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Updated: May 26, 2025
"So that unless you have a serious objection to my presence," he said, continuing his former speech, "you will have me as a guest so long as Israel Kafka is here." Keyork Arabian saw no immediate escape. "My dear friend!" he exclaimed with alacrity. "If you are really in earnest, I am as really delighted.
With a shudder she buried her face in her two hands, pressing them to her eyes as though to blind them to some awful sight. Then, with a short struggle, she turned to him again. "There is no forgiveness for me in Heaven," she said. "Shall there be none on earth! Not even a little, from you to me?" "There is no question of forgiveness between you and me. You have not injured me, but Israel Kafka.
But I see it now. Whether you will, or not, I shall be yours. You may make a prisoner of me I shall be in your keeping then, and shall know it, and feel it, and love my prison for your sake, even if you will not let me see you. If you would escape from me, you must kill me, as Israel Kafka means to kill me now and then, I shall die by your hand and my life will have been yours and given to you.
I will be loved freely, for myself, or not at all." "I see, I see," said Keyork thoughtfully, "something in the way Israel Kafka loves you." "Yes, as Israel Kafka loves me, I am not afraid to say it. As he loves me, of his own free will, and to his own destruction as I should have loved him, had it been so fated."
Like a man in a dream, he rose and sat down near her. Unorna laughed, and there was something in the tone that was not good to hear. A moment earlier it would have wounded Israel Kafka to the quick and brought the hot, angry blood to his face. Now he laughed with her, vacantly, as though not knowing the cause of his mirth. "You are only my slave, after all," said Unorna scornfully.
"To Keyork, to his long life, to his happiness!" he cried. Then he wet his lips again in the golden juice, and the Individual, unmoved, presented him with a second napkin. The wine seemed to steady him, and he sat down again in his place. "Come!" he said. "Let us eat first. I have an amazing appetite, and Israel Kafka can wait." "Do you think so? Is it safe?" the Wanderer asked.
What Israel Kafka had told him was very true. Should he attempt a denunciation, he would have little chance of being believed. It would be easy enough for Kafka to bring witnesses to prove his own love for Unorna and the Wanderer's intimacy with her during the past month, and the latter's consequent interest in disposing summarily of his Moravian rival.
"The nightingale was singing on that night," continued Kafka. "It was a dewy night in early spring, and the air was very soft, when Unorna first breathed it. The world was not asleep but dreaming, when her eyes first opened to look upon it.
In dark chambers crouching men took counsel of blood together under the feeble rays of a flickering lamp. In the uncertain twilight of winter, muffled figures lurked at the corner of streets, waiting for some one to pass, who must not escape them. As the Wanderer gazed and listened, Israel Kafka was transformed.
And yet he argued that if it were all true she would silence the speaker, and that the only reason for her patience must be sought in her willingness to humour the diseased brain in its wanderings. In either case he pitied Israel Kafka profoundly, and his compassion increased from one moment to another. "I loved her.
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