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Updated: May 26, 2025
She was pale and her eyes were bright; but she shook her head. "Let him say what he will say," she answered, taking the question as though it had been spoken. "Let him say all he will. Perhaps it is the last time." "And so you give me your gracious leave to speak," said Israel Kafka. "And you will let me say all that is in my heart to say to you before this other man.
"And therefore you suspect me of unimaginable evil and therefore you come out of your hiding-place and accuse me of things I have neither done nor thought of doing, building up falsehood upon lie, and lie upon falsehood in the attempt to ruin me in the eyes of one who has my friendship and who is my friend. You are foolish to throw yourself upon my mercy, Israel Kafka." "Foolish?
Amid all the wild thoughts that had whirled through her brain as she ran home in the dark, that one had not once changed. "And Israel Kafka?" she asked, almost timidly. "He is there asleep." Unorna came forward and the Wanderer showed her where the man lay upon a thick carpet, wrapped in furs, his pale head supported by a cushion. "He is very ill," she said, almost under her breath.
Your friendship I have no words for thanks!" "Take it, or take it not as you will." Unorna glanced at his angry face and quickly looked away. "Take it? Yes, and more too, whether you will give it or not," answered Israel Kafka, moving nearer to her. "Yes. Whether you will, or whether you will not, I have all, your friendship, your love, your life, your breath, your soul all, or nothing!"
The fancied journey had added ten years to his age in thirty days, and those who knew him best would have found it hard to recognise the brilliantly vital personality of Israel Kafka in the pale and exhausted youth who painfully climbed the stairs with unsteady steps, panting for breath and clutching at the hand-rail for support.
But he would not pause, and hurried onward towards the gate, while she hung upon his arm, trying to hinder him and speaking in desperate agitation. She felt that if she let him go now, he would leave her for ever. In that moment even her hatred of Kafka sank into insignificance. She would do anything, bear anything, promise anything rather than lose what she loved so wildly.
In the dilemma in which he found himself there was nothing to be done but to be guided by circumstances. He was not willing to leave Kafka alone with the woman who hated him, and he saw no means of escaping her society so long as she chose to impose it upon them both.
"Are you mad, indeed?" asked the Wanderer, suddenly planting himself in front of Kafka. "They told me so I can almost believe it." "No I am not mad yet," answered the younger man, facing him fearlessly. "You need not come between me and her. She can protect herself. You would know that if you knew what I saw her do with you, first when I came here." "What did she do?"
The Wanderer shook his head rather sadly. "He seems very ill," he said, in a tone of compassion. But Unorna was pitiless. She knew what her companion could not know, namely, that Kafka must have followed them through the streets to the cemetery and must have overheard Unorna's passionate appeal and must have seen and understood the means she was using to win the Wanderer's love.
They alone know that every vicissitude of the city's condition is traceable to that source its sadness, its merriment, its carnivals and its lents, its health and its disease, its prosperity and the hideous plagues which at distant intervals kill one in ten of the population. Is it not a pretty thought?" "I do not understand you," said Kafka, wearily.
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