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Updated: May 10, 2025
It is indeed short enough, and I marvel at the many words in which you have put so little!" She laughed in a hard tone. But Israel Kafka's eyes grew dark and the sombre fire beamed in them as he spoke again. The weary, tortured smile left his wan lips, and his pale face grew stern. "Laugh, laugh, Unorna!" he cried. "You do not laugh alone.
In a moment, Unorna was kneeling again by Kafka's side, her hand upon his forehead, her lips close to his ear. "This is the last time that I will use my power on you or upon any one," she said quickly, for the time was short. "Obey me, as you must. Do you understand me? Will you obey?" "Yes," came the faint answer as from very far off. "You will wake two hours from now.
She is drunk with her love of you and mad with her hatred of me." Unorna grew suddenly pale, and would have again sprung forward. But the Wanderer stopped her and held her arm. At the same time he looked into Kafka's eyes and raised one hand as though in warning. "Be silent!" he exclaimed. "And if I speak, what then?" asked the Moravian with his evil smile.
He was undoubtedly interested in Kafka's fate, and was resolved to protect him as well as to hinder him from committing any act of folly. But he had only met him for the first time that very afternoon, and under circumstances which had not in the first instance suggested even the possibility of a friendship between the two.
The Wanderer had seen many men in many lands and had witnessed the effects of many passions. He gazed earnestly into Israel Kafka's face, searching in vain for some manifestation of madness. But he was disappointed. The Moravian had formed his resolution in cold blood and intended to carry it out. His only folly appeared to lie in the announcement of his intention.
Then she heard footsteps on the frozen path, and turning quickly she saw that the Wanderer had lifted Kafka's body from the ground and was moving rapidly away, towards the entrance of the cemetery. He was leaving her in anger, without a word. She turned very pale and hesitated.
Through the transparent roof of glass a cold gray light began to descend upon the warm, still brightness of the lamps. The shadows changed, the colours grew more cold, the dark nooks among the heavy foliage less black. Israel Kafka's face was ghostly and livid the Wanderer's had the alabaster transparency that comes upon some strong men in sleep. Still, neither stirred.
As the Wanderer left the room he saw the Moravian turn toward the place where the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the wall. The Wanderer knew that the case was urgent and the danger great. There was no mistaking the tone of Israel Kafka's voice nor the look in his face. Nor did the savage resolution seem altogether unnatural in a man of the Moravian's breeding.
A Jewish boy, with puffed red lips and curving nostrils, was loitering at the entrance. The Wanderer told him to find a carriage. "Two carriages," said Unorna, quickly. The boy ran out. "I will go home alone," she added. "You two can drive together." The Wanderer inclined his head in assent, but said nothing. Israel Kafka's dark eyes rested upon hers for a moment. "Why not go together?" he asked.
The inference seems to be that mankind, on the whole, values happiness more highly than life. The proportion of suicides from so-called "honourable motives" is small as compared with the many committed out of despair. Israel Kafka's case was by no means a rare one.
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