. It had a long, silver mane and a tail which had never been clipped. At its head there stood a little old man with a white beard and silver hair. He also in colouring was coarse and pale, like the covering over the cart. He stamped about, reflecting, saying something to himself and twisting the white mane of the horse in his fingers.
Then he turned round, looking blindly into the darkness, and asked in a trembling voice: “Is that you. Prokop? Come along. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Prokop was not surprised, but only inordinately relieved. “I’m coming,” he said, “but I’ve been running!”
The old man stepped up to him and took hold of him by the coat. “You’re quite wet,” he said reproachfully. “You mustn’t catch cold.”
“Old man,” said Prokop hoarsely, “do you know that Grottup has exploded?”
The old man shook his head regretfully. “And what a lot of people must have been killed! You ran away, eh? Sit down on the coach-box. I’ll give you a lift.” He stumped over to the horse and slowly removed the sack of oats. “Hi, hi, that’s enough,” he mumbled. “We must get along, we’ve a guest.”
“What have you got in the cart?” asked Prokop.
The old man turned round to him and smiled. “The world,” he said. “Haven’t you ever seen the world?”
​“No. I haven’t.”
“Then I’ll show you—wait.” He put the nosebag away and, without hurrying, began to undo the covering on the other side. Then he threw it back, revealing a box into which had been inserted a spyhole covered with a glass. “Wait a moment,” he said, looking for something on the ground. He picked up a small branch, squatted on his heels over the light, and lit the wick, all this slowly and seriously. “Now, burn nicely, burn,” he said to it, sheltering it with his hands. Then he placed it inside the box, lighting it up. “I use oil,” he explained. “Some of them have carbide . . . but that carbide hurts the eyes. And then one day it explodes and there you are; besides, you might hurt somebody. And oil, that’s like in a church.” He bent down to the little window, and peered through it with his pale eyes. “You can see nicely,” he whispered, delighted. “Have a look. But you must bend down, so as to be . . . little . . . like a child. That’s right.”
Prokop stooped down to the spy-hole. “The Grecian Temple in Girgent,” began the old man, “on the island of Sicily, dedicated to God or to Juno. Look at those pillars. They are made so carefully that a whole family can eat on each stone. Think what work that means! Shall I go on turning?—The view from the Mountain of Penegal in the Alps at sunset. Then the snow is lit up with a strange and beautiful light, as it’s shown there. That’s an Alpine light and that other mountain is called Latemar. Further?—The sacred city of Benares; the river is sacred and cleanses the sinful. ​Thousands of people have found there what they sought.”
The pictures were carefully drawn and coloured by hand. The colours had faded a little and the paper had a tinge of yellow, but the charming, variegated effect of the blues, greens, yellows and reds of the people’s clothing and the pure azure of the sky remained; every blade of grass was drawn with love and care.
“That sacred river is the Ganges,” concluded the old man reverently, and turned the handle further. “And this is Zahur, the most beautiful castle in the world.”
Prokop simply glued his eye to the hole. He saw a magnificent castle with graceful cupolas, lofty palms, and a blue waterfall. A tiny figure with a turban in which was stuck a feather, with a purple coat, yellow pantaloons, and a Tartar sabre was greeting with a low bow a lady dressed in white, who was leading by the bridle a prancing horse. “Where . . . where is Zahur?” whispered Prokop.
The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Somewhere over there,” he said uncertainly, “where it is most beautiful. Some find it and some do not. Shall I go on?”
“Not yet.”
The old man drew away a little and stroked the leg of the horse. “Wait, nonono, wait,” he said gently. “We must show it him, see? Let him enjoy himself.”
“Turn on, grandfather,” said Prokop. He saw in succession the harbour at Hamburg, the Kremlin, a polar landscape with the Northern Lights, the ​Volcano of Krakatau, Brooklyn Bridge, NotreDame, a native village in Borneo, Darwin’s house, the wireless station in Poldhu, a street in Shanghai, the Victoria Falls, the Castle of Gernstein, the petroleum wells in Baku. “And this is the explosion in Grottup,” explained the old man, and Prokop saw coils of reddish smoke being thrown high up in the air by a yellow flame. In the midst of the smoke and flames could be discerned fragments of human bodies. “More than five thousand people perished. It was a great disaster,” sighed the old man. “That’s the last picture. Well, have you seen the world?”
“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 men 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.”