Krakatit/Chapter 49
CHAPTER XLIX
There was a moment of tense silence.
“And is that all?” said a mocking voice from the middle of the hall.
“That’s all,” said Prokop, disgusted.
“It is not all,” Daimon stood up. “Comrade Krakatit assumed that the delegates would be good enough to understand”
“Oho!” there resounded from the middle of the hall.
“Yes. Delegate Mezierski must have patience and let me finish. Comrade Krakatit has graphically explained to us that it is necessary,” and Daimon’s voice again was like the screeching of a bird, “that it is necessary to inaugurate a revolution without paying attention to the theory of stages; a levelling and disruptive evolution in the course of which humanity will release the highest which is hidden within. Man must explode to release everything. Society must explode to find the highest good within itself. You here have spent years in disputing the question of the highest good of humanity. Comrade Krakatit has shown us that it is sufficient to cause humanity to explode in order for it to flame up higher than you have wished it to in your debates. And we must not bother about what is destroyed by the explosion. I say that Comrade Krakatit is right.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” There was a sudden burst of shouting and clapping. “Krakatit! Krakatit!”
“Silence!” shouted Daimon. “And his words,” he continued, “have all the more weight because they are supported by the actual power of bringing about this explosion. Comrade Krakatit is not a man of words, but of deeds. He has come here to convert us to direct action. And I tell you that it will be more terrible than anyone has dared to dream. And the explosion will take place to-day, tomorrow, within a week: His words were drowned in an indescribable confusion. A wave of people poured from the seats and surrounded Prokop. They embraced him, seized his hands and cried: “Krakatit! Krakatit!” The beautiful girl struggled wildly, her hair loose, trying to make a way for herself through the crowd of people. Thrown forward by the pressure from behind, she pressed herself against his breast. He tried to push her away, but she put her arms round him and passionately whispered something in a foreign language. Meanwhile, on the edge of the platform, a man wearing spectacles was slowly and quietly demonstrating to the empty benches that theoretically it was not permissible to deduce sociological conclusions from inorganic matter. “Krakatit. Krakatit,” roared the crowd. No one would sit down although Mazaud was ringing his bell all the time like a dustman. Suddenly a dark young man sprang on to the platform and waved the box of Krakatit above their heads.
“Silence,” he roared, “and down with you! Or I will throw it under your feet!”
There was a sudden silence; the crowd evacuated the platform and drew back. Above there was left only Mazaud, his bell in his hand, confused and at a loss what to do, Daimon, leaning on the table, and Prokop, on whose neck there was still hanging the dark-haired Mænad.
“Rossi,” cried a number of voices. “Down with him! Down with Rosso!” The young man on the platform looked wildly round the room with his burning eyes. “Let nobody move! Mezierski wants to shoot at me. I shall throw it,” he shouted and flourished the box.
The crowd recoiled, growling like an enraged animal. Two or three people put up their hands, and others followed them. There was a moment of oppressive silence.
“Get down,” shouted old Mazaud. “Who gave you permission to speak?”
“I shall throw it,” threatened Rosso, taut like a bow.
“This is against the regulations,” said Mazaud excitedly. “I protest and . . . leave the chair.” He threw the bell on the ground and stepped down from the platform.
“Bravo, Mazaud,” said an ironical voice. “You’ve helped him.”
“Silence,” cried Rosso, and threw back the hair from his forehead. “I’m speaking. Comrade Krakatit has told us: Your moment will come and you will explode; make room for this unique moment. Good, I’ve taken his words to heart.”
“It wasn’t meant like that!”
“Long live Krakatit!”
Some one began to whistle.
Daimon caught Prokop by the arm and dragged him to a door somewhere behind the blackboard.
“Hiss away,” continued Rosso mockingly. “None of you hissed when this foreign gentleman stood in front of you and . . . made room for his moment. Why shouldn’t anyone else try?”
“That’s right,” said a satisfied voice.
The beautiful girl stood in front of Prokop to protect him with her body. He tried to push her away.
“That’s not true,” she shouted with burning eyes. “He . . . he is . . .”
“Be quiet,” said Daimon.
“Anyone can preach,” said Rosso feverishly. “As long as I have this in my hand I can preach too. It’s all the same to me whether I go out or not. Nobody may leave this room! Galeasso, watch the door! So, now we can discuss matters.”
“Yes, now we can discuss matters,” echoed Daimon sharply.
Rosso turned round to him like lightning, but at that moment the blue-eyed giant dashed forward with his head lowered like a ram’s; and, before Rosso could turn round, seized his legs and pulled them from under him. Rosso fell from the platform head first. In the middle of a tense silence he rolled over and struck his head against the floor while the lid of the porcelain box rolled under the benches.
Prokop rushed across to the unconscious body; Rosso’s chest, and face, the floor, the pools of blood beneath him, were all covered with the white dust of Krakatit. Daimon held him back and at that moment there was a loud cry and several people rushed on to the platform. “Don’t tread on Krakatit, it will explode,” ordered some cracked voice, but the people had already thrown themselves on the ground and were collecting the white powder into match-boxes, struggling, writhing in a heap on the ground.
“Shut the door,” roared somebody. The lights went out. At that moment Daimon kicked open the little door behind the blackboard and dragged Prokop out into the darkness.
He turned on a pocket electric lamp. They were in a windowless hovel, with tables piled on top of one another, trays for beer, a lot of musty clothing. He quickly dragged Prokop on further: the unsavoury black hole of a staircase, black and narrow steps leading downwards. Half-way down them they were overtaken by the tousled girl. “I am going with you,” she whispered, and dug her fingers into Prokop’s arm. Daimon led them out into a yard, turning the light of the pocket lamp about him; around there was black darkness. He opened a gate and they found themselves on the road. Before Prokop could reach the car, struggling to throw off the girl, the motor had begun to throb and Daimon was at the wheel. “Quickly!” Prokop threw himself into the car, the girl behind him. There was a jerk and the car flew into the darkness. It was icily cold and the girl shivered in her thin clothes. Prokop wrapped her up in a fur rug and himself settled in the other corner. The car was racing along a bad, soft road, tossing from one side to another, pulling up and then noisily accelerating again. Prokop was angry and moved away whenever the motion of the vehicle threw him against the girl. But she nestled against him. “You’re cold, aren’t you?” she whispered, opened the rug and wrapped him in it, pressing herself against him. “Get warm,” she breathed with a lewd smile and pressed herself against him with her whole body. She was hot and yielding, as if she were naked. Her loose hair exuded a wild and bitter scent, tickled his face and fell across his eyes. She spoke to him in some foreign language, repeating something again and again more and more softly. Then she took the lobe of his ear between her delicately chattering teeth, and suddenly she was lying on his chest and placing her lips on his in a moist, unclean, sophisticated kiss. He pushed her away roughly. She drew back deeply offended, sat farther away from him, and with a movement of her shoulder jerked off the fur rug. There was an icy wind blowing; he took up the rug and again passed it round her. She threw herself about wildly, tore off the rug and let it fall on the floor of the car. “As you like,” growled Prokop, and turned away.
The car turned into a firm stretch of road and immediately accelerated. Of Daimon nothing was to be seen but the back of his shaggy coat. Prokop sobbed with the coldness of the wind and looked round at the girl. She had twined her hair round her neck and was shivering with cold in her thin clothes. He was sorry for her, and again took the rug and threw it over her. She pushed it away in fury and then he wrapped her up in it from her head to her heels, as if she were a package, and clasped her in his arms: “Don’t move!”
“What are you up to?” threw out Daimon casually from the wheel. “Well. . .”
Prokop pretended that he had not heard this piece of cynicism, but the package in his arms began to giggle quietly.
“She’s a good girl,” continued Daimon calmly. “Her father was an author.” The package nodded and Daimon told Prokop a name so famous, so sacred and pure that he was positively aghast and involuntarily relaxed his grasp. The package twisted round and bounced on his lap; from beneath the rug there projected a pair of beautiful, wicked legs, which childishly kicked about in the air. He drew the rug over her so that she should not be cold, but she seemed to regard this as a game, was convulsed with laughter, and went on kicking her legs about. He held her as firmly as he could, but her hands slid out from the rug and played over his face, pulled his hair, tickled his neck and found their way in between his lips. At length he let her go on; she felt about his forehead, found it severely furrowed, and drew back as if she had been burned. Now it was a venturesome child’s hand which did not know what it was allowed to do. It gently and surreptitiously approached his face, touched it, drew away, touched it again, smoothed it and at last timidly rested on his rough cheek. From the rug there, came the sound of deep breathing.
The car slid through a sleeping town and shot into the open country. “Well,” said Daimon, turning round, “what do you think of our comrades?”
“Quietly,” whispered the motionless Prokop, “she’s asleep.”