# Krakatit/Chapter 1

KRAKATIT
CHAPTER I
With the evening the fog of the cold, damp day grew thicker. You felt as if you were making your way through some thin, moist substance which closed behind you again for good. You wished you were at home. At home by your lamp in a box of four walls. Never before had you felt so forsaken.
Prokop felt his way along the embankment. He was chilled and his forehead was damp with the sweat of weakness; he wanted to sit down on that wet seat but he was afraid of the policemen. He felt as if he was twisting round; yes, near the Old Town mill a man made a detour to avoid him as though he were a drunkard. He exerted all his strength to walk straight. And now there came another man, walking towards him with his hat drawn down over his eyes and his collar turned up. Prokop set his teeth, furrowed his brow and strained all his muscles in the attempt to pass him successfully. But when he was just a step away from the other there was suddenly a darkness inside his head and the whole world began to revolve with him; suddenly he saw ever so near a pair of pentrating eyes which were fixed on him. He struck ​against some one’s shoulder, murmured a word of apology and moved away with a sort of convulsive dignity. A few paces further he stopped and looked round, The other man stood regarding him fixedly. Prokop pulled himself together and moved off a little more quickly; but it was no good, he was obliged to give another glance back. The man was still standing and watching him, sticking his head out of his collar like a tortoise. “Let him look,” thought Prokop uneasily, “now I shan’t turn round again.” And he went on as best he could. The man with the turned-up collar followed him. It seemed that he was running. Prokop took to flight in terror.
The world again began to revolve with him. Breathing heavily, with chattering teeth, he leaned against a tree and closed his eyes. He felt horribly ill and was afraid that he would fall, that his heart would burst and that the blood would spurt out of his lips. When he opened his eyes he saw the man with the turned-up collar standing right in front of him.
“Aren’t you Engineer Prokop?” asked the man, as though repeating the question.
“I . . . I haven’t been there,” answered Prokop, trying to lie.
“Where?” asked the man.
“There,” said Prokop, and indicated with his head some place in the direction of Strahov. “What do you want of me?”
“Don't you know me? I’m Thomas. Thomas from the Polytechnic. Don’t you know, now?”
“Thomas,” repeated Prokop, utterly indifferent ​to what the name might signify. “Yes, Thomas, of course. And what do you want from me?”
The man with the turned-up collar seized him by the arm. “Wait, first of all you must sit down. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Prokop, and allowed himself to be led to a seat. “I . . . that is to say . . . I’m not well, you see.” He suddenly drew out of his pocket a hand bound up with a piece of dirty rag. “Wounded, see? A confounded business.”
“And doesn’t your head ache?” asked the man.
“It does.”
“Now listen, Prokop,” said the other. “You’ve got a fever or something of the sort. You must go to the hospital, see? Anyone can tell you’re in a bad way. But at least do remember that we know one another. I’m Thomas. We did chemistry together. My dear fellow, do remember!”
“I know Thomas,” echoed Prokop weakly. “That rotter. What about him?”
“Nothing,” said Thomas. “He is talking to you. You must go to bed, see? Where do you live?”
“There,” Prokop attempted to say, and made a gesture with his head. “Near . . . near Hybsmonka.” Suddenly he attempted to stand up. “I don’t want to go there! Not there! There—there is . . . there is . . .”
“What?”
“Krakatit,” breathed Prokop.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. I shan’t say. No one must go there. Or . . . Or . . .”
​“What?”
“Ffft, bang!” said Prokop, and threw his hand up in the air.
“What’s that?”
“Krakatoe. Kra-ka-tau. A volcano, see? It . . . tore off my finger. I don’t know what. . . .” He stopped and added slowly: “A frightful thing, you know.”
Thomas watched him carefully as if he were waiting for something. “And so,” he began after a moment, “you’re still on explosives?”
“Yes, always have been.”
“With success?”
Prokop gave a queer kind of laugh. “You’d like to know, eh? No, my friend, it won’t do that way . . . not that way,” he repeated, swaying his head in a drunken manner. “My friend, by itself—by itself—it . . .”
“What?”
“Kra-ka-tit. Krakatit. Krrakatitt. And by itself—I only left a little powder on the table, see? All the rest I col—collected in a snuff-box. There was only a l-l—little powder left on the table, and suddenly . . .”
“It exploded.”
“Exploded. Only a trace, only the powder that I had dropped. It was hardly visible. Then the electric light globe—a kilometre away. It wasn’t that. And I—in the arm-chair, like a bit of wood. Tired, you know. Too much work. And suddenly . . . crash! I was thrown on to the floor. The window was blown out, and the globe wasn’t there. A detonation like—the explosion of a lyddite car​tridge. Terrible energy . I . . . I thought at first that it was the por-porcel-por-ce-lain, polcelain, porcelene . . . the white insulator, you know, that had exploded. Aluminium silicate.”
“Porcelain.”
“Snuff-box. I thought it had exploded. So I strike a match and there it is unharmed, unharmed, unharmed. And I stay there like a post . . . until the match burns my fingers. And then—across country—in the dark to Brevnov or Stresovic—and somewhere on the way the word Krakatoe, Krakatit came into my head. Kra-ka-tit. No, no, it wasn’t li—like that. When it went up, I fell on the floor and shouted out Krakatit. Krakatit. Then I forgot it. Who’s that there? Who—who are you?”
“Thomas.”
“Thomas, aha! That lousy fellow! We used to lend one another our notes. He never gave me back a chemistry notebook. Thomas, what was his first name?”
“George.”
“I know now, George. You’re George, I know. George Thomas. Where’s my notebook? Wait a moment and I’ll tell you something. If the rest goes up there’ll be trouble. Man, it’ll flatten out the whole of Prague. Wipe it away. Blow it off the earth—f-t! When that por-ce-lain box explodes, see?”
“What box?”
“You are George Thomas, I know. Go to Karlin or to Vysocany and watch it explode. Run, run!”
​“Why?”
“I made a hundred-weight of it. A hundred-weight of Krakatit. No, about three ounces. Up there, in that porcelain box. When it explodes, man—but wait a minute, that’s impossible. It’s senseless,” mumbled Prokop, clutching his head.
“Well?”
“Why—why—why didn’t it explode also in the box? If the powder exploded by itself—wait a moment, on the table there’s a sheet of zinc—why did it explode on the table? Wa-it, be quiet, be quiet,” said Prokop. His teeth chattered, and he rose up unsteadily.
“What’s up with you?”
“Krakatit,” muttered Prokop. He made a twisting movement with his whole body and fell on the ground unconscious.