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Updated: June 8, 2025
Who would have waked you, if I had not?" "I was not sleeping. Why do you reason? What would you prove?" "Much, if I knew how. Will you walk with me? It is very cold." They had been standing where they had met. As she spoke, Unorna looked up with an expression wholly unlike the one he had seen a few moments earlier.
The Wanderer looked, and, as in dreams, he knew that what he saw was unreal, he knew that the changing walls and streets and houses and public places were built up of gravestones which in truth were deeply planted in the ground, immovable and incapable of spontaneous motion; he knew that the crowds of men and women were not human beings but gnarled and twisted trees rooted in the earth, and that the hum of voices which reached his ears was but the sound of dried branches bending in the wind; he knew that Israel Kafka was not the pale-faced boy who glided from place to place followed everywhere by a soft radiance; he knew that Unorna was the source and origin of the vision, and that the mingling speeches of the actors, now shrill in angry altercation, now hissing in low, fierce whisper, were really formed upon Unorna's lips and made audible through her tones, as the chorus of indistinct speech proceeded from the swaying trees.
"Have I? I have been told so, sometimes." "Yes. I like to hear you sing, and talk, too. My life is a blank. I do not know what it would be without you." "I am little enough to those who know me," said Unorna, growing pale, and drawing a quick breath. "You cannot say that. You are not little to me." There was a long silence.
"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.
As Unorna went in, she saw her kneeling upon one of the stools, her hands folded, her head inclined, her eyes closed, a black veil loosely thrown over her still blacker hair and falling down upon her shoulder without hiding her face.
Yet the man was alive and in the full strength of his magnificent youth, supple, active, fierce by nature, able to have killed her with his hands in the struggle of a moment. Yet she knew that without a word from her he could neither turn his head nor move in his seat. For a long time Unorna was absorbed in her meditations.
"That is true!" exclaimed Unorna with an anxious glance. "Well? What have you done?" "I met the Wanderer in the street. What could I do? I told him that Israel Kafka was a little mad, and that his harmless delusions referred to a journey he was supposed to have made with me, and to an equally imaginary passion which he fancies he feels for you." "That was wise," said Unorna, still pale.
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.
"I cannot imagine why you should object to doing the same for the other." "The other?" Unorna repeated in surprise. "Our friend there, in the arm chair." "It is not true. He fell asleep of himself." Keyork smiled again, incredulously this time. He had already applied his pocket-thermometer and looked at his watch.
"Very like," said Unorna with a laugh. "And yet my evening star dear star of my fast-sinking evening golden Unorna shall I be cut off from love because my years are many? Or rather, shall I not love you the more, because the years that are left are few and scantily blessed? May not your dawn blend with my sunset and make together one short day?" "That is very pretty," said Unorna, thoughtfully.
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