# Krakatit/Chapter 51

CHAPTER LI
Daimon hurried along. “Where exactly is Grottup?” asked Prokop on a sudden impulse, when they had descended.
“Come,” said Daimon, “I’ll show you.” He led him into the factory office to a map hanging on the wall. “Here,” and he indicated on the map with his enormous nail a little circle. “Wouldn’t you like to drink something? This sort of thing warms you up.” He poured out a glassful of some jet-black liquid for Prokop and himself. “Your health.” Prokop tossed down his portion and gulped; it was red-hot and as bitter as quinine; his head began to spin dizzily. “Any more?” said Daimon through his yellow teeth. “No? A pity. You don’t want to keep your little beauty waiting, eh?” He drank glass after glass. His eyes flashed with a green light, he wanted to babble but could not master his tongue. “Listen, you’re a good chap,” he said. “Get to work to-morrow. Old Daimon will give you everything you ask for.” He rose unsteadily and made him a low bow. “Now everything’s in order. And now—wa-wait——” He began to talk all possible languages at once. As far as Prokop was able to understand, it was unutterable filth. Finally he hummed some senseless song, threw himself about as if in a fit and lost consciousness. Yellow foam appeared on his lips.
​“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” cried Prokop, shaking him.
Daimon opened his glassy eyes with difficulty.
“What . . . what’s up?” he muttered, raised himself up a little and shook himself. “Aha! I’m . . . I’m . . . That’s nothing.” He rubbed his forehead and yawned convulsively. “Yes. I’ll show you to your room, eh?” He was horribly pale and his Tartar face had suddenly grown flabby. He walked uncertainly as if his limbs were numbed. “Come then.”
He went straight to the room in which they had left the girl sleeping. “Ah,” he cried from the doorway, “the beauty has woke up. Come in, please.”
She was kneeling by the hearth. Evidently she had just lit the fire and was looking into a crackling flame. “Look how she’s arranged it,” said Daimon appreciatively. Certainly the stuffy and depressing aspect of the room had disappeared in the most extraordinary way; it was now pleasant and unpretentious like a room in one’s own home.
“How clever you are,” said Daimon admiringly. “Girl, you ought to settle down.” She stood up and, became red and confused. “Don’t be frightened now,” said Daimon. “Here’s the comrade you like.”
“Yes. I like him,” she said simply, and went over and closed the window and pulled down the blinds.
The stove threw a pleasant heat into the bright room. “Child, you’ve made everything very nice,” said Daimon, gratified, warming his hands. “I should like to stay here.”
​“Please go away,” she cried quickly.
“At once, my dear,” said Daimon, grinning. “I . . . I feel lonely without people. Look, your friend seems to be struck dumb. Wait. I’ll talk to him.”
She suddenly became angry. “Don’t say anything to him! Let him behave as he wants to!” He raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. “What? what? You don’t mean to say that you lo——”
“What’s that to do with you?” she interrupted him, her eyes flashing. “Who wants you here?”
He laughed quietly, leaning against the stove. “If you knew how that suits you! Girl, girl, has it really at last happened seriously to you? Show me!” He tried to take hold of her chin. She drew back, pale with rage, showing her teeth.
“What? You even want to bite? Who were you with yesterday, that you are so—— Aha! I know. Rosso, eh?”
“That’s not true,” she cried with tears in her voice.
“Leave her alone,” said Prokop sternly.
“Well, well, it doesn’t matter,” muttered Daimon. “Anyway. I mustn’t interfere with you, eh? Good-night, children.” He stepped back, pressed himself to the wall and before Prokop realized the fact, had disappeared.
Prokop drew a chair up to the crackling stove and stared into the flames without even looking round at the girl. He heard her walking about the room hesitatingly on the tips of her toes, putting something straight. He did not know what she was doing. She was now standing still silently. There ​is an extraordinary power in flames and flowing water; you stare at them, become bewildered, cease to think, know nothing, and are unable to recollect anything, but before you there is represented everything that has ever happened without form and outside time.
There was the sound of one slipper being thrown down after the other; evidently she was taking her shoes off. Go to sleep, girl, when you are asleep we shall see who it is whom you resemble. Very quietly she crossed the room and then stopped. Again she arranged something. God alone knew why she wanted to have everything so clean and tidy. And suddenly she knelt down in front of him, stretching out her comely arms to his feet. “Shall I take off your boots for you?” she said gently.
He took her head between his palms and turned it towards him. She was beautiful, submissive and extraordinarily serious. “Did you ever know Thomas?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
She reflected and then shook her head.
“Don’t lie! You . . . you . . . Have youa married sister?”
“I haven’t!” She tore herself sharply out of his grasp. “Why should I lie? I’ll tell you everything deliberately so that you shall know—I’m a fallen girl.” She hid her face against his knees. “They all . . . so that you shall know——”
“Even Daimon?”
She did not answer but only shivered. “You . . . you may kick me . . . I’m . . . don’t touch me . . . I’m . . . if you knew . . .” She was unable to go on.
​“Leave that,” he cried in pain and raised her head by force. Her eyes were wide open with desperation and anxiety. He let go her head again and moaned. The resemblance was so striking that he gulped with horror. “Be quiet, at least be quiet,” he said in a strangled voice.
She again pressed her face against him. “Let me . . . I must tell you everything . . . I began when I was thir . . . thirteen . . .” He covered her mouth with his hands; she bit it and continued her terrible confession through his fingers. “Be quiet,” he cried, but the words tore themselves out of her, her teeth chattered, she trembled and went on. Somehow he managed to silence her. “Oh,” she moaned, “if you knew . . . the things that people do! And every one, every one is so rough with me . . . as if I was . . . not even an animal, not even a stone!”
“Stop,” he said, beside himself, and, not knowing what to do, smoothed her head with the trembling stumps of his fingers. Appeased, she sighed and became motionless; he could feel her hot breath and the beat of the artery in her neck.
She began to giggle quietly. “You thought that I was sleeping, there, in the car. I wasn’t asleep. I did it on purpose . . . and expected you to behave . . . like the others. Because you knew the sort of thing I was . . . and . . . you only became angry and held me as if I were a little girl . . . as if I were something sacred . . .” Although she was laughing, tears suddenly came into her eyes. “Suddenly—I don’t know why—I was more happy than I had ever been—and proud—and frightfully ashamed, ​but . . . it was so beautiful——“ With trembling lips she kissed his knees. “You . . . you didn’t even wake me up . . . and laid me down . . . as if I were something precious . . . and covered my legs, and said nothing——” She burst into tears. “I’ll, I’ll wait on you, let me . . . I’ll take your boots off. . . . Please, please don’t be angry that I pretended that I was asleep! Please——”
He wanted to raise her head; she kissed his hands. “For God’s sake, don’t cry!” he gulped out.
She drew herself up, surprised, and stopped crying. “Why are you reproaching me?” He tried to raise her face; she defended herself with all her strength and entwined herself round his legs. “No, no, no,” she gasped, laughing, and at the same time frightened. “I’m plain—I’ve been crying. You, you wouldn’t like me,” she breathed gently hiding her face. “It was so long . . . before you came! I’ll wait on you and write your letters. . . . I’m learning to use a typewriter and I know five languages. You won’t drive me away, will you? When you took such a long time to come I thought what I would do . . . and he spoilt everything and spoke as if . . . as if I were . . . But that isn’t true . . . I’ve already told you everything. I’ll . . . I’ll do what you tell me. . . . I want to be decent——”
“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 be 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!