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Updated: June 8, 2025
He jerked out his sentences excitedly, striking his hands together and then swinging his arms in strange gestures. His tone, as he gave utterance to his incoherent self-condemnation, was full of sincere conviction and of anger against himself. He seemed not to see Unorna, nor to notice her presence in the room. Suddenly, he stopped, looked at her and came towards her.
"I do not know the staircase," said the sleeper in drowsy tones. Unorna knew the way well enough, but not wishing to take a light with her, she was obliged to trust herself to her victim, for whose vision there was no such thing as darkness unless Unorna willed it. "Go as you went to-day, to the room where the balcony is, but do not enter it.
Israel Kafka, that hand is not yours to hold." "Not mine? Unorna!" Yet he could not quite believe what she said. "I am in earnest," she answered, not without a lingering tenderness in the intonation. "Do you think I am jesting with you, or with myself?" Neither of the two stirred during the silence which followed.
She had failed in that, and utterly. She had been surprised by her worst enemy. She had been laughed to scorn in the moment of her deepest humiliation, and she had lost the foundations of friendship in the attempt to build upon them the hanging gardens of an artificial love. In that moment, as they reached the gate, Unorna was not far from despair.
"And if there were, what harm would be done?" he laughed again. "We have no plighted word to break, and I, at least, am singularly heart free. The world would not come to an untimely end if we loved each other. Indeed, the world would have nothing to say about it." "To me, it would not," said Unorna, looking down at her clasped hands.
He preferred the little man's silence to his wild talk, but he was determined, if possible, to extract some further information concerning Unorna, and before many seconds had elapsed he interrupted Keyork's meditations with a question. "You tell me to see for myself," he said. "I would like to know what I am to expect. Will you not enlighten me?"
But Keyork and Unorna understood their art and knew how much more easy it is to produce a fiction of continuity where an element of confusion is introduced by the multitude and variety of the quickly succeeding impressions and almost destitute of incident. One occurrence, indeed, he remembered with extraordinary distinctness, and could have affirmed under oath in all its details.
She tried not to speak bitterly, but something in her tone struck him. "Ah, I see! You despise me a little for my apathy. Yes, you are quite right. Man is not made to turn idleness into a fine art, nor to manufacture contentment out of his own culpable indifference! It is despicable and yet, here I am." "I never meant that," cried Unorna with sudden heat.
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.
Strong arms lifted her suddenly from her feet and pressed her fiercely and carried her, and she hid her face. A voice she knew sounded, as she had never heard it sound, nor hoped to hear it. "Beatrice!" it cried, and nothing more. In the presence of that strength, in the ringing of that cry, Unorna was helpless.
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